Authors: Gaelen Foley
Soon, they were sitting at the scuffed wooden work-table in the kitchens. The windows were open, admitting the evening breeze. Cook bustled about, humming and laughing and telling them stories of the local people, who had married whom during his absence. Pleasant as it was, Rackford could feel the memories swirling around him like unseen sharks beneath the surface of the present. He could feel them circling closer; he kept his smile pasted on by sheer dint of will.
Proud and beaming, Mrs. Landry placed two bowls of cream in front of them, then poured on the warm, dark treacle. “There you are, Master Billy. Just the way you like it, only fifteen years late in coming,” she added softly. “You never did get to eat it.”
He turned to her with a fractured look.
Fifteen years
.
“Oh, it’s heavenly, Mrs. Landry!” Tasting it, Jacinda raved in ecstasy, but Rackford, suddenly, could only sit there, rigidly immobile, stricken, staring down into his bowl with tears blurring his vision.
Every detail of that horrible night filled his mind with vivid, excruciating clarity. He did not realize he was shaking until he saw his hand trembling; he held his spoon in a white-knuckled grip, as though it were a weapon.
He was staring at the melting mush of treacle and cream, but his mind was a million miles away.
“Billy?” Jacinda’s tone had instantly sobered. She touched his arm gently. “Darling?”
“Excuse me. I’m sorry. I can’t—excuse me.” He pushed up abruptly from the table and walked out, blinded by tears and gritting his teeth against the sheer anguish of the sob he felt building in the back of his throat. He refused to give in to it.
“Billy!”
He heard the door creak as Jacinda ran out after him, but he pulled his arm away when she came and touched him. He refused to meet her gaze, pushing his hand roughly through his hair.
“Leave me for a while. I need to walk.”
“I’ll come with you—”
“No. Just—I’ll be fine, all right?” She searched his face. “Are you sure?” He stole a brief, sideward glance at her and gave a curt nod. Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, he trudged off through the fading twilight toward the beach.
Jacinda gazed in distress at his broad, retreating back as Rackford walked away.
Oh, what a mess this family was, she thought. She had seen the fractured look in his eyes; she had no intention of leaving him alone for more than a few minutes. Taking note of which direction he had walked, she turned around and went back inside.
She exchanged a worried look with Mrs. Landry, thanked the woman for her kindness, then ventured back up to Truro’s sickroom. When she knocked quietly, the surgeon answered. The marquess was still awake. Promising Mr. Plimpton that she would be brief, she was admitted to see him.
“Back for more, are you? What do you want this time?” he demanded hoarsely in his slurred voice as she sat down on the chair beside his bed.
“You and your son,” she said, “remind me of the old saying about a rock and a hard place.”
“Humph. Demmed bullheaded, that one. Always was.”
She smiled wryly at him for a moment before her expression sobered. “My lord, you must know you hurt William very deeply. He is a good man, and I suspect you are secretly proud of him.” She ignored his snort of denial. “I am begging you to tell him so. Mr. Plimpton has surely explained the seriousness of your condition. There may not be another chance. It was not easy for Rackford to come here, but I insisted he give you the chance to apologize.“
“Apologize!” he demanded in a shaky tone. “Why, you impertinent little baggage!” He started to sit up from the bed, but lay back again with a wince of pain. He glared banefully at her. “Do you know what my father taught me, Lady Rackford? Never apologize to anyone! What good does it do, when it is too late and the damage is already done? ”
“You still have time to undo some of that damage, my lord. I don’t know if you deserve to be forgiven, but what I do know is that your son is here. All he wants from you is one kind word.”
“I saved his life, didn’t I? I got him out of Newgate.”
“In William’s view, that was merely for your own interests, not because you care about him.”
“Care about him?” he retorted. “Didn’t you see the curricle I bought him? The horses? Did he tell you I gave him an allowance of a hundred-fifty pounds a week?”
“Is it honestly beyond your power to admit that you love him? To say you are glad to have found him alive? He cannot see it, but you don’t fool me. I see how you look at him. I know you are proud of him and that in your own flawed way, you do love him. But how is he to know if you don’t say it? Surely you have the courage to speak a few simple words that could change everything for him. Is that too much to give to save your soul?”
“You are cruel.” He looked away, pressing his head against his pillow. “Leave me,” he whispered after a moment. “Mr. Plimpton, show my daughter out.”
Jacinda was so taken aback by his acknowledgment of her as his kin that she paused and squeezed his hand—his right hand, for the left he kept curled lamely against him since the apoplexy. It was the same hand that had bloodied Billy’s face so often as a boy. She let go of it quickly, tears shining in her eyes before she quickly blinked them away.
“May God have mercy on you, Lord Truro. I will keep you in my prayers.” She left the sickroom, her skirts whispering over the hardwood floors. Returning downstairs, she went outside in search of Rackford.
At once, the sea breeze ran riot through her hair and rippled gracefully through her skirts. She exited past the clouds of moths that fluttered about the brass lamps fixed on either side of the back door. Beneath the dark sky full of stars, bats swooped overhead. She followed the path through the moonlit rose garden out to the rickety wooden steps leading down to the beach.
Far off the shore, there was an islet with a lighthouse whose search-beam swept the black waves in a slow, continual rhythm, but its solitary ray was not strong enough to penetrate the darkness of the sandy cove below.
She felt her way carefully down the stairs, steadying herself on the rough handrail. She heard—indeed, felt in her chest—the vigorous power of wave after lulling wave beating the rocks. As her eyes gradually adjusted to the deeper darkness away from the illumination of the house, she made out the white plumes of sea spray where the waves broke.
By the time she reached the bottom of the precarious wooden stairs, the dim glow of the stars showed her the dark wonderland of bizarre rock formations that rose up amid the sand—stone arches and somber, gnarled pillars roughly coated in green velvet lichen. Around them, the bed of sand was soft and pale. It muffled all sound like a blanket, so she did not bother calling out to him when she spied her husband standing upon a cluster of large, black rocks over the crashing waves.
The lighthouse beam revealed him in its fleeting glow. He was staring out to sea, his profile bleak and wistful. The wind riffled through the longer front section of his dark gold hair and billowed through his loose white shirtsleeves.
Jacinda paused to take off her shoes and stockings, then walked toward him through the cool, deep sand. She noticed he had taken off his cravat. He was barefooted, as well, his black trousers rolled up around his shins. Having left his coat draped over his chair in Mrs. Landry’s kitchen, he had unbuttoned his waistcoat, as well. He was throwing rocks into the ocean, but he stopped when he saw her approaching.
He was tall, lean, magnetically handsome—a man in his prime. But when he turned to her, his face looked haunted, and his eyes were those of a lonely little boy.
She wasn’t sure what to say. He leaned down, stretching out his hand toward her. She lifted her skirts around her ankles, ventured through the little moat of seawater that ringed the boulders, and accepted his warm grasp. He pulled her up onto the rocks. At once, she gasped, feeling the sea foam fleck her face.
Rackford leaned down and kissed her cheek, tasting the salt on her skin. Instead of pulling back, however, he leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She captured his face between her hands and held him like that, gently.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” Starlight limned the hard planes and angles of his face as he drew back, staring into her eyes. “Perhaps you can explain one thing to me.”
“What’s that, darling? I will try.” Gazing earnestly into his eyes, she stroked his hair. “I so want to help.”
“Why do you love me?” he asked barely audibly.
His question took her aback, but her heart welled with devotion. She caressed his face slowly. “So many reasons. You’re intelligent, brave, loyal, strong, caring, gentle, honorable, chivalrous, charming, kind, forgiving, patient, wise.” He turned to her with a look of surprise, but she wasn’t through. “You always keep your word; you make me laugh; you listen to what I have to say; you have interesting views on things; you’re incredibly handsome; a magnificent lover—I could go on.”
His lips twisting in a rueful smile, he looked away, slightly abashed.
“I consider you not merely a wonderful husband and a beloved friend, but a great man, destined to make the world a better place—especially for those who have no voice. That’s why I married you—aside from your tattoos, of course.”
“Do you really mean all that?” he asked, staring at the sea.
“With all my heart,” she whispered slowly, emphatically, sliding her arms around him. “You are one of the most genuinely good people I’ve ever met.”
“You think I’m a good person?” he asked, turning to her in surprise.
“Of course. Don’t you think so?”
He shrugged, then leaned his head on her shoulder without answering.
Brushing her blowing curls behind her ears, she studied her toes curled against the jagged rock, then looked at him cautiously. “Why do you ask me these questions, Rackford?”
He did not answer for a moment, watching the lighthouse beam sweep over the onyx waters.
“I’m just… trying to make sense of it all.” Disengaging himself from her embrace, he stood, bracing his left foot upon a higher rock. He slipped his hands into his pockets while his brooding, restless gaze swept the horizon. “I have been standing here remembering how bad it all was and trying… to convince myself like a reasonable adult that I didn’t deserve it somehow.”
“Oh, Billy, of course you didn’t deserve it, sweeting. You were only a child.”
“I didn’t feel like one.”
“But you were.”
“How could someone do that? How could he do that to me?” He glanced bitterly at Torcarrow, then looked at her in lonely, urgent anger. His jaw was taut, and though there was an edge of insolence in his stare, she knew he hung upon her answer, desperate for reassurance.
“Humanity, my dear, is a blind, mad parade of sorry fools,” she said softly. “People are flawed, and sometimes they make terrible mistakes. You must never let yourself be deceived into thinking that your father’s hideous mistakes were somehow your fault. They were not.”
His eyes flickered as he registered her words, but still, he turned away again, shaking his head. “You tell me that, and I know you’re right, but as much as I want to believe you, somehow I cannot be rid of the sense that I must have done something wrong.”
“I can understand why you might think that, because what we learn as small children stays with us throughout our lives; but surely, my darling, in some remote corner of your heart, you must know better than that by now.”
“But I must have done something to deserve it. He never treated Percy that way, only me.”
“You were innocent,” she insisted. “By telling you that you deserved your beatings, Lord Truro could avoid his own damning guilt. By putting the blame on you, he did not have to face the horror of having done violence to his own child.”
“It isn’t fair,” he whispered abruptly. “He beat the hell out of me. Right in front of Reg and Justin. They had come home with me on holiday from school.” Distantly, he shook his head. “All I did was borrow his stupid spyglass.”
With tears in her eyes, she held out her arms to him. “Come to me. Let me hold you.”
He sharply turned away, making no move to come closer.
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some pathetic little boy you want to save. I already have one mother, for all the good it did me.”
She fell silent and lowered her arms. “Don’t push me away, Rackford.”
“I hate it that you know all this!” he cried. “It’s humiliating. I hate that you saw me that night in the alley—that first night. I’m not good enough for you—”
“Stop it. I love you, Rackford. I’m not going to hurt you.”
He turned to her, silent for a long moment. The lighthouse beam showed her the stark, unsettling war of emotion in his face before they were plunged in darkness again.
“You love me?” he challenged her in a dark tone. Moving closer, he loomed over her.
“You know I do.” She tilted her head back bravely to continue to hold his gaze.
Seething, tempestuous need gleamed in his eyes. “Prove it.” He touched her hair, gently at first, then grasping a handful of her curls. His eyes flickered with heat. “Show me,” he ordered in a whisper.
She went very still. “Right now? Here? ”
“Yes. Now.”
She hesitated. His fierceness frightened her, but when she looked up into his burning eyes, she didn’t dare say no, aware of the complexity behind his brash request. He was a proud warrior of a man, but that pride had been wounded deeply. Somehow she understood his need to reassert his power after the vulnerability of having been revealed to her as a powerless battered child; perhaps he was even trying to drive her away, scare her off, so that his self-fulfilling prophecy that no one could ever love him would come true. She was not going to let that happen, no matter the cost.
Looking deeply into his angry green eyes, she knew she had to tread carefully, ever so carefully.
“Very well,” she whispered, lifting her hand to caress his thigh as he stood over her. “How do you want me?”
He held her stare, windblown, dark, and dangerous. He looked almost suspicious at her willingness. “On your back.” He took her hand and pulled her off the rock.