Harker knew that. Just as Harker had to know that North would always be after him. That was why he had demanded North come there. He wanted to end things between them. One of them was going to die that night. It was the only way.
Locked together, North and Harker struggled. Harker’s desperation gave him inhuman strength. It was all North could do to keep the blade from plunging into his chest. North didn’t know how long he could hold out, and even if he shouted for help, would they get there in time?
The muscles in his arms screamed in protest, as the tip of the blade pierced the fabric of his coat. It sliced through his waistcoat, his shirt and finally the flesh just below his left collarbone. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. Still, he couldn’t keep from hissing.
Harker laughed. And then there was a loud popping noise, and Harker’s expression turned to one of surprise. The muscles once locked and tensed against North’s own slackened, and after a few stunned seconds, blood began to trickle from Harker’s lips.
“Sheffield—” And then he fell to the ground, almost taking North with him.
Shocked, North looked up and saw the man whom he thought had been passed out in the corner standing by the table, a smoking pistol in his hand.
“Brahm?” Was this a dream? Was he dead instead of Harker?
His brother smiled grimly. “I thought you might need some assistance.”
Before North could say anything else, the tavern flooded with Bow Street Runners. Duncan and Wynthrope ran into the room, straight for North. But Wyn’s attention was soon diverted, not only by Harker, but by the presence of their elder brother. He and Brahm stared at each other, one with an expression of mostly surprise and resentment, the other with no expression at all.
Limping forward, Brahm handed the pistol to Duncan. “I will be outside.” Then, casting one last glance at Wyn, he turned his back and walked away.
Everyone stared after him.
“What the hell happened?” Duncan demanded.
North turned to him with a dumbfounded expression. “Damned if I know.”
The Runner who knelt beside Harker’s body rose. “He’s dead.”
It was over then. Harker was gone—for good. North was free.
H
ours later, after Harker’s body had been taken away—after North made certain for himself that the bastard was dead—North and Brahm sat in North’s office. North drank whiskey. Brahm drank coffee.
“Does this bother you?” North asked, holding up his glass.
Brahm shook his head, but he didn’t look at the glass for long. “No. Thank you for asking.”
Of course he asked. Brahm was his brother, and he loved him. As much as he wanted the whiskey to relax him, it wasn’t worth Brahm’s discomfort. Brahm didn’t drink at all anymore. He couldn’t. One sip would be all it took to sweep him over the precipice into the dark place where he had dwelled for too many years. Brahm became a different person when he was foxed—a person whose acquaintance North was in no hurry to make again.
Sinking into his chair, North put his feet up on the desk and leaned back, regarding his brother with a curious expression. Finally, after hours of questions with Bow Street and other officials, he was able to ask the question he’d been wanting to
ask ever since he realized it was Brahm in the tavern.
Ever since he’d discovered that Brahm had been “visiting” Cassie Crocker. Had she been the one to tell him about Harker? Had she sacrificed herself to bring her former lover to his just reward?
“Why did you do it?”
Brahm smiled humorlessly. “Because he killed Cassie. Because he was going to kill you.”
That was not a certainty. Not at all. “I might have killed him.”
Brahm raised his cup. “That would have done wonders for your new career, would it not?”
His nonchalant attitude fanned North’s temper. “To hell with my career! You could have been killed, you idiot!”
Brahm’s gaze was level, even amused. “Better me than you. I am not afraid of death.”
What did that mean, that he was? Hell yes, he was! Anyone with half a mind should be. “That seems to be a Ryland trait that thankfully decided to ignore me.”
Shrugging, Brahm drained the last of his coffee. “Perhaps we get it from our mother. She never seemed to find much joy in living.”
“No,” North argued. “Not afraid of death. Afraid of life.”
Now his brother’s answering smile was sorrowful. “Yes. You have been afraid of it yourself for these past few years, have you not?”
North nodded, staring into his glass. “Not anymore.”
“Good. Now, if we are done with this soul-baring discussion, I would like to go home.”
Jerking his gaze upward, North stared at his brother in disbelief. “That’s it?”
Brahm smiled kindly and nodded. “That is it. I am not certain what it is you are looking for, brother, but I do not be
lieve I can give it to you. I have no remorse, no feelings of uncertainty or anything else that might make me restless. I did what I thought had to be done.”
“How did you know where to go?”
“I spent a fair bit of time in London’s dockside palaces. I asked a few people where Harker might be. They told me. Cassie confirmed it.” Only at the mention of the actress did his face betray any emotion.
Christ, between Brahm and Octavia they could put Bow Street out of business. “You were going to kill him regardless, weren’t you?”
If it was anyone else asking that question, Brahm would be a fool to answer.
“What do you think?”
North stared at him. “I think you might be one dangerous son of a bitch.”
Laughter burst forth from Brahm’s lips. Grinning, he grasped the head of his cane and pushed himself to his feet. “Not dangerous. Just protective.”
No, dangerous as well, but North wasn’t going to push that point. There was more to Brahm than he had ever realized, more than his brothers ever considered. He was the one who had found Devlin sick and feverish in a tavern; now he had come to North’s rescue as well.
“I will have to tell Wynthrope to steer clear of taverns unless he wants you to come swooping in and save him.”
The laughter was a bitter chuckle this time. “Wynthrope would rather shoot me than accept my help.”
“But you would offer it anyway.”
Brahm said nothing.
“Thank you,” North spoke after a few seconds of silence. “Whatever your reasons, I want you to know how much I appreciate you being there.”
Setting his hat on his head, Brahm flashed him a grin that looked more like the brother North knew. “I always will be. It is not as if I have anything else to do.”
This time North laughed with him. He saw him to the door and watched from the step as his carriage bore him away. Then, shaking his head, he reentered the house.
Brahm didn’t care that he had taken a man’s life. Killing Harker hadn’t bothered him at all because he knew Harker would never rest until North himself was dead. Brahm, who couldn’t bear to see a dog suffer, had put a bullet into a man for
him
and wasn’t the least bit remorseful.
Not that he would reveal to North, at any rate. There was undoubtedly some pain for poor Cassie. Brahm would never have intended for her to get hurt. One thing was for certain, however, his brother had done him a great service, ridding him of his greatest nemesis and allowing him to keep his hands blood-free. Someday he would pay Brahm back. That was a promise.
Well, truth be told, he was just mightily glad it was all over, although there was a sense of lack of completion hanging over his head. It was odd, knowing that Harker was gone, that he could go on with his life. Somehow, it did not feel real, as though there were still dangling threads left to be cut.
Such as Octavia and whether she would have him—whether he could find the courage to offer himself and trust in her love. Trust in his own.
He would go to her tomorrow, after he had bathed and sorted out the night’s events in his own head. After he had thought of the right words to say.
There were so many things he wanted to say.
Before going upstairs to the bath he knew the servants were at this moment preparing for him, he made a detour by the parlor, the room Octavia had made her own during her brief stay with him. How amazed he had been that day when he saw it for
the first time. All those memories of childhood had come rushing back. Happier days when both of his parents were alive. Days of knowing his father loved him, even though he could never trust that he would be there when North needed him. Days of security before he learned what the word “bastard” meant and all the whispers that came with it.
The delicate furniture that his mother had so prized, and his father had paid for. The upholstery that perfectly matched the drapes, the carpet that held the soft hues of the walls and furniture in its pattern. It was more tasteful than half the homes in Berkeley Square, and yet no self-respecting society matron ever had tea in it, or tasted the little cakes Mrs. Bunting made so well.
His mother had never cared about the
ton
. She had been happy with his father and her friends—and him.
His mother had never wanted more than his happiness. She hadn’t laid any expectations or vows on him as Octavia’s had, and yet Octavia had turned out the surer of them. Giving up old fears and insecurities had come much easier to her than to him. But the time had come to trust in her and himself. He had to if he ever wanted the joy his mother told him was waiting for him in the world.
A flash of color caught his attention. It was the pillow Octavia had made for his mother when she was but a girl. His mother had died not long after that, and she had kept that pillow with her, on the sofa in this room where she received callers, even though she hadn’t the strength to hold her head up. Every morning her maid would wrap her graying hair in a turban and artfully paint her thinning features, giving color and life where it was steadily fading. She kept that little cushion there with her, a gift from the girl she always looked at as a daughter. Octavia spent more time at his house than she had at her own, but then her mother’s circumstances had been far, far different.
Picking up the little patchwork pillow, he took it upstairs to his bedroom and set it on his bed. It was sorely out of place among his cream-colored sheets and wheat-hued counterpane, but he didn’t care. He wanted the pillow here so it would feel as though he had Octavia with him that night.
The copper tub sat in the middle of his dressing room floor. Harriette, the maid, and Johnson stood with buckets in hand, having filled the tub themselves.
“Thank you,” he told them. His mother had taught him to be polite to everyone. It was a nuance that seemed lost on the Upper Ten Thousand.
“Do not worry about coming back later. It will wait till morning.”
The two nodded, wished him a good night, and left the room, leaving the buckets behind so the tub could be emptied later.
He rarely used this room except to bathe. He would probably have to use it more often now that he was trying to project an image suitable for a man with political aspirations.
That was, he would have to use it more if he and Octavia kept this house.
They would have to keep it. He wasn’t about to let it go. Even if they didn’t live there—and it was very likely that she would want to live in a more fashionable neighborhood—he could not let go of his home. Surely she wouldn’t expect him to.
Stripping off his dirty clothes, he tossed them into a corner and stepped into the tub. The water was wonderfully warm without being too hot and smelled of sandalwood. The oil was soft on his skin.
With a sigh, he sank down, stretching his legs out to full length in front of him and resting his shoulders against the high copper back. Christ, it felt good.
He splashed water on his face, scrubbing with his hands.
Being on the docks always left him feeling dirty, and helping to lift Harker’s dead body off the filthy tavern floor hadn’t helped. His left arm ached.
The heat from the water seeped into his tired muscles, lulling him into a state of relaxation. The spicy scent of the soap and water soothed the tension in his neck and brow. His eyes drifted shut as he lay there, allowing the bath to work its magic.
Soft fingers stroked his brow and cheek. Had he fallen asleep already? If so, this was a wonderful dream.
No, not a dream. Those lips that brushed his were real. That perfume, sweet and gingery—that was real as well.
He opened his eyes, lashes fluttering in protest, and saw her—an angel smiling on him, her beautiful face just inches from his own.
“Vie.”
“Hello, Norrie.”
He hadn’t the strength to sit up, and even if he did, he wouldn’t want to risk splashing her. “What are you doing here?”
Rolling up the sleeves of her serviceable dark green gown—much less revealing than the one she had worn at Spinton’s ball—she shrugged. “I was tired of waiting for you to come to me.”
He smiled. She hadn’t wanted to be away from him. “Patience never was a virtue of yours.”
She arched a brow, her pert nose tilting as she lifted her chin. “Humility was never one of yours.”
North chuckled. “No, I suppose not. What are you doing?”
Octavia gazed at him, washcloth and soap in her hands. “I am going to bathe you, what else?”
It was the “else” that got the wheels in his mind turning. Scarcely daring to breathe, he sat as still as death as she wet the cloth and rubbed the soap against it, creating a thick, rich
lather. Then she applied the cloth to his neck and scrubbed with gentle, circular strokes.
“I will start here and work my way down.” There was a teasing, seductive glint in her eyes. “What do you think of that?”
North sighed aloud as the cloth touched his heated flesh. “I think this night just got a helluva lot longer.”
The cloth drifted over the large, firm muscles of his chest, over the fresh, small wound on his left breast, up to his shoulder and across to the other side, down to the scar on his bicep. She didn’t ask how he had gotten this new hurt, or who had given it to him. She didn’t want to know. All that mattered now was that he was safe. Mr. Francis had told her that he was all right, that Harker would never bother either of them again.
All she could think of was coming to him. She knew he would be tired, that she should wait till morning—that she should wait for him as she said she would, but that was stupid. Why sit there and wait with her foolish pride when she could be with North?
The bathwater was warm on her hands, the soap fragrant and silky. The cloth was soft, but a poor substitute for the flesh beneath it. Impatient, she dropped the cloth and took the soap in her bare hands. Sudsing her fingers, she put the soap back in the dish and began running her hands along his shoulders, up the strong, ropy column of his throat and down the warm, hairy expanse of his chest. He was all gentle hills and shallow valleys beneath her hands, solid and undeniably male. And he watched her with such an open and vulnerable expression that she couldn’t bring herself to hold his gaze for long.
“Am I still bonny and fine, Vie?”
She smiled, even though tears stung her eyes at the lilting Scottish burr that deepened his accent. He wasn’t asking her
if he looked good, that she knew. He was asking if she still wanted him, because he was offering himself to her.
“Aye, Norrie Sheffield,” she answered in kind—her attempt at Scots dialect nowhere near as lovely as his. “Bonny and fine indeed.”
His hand came out of the water, suds running down the dark gold skin of his forearm. His fingers closed around hers, holding her palm against his chest. How did he get to be so brown? Even his chest, which should have been pale, was that same delicious rose gold color as his face.
And beneath that chest, right in the very spot he held her hand, beat the steady rhythm of his heart. Strong, steady—every beat made her own heart beat a little harder. A little faster.
“My brother killed a man tonight.”
Of all the things she imagined he might say to her at that moment, that one was not on the list.
“What?”
Still holding her hand, North leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes with a sigh. He looked so very tired, tiny lines bracketing his eyes and mouth.
“Brahm. He killed Harker.”
Octavia mentally shook her head. Harker was dead? And Brahm had killed him? Mr. Francis never told her
that
.