him away.
Nic stumbled to his feet, bleeding like a pig, his mind such a boiling haze of fury he didn't hesitate an instant to take on the other two. The second man was dispatched into the canal by means of a well-
placed boot to his arse. Then, as that one spluttered in the water, Nic grabbed the third by the collar
and threw him face first against the front of the Guardi palace.
"No-o," Mary moaned, which he did not understand.
Ignoring her, he slammed her would-be kidnapper into the wall again. If Nic's nose was broken, he didn't see why someone else's shouldn't join it. "Who are you?" he demanded, sounding stupidly as if he had a cold. "And what the hell do you think you're doing?"
The man winced as Nic bent his arm up between his shoulders. Despite his discomfort, he did not seem afraid. "I could ask you the same," he snarled, his head twisted round so he could glare. "You must be mad taking her to Venice. Did you think no one would notice the missing daughter of a duke?"
"The missing what?" said Nic, beginning to be amused. "Good Lord, have you got the wrong girl!"
This, at last, surprised the man. He looked from Mary to Nic and back again. Something about the
glance unnerved him. It was not a glance a person gave to someone he did not know.
Mary cleared her throat, her face as red as it had formerly been white. "This is my brother Peter," she said, "and the others are Evelyn and James."
"Charmed," said the one climbing out of the water, his tone much drier than his clothes. "Lord, Merry"—he peeled off his jacket and wrung it out—"you might have told him who you were."
A pressure was building inside Nic's head. He pushed back from the man she'd introduced as Peter. "What does he mean, you might have told me?"
Her neck bent as if a weight had pushed it down. If he hadn't known it was ridiculous, he'd have said
she was ashamed.
"Mary?" he prodded, not liking this evasion.
Peter turned from the wall and tugged his crumpled coat. "Allow me," he said with a little bow.
"Nicolas Craven, meet Lady Merry Vance—if you aren't beyond such formalities now."
"Peter," Merry whispered, a confession all by itself.
Nic stared at her, the pieces beginning to fit together, no matter how little he wished to read them.
"Lady Merry," he repeated numbly, "the duke of Monmouth's daughter. But why would you pretend
to be a maid?"
"Yes, why would you?" said the man who'd tackled him: Evelyn, Nic believed. He could see the family resemblance now that he wasn't being pummeled: in the brush of strawberry-gold curls, in the ginger-speckled skin.
Still suffering from the knee Nic had planted in his groin, Evelyn groaned as he pushed onto his feet. "Why don't you tell us all, Merry? I'm sure James would like to know why he had to leave his pregnant wife to rescue you from a man who's obviously as much in the dark as we are—a man Mother is fully convinced seduced you, I might add, as if any one could make you take one step against your will."
Merry pressed her lips together, but could not hide the way they shook. "Mother and Father were going
to make me marry Ernest. I told them we wouldn't suit, but nobody believed me. Mother
fired
Ginny, fired her, Evelyn. An elderly woman, practically a member of our family, shuffled off to God knows where just because I wouldn't toe Mother's line. I'm sorry I worried you, I really am, but can't you see
I had no choice?"
"No choice!" her brother exclaimed. "No choice but
this
?"
Nic barely heard him. The ground was rocking beneath his feet and he knew his encounter with Evelyn's fist was not the cause. All this time he'd thought she was the honest one, the good one, the one whose example he had to live up to. He'd wanted to be better for her. Hell, for the first time in his life he'd given a woman his blasted heart. But Merry had lied to him. She'd posed for him, and slept with him, just to avoid a suitor she didn't like. He suspected her plan had succeeded beyond her dreams. She was
damaged goods, after all, publicly damaged goods. He doubted even the fortune hunters would chase
her now.
"Well," he said, dizzied and sweating, but determined to reclaim his pride, "what a revelation. I must admit you had me fooled."
He had to steel himself against the entreaty in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said, her hand held out to empty air. "It was wrong of me to involve you."
"Nonsense." Nic shrugged the apology off. "Begging your brothers' pardon, but we both had a lot
of fun."
Her eyebrows drew together in a little pleat. "Nic, you know it was more than fun. I care for you.
I have from the very start."
He wanted to scream with wounded rage. How bloody nice of her to care for him.
"All the better," he said, his jaw like tempered steel. "No point having it off with a man you
don't care
for—unless, of course, it gets you out of a nasty marriage."
"As to that," Evelyn added darkly, "we'll have to see what happens when you get home."
Nic shook his head in spurious pity. "Too bad, Merry. Looks like your brothers have made up their
minds to save you. None of my business, though. I'll just gather up your things, shall I? See you get smoothly on your way."
"Nic." Her voice seemed to thrum inside his chest, low, like a cello's deepest string. "Don't do this, Nic. Don't turn what we shared into something dirty."
"You're the one who turned it dirty," he said, "the minute you used me to get your way."
He climbed the steps and grabbed the handle of the door. His fingers slipped, with blood, with sweat,
but he forced the wood in with his shoulder. When she called his name, he pretended he could not hear.
Just as he pretended he could not hear her begin to cry.
* * *
Nic sent the housekeeper out with her luggage. Hard as Merry tried to convince her brothers to let her
at least send Nic a message, none were inclined to budge. "If I see that bastard again," Evelyn warned, "I'll smash his nose straight through his pretty head."
Her plea that Nic had never been at fault, that running to him had been her idea, did not soften them
in the least.
"I swear," said James, who was still drying out, "if Mother hadn't made us promise not to tell Father,
I'd look forward to him grinding that poncy rake into the ground."
With an effort, Merry refrained from pointing out "that poncy rake" had gotten the better of all three
of them. "It wasn't his fault," she insisted for the dozenth time as they practically shoved her on the
train at Mestre.
Through all this, Peter, her once trusty ally, had been silent. Now he spoke. "Yes," he agreed,
"this wasn't Mr. Craven's fault."
She knew he meant that it was hers. Her eyes welled with burning tears. Peter's censure, mild as it was, hurt worse than the others' put together.
Blindly, she let him lead her into the private compartment, swallowing hard as he settled her into the
seat beside the window. She touched his hand to keep him by her. "I know I've put you all to a great
deal of trouble."
"Do you?" Peter's expression was unusually sober, as if her flight had aged him. "What you've done
could affect us all. If word of this gets out—and it may, no matter how hard Mother tries to hush it up—Evelyn and James and their wives and, for all I know, their children will be breathing the dust from this scandal for years to come. You might not care for your honor, Merry, but you should have shown
a care for your family's."
Her tears overran her control and she had to turn away. For some time she could not think, but only watch the mainland's factories slide into a haze of smoke behind the train.
Dirty
, she thought. I turned it all to ash. Nic's dismissive words echoed through her mind. "A lot of fun," he'd called what they'd shared, as if it were no more than a lark. She was almost certain he'd been trying to salve his pride. But even if
he did still care, what hope could she hold out for their future? None that she could live with, not loving him as she did. If she couldn't settle for being his mistress, for a month or a year or however long it lasted, she didn't have a choice. She had to leave him.
She only wished she hadn't hurt him along the way.
Peter was right. Perhaps she'd had cause to rebel but, as always, she'd acted without thinking the consequences through. She'd treated the people she loved like obstacles to leap over or ignore. Worst
of all, the minute she'd done enough to achieve her goal, she'd run like the coward she'd called Nic, compounding her sins for no better purpose than a few more days of pleasure.
Squaring her shoulders, she dried her cheeks with her gloves. What's done is done, she thought. Tears would avail her nothing now. She might have acted like a child but she'd face her punishment like a woman. Whatever choices she made from this point forward, she'd carry the weight of them on her
own.
* * *
Nic stopped climbing halfway up the stairs.
Cristopher stood on the landing before the arch of the leaded windows. He was a shadow in the twilight, awkward, his arm extended behind him toward the corner, as if he'd been caught in the act of retreating into the dark.
Is this what I've done to him, Nic wondered, to this boy who was brave enough to leave everything he knew? Was the prospect of Nic's anger so awful he had to hide?
As he resumed his ascent, only the glitter of Cris's eyes tracked his approach. Blood throbbed in Nic's nose as if a steam engine had taken up residence in his head. He'd washed up in the kitchen and the unflappable signor Vecchi had snapped the cartilage back into place. All the same, he knew he looked
like he'd been in a drunken brawl. The last thing he wanted was to talk about it; the first was to bury himself in bed.
With an inward groan, he forced himself not to trudge past Bess's son.
"Are you all right?" he asked, coming to a halt before him.
Cristopher nodded, white showing round his eyes.
Nic put his hand on his shoulder. "You should go home," he said softly, and the boy bowed his head.
"I can give you money for a ticket if you need it."
"I don't need money." The words were a nearly inaudible whisper. "I only need you."
For the life of him, Nic could not respond. Why? he thought. Why do you need me when all I've done
is let you down? Was his longing for a father so strong he'd forgive it all? Without meaning to, his grip tightened on the span of young muscle and bone. "I can't do this now. I'm sorry but I can't."
The boy swallowed and nodded and lifted the chin that was sharp just like his own. "Those men ... ?"
"They were Mary's brothers. They took her back to her family."
"I'm sorry," said the boy.
Nic closed his eyes, but the pain didn't disappear. After a moment, he opened them and patted Cris's
arm. "You can stay if you like. I won't send you away."
It was nothing, not even a crumb, but it was all Nic could manage. He felt the boy's gaze as he stepped past him to the next flight of stairs. Beneath his palm, the marble balustrade was as cool and smooth as glass.
He put his weight on it as his feet dragged up the treads, one step, two, each one a mountain in his mind.
Mary
, he thought, then:
Merry.