“I’m hurrying!” The cabin was only eight feet across—hardly enough for hurrying to make a difference—but Cecilia made her way to the door and put her fingers on the deadbolt lock.
And she froze.
“What are you waiting for?” Miss Finch demanded.
“I don’t know,” Cecilia whispered.
Edward was here. He’d followed her. What did that mean?
“CECILIA!”
She opened the door, and for one blessed moment, time stopped. She drank in the sight of him standing across the threshold, his fisted hand still raised to pound against the door. He wore no hat, and his hair was badly mussed and ruffled.
He looked . . . wild.
“You’re wearing your uniform,” she said stupidly.
“You,” he said, jabbing his finger toward her, “are in so much trouble.”
Miss Finch let out a gleeful gasp. “Are you going to arrest her?”
Edward wrenched his gaze away from Cecilia for just long enough to snap an incredulous “What?”
“Are you going to arrest her?” Miss Finch scurried up until she was just behind Cecilia. “I think she’s a—”
Cecilia elbowed her in the ribs. For her own good. There was no telling how Edward would react if Miss Finch called her a whore in front of him.
Edward flicked an impatient look at Miss Finch. “Who is that?” he demanded.
“Who are you?” Miss Finch shot back.
Edward jerked his head toward Cecilia. “Her husband.”
Cecilia tried to contradict. “No, you’re—”
“I will be,” he growled.
“This is highly irregular,” Miss Finch said with a sniff.
Cecilia whirled around. “Will you kindly step back?” she hissed.
“Well!” Miss Finch said with a huff. She made a great show of the three mincing steps it took to reach her bunk.
Edward tipped his head toward the older lady. “Your friend?”
“No,” Cecilia said emphatically.
“Certainly not,” Miss Finch said.
Cecilia shot her an irritated look before turning back to Edward. “Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Of course I got your letter. Why the hell else would I be here?”
“I didn’t say which ship—”
“It wasn’t that difficult to figure it out.”
“But you—your commission—” Cecilia fought for words. He was an officer in His Majesty’s Army. He couldn’t just leave. He’d be court-martialed. Dear God, could he hang? They didn’t hang officers for deserting, did they? And certainly not those from families like the Rokesbys.
“I had enough time to settle matters with Colonel Stubbs,” Edward said in a curt tone. “Just.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.”
His hand wrapped around her upper arm. “Tell me one thing,” he said in a very low voice.
She stopped breathing.
And then he looked over her shoulder at Miss Finch, who was following the proceedings with avid interest. “Would you mind granting us some privacy?” he ground out.
“This is my cabin,” she said. “If you wish for privacy, you’ll have to find it elsewhere.”
“Oh for the love of God,” Cecilia burst out, whirling around to face the hateful woman, “can you find enough kindness in your stony heart to give me a moment with—” She swallowed, her throat closing on her words. “With him,” she finally finished, jerking her head toward Edward.
“Are you married?” Miss Finch asked primly.
“No,” Cecilia replied, but this did not hold much traction given that Edward said, “Yes,” at the exact same time.
Miss Finch turned her beady gaze from one to the other. Her lips pressed together, and her brows rose into two unattractive arches. “I’m going to get the captain,” she announced.
“Do,” Edward said, practically shoving her out the door.
Miss Finch shrieked as she stumbled into the hall, but if she had anything more to say, it was cut off when Edward slammed the door in her face.
And locked it.
Chapter 22
I am coming to find you.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas (letter never sent)
Edward was not in a good mood.
A man generally required more than three hours to uproot his life and decamp to another continent. As it was, he’d barely had time to pack his trunk and secure authorization to leave New York.
By the time he made it to the docks, the crew of the Rhiannon was preparing for departure. Edward had to practically leap across the water to board the ship, and he would have been forcibly removed had he not shoved the colonel’s hastily written order in the face of the captain’s second in command, securing himself a berth.
Or maybe just a spot on the deck. The captain’s man said he wasn’t even sure they had a spare hammock.
No matter. Edward didn’t need much room. All he had were the clothes on his back, a few pounds in his pockets . . .
And a big black hole where his patience used to be.
So when the door to Cecilia’s cabin opened . . .
One might have thought he’d have been relieved to see her. One might have thought, given the depth of his feelings, given the panic that had propelled him all afternoon, he would have sagged with relief at the sight of those beautiful seafoam eyes, staring up at him with astonishment.
But no.
It was all he could do not to throttle her.
“Why are you here?” she whispered, once he’d finally got the damnable Miss Finch out of the room.
For a moment he could only stare. “You’re not seriously asking me that.”
“I—”
“You left me.”
She shook her head. “I set you free.”
He snorted at that. “You’ve had me locked up for over a year.”
“What?” Her response was more motion than sound, but Edward didn’t feel like explaining. He turned away, his breath ragged as he raked his hand through his hair. Bloody hell, he wasn’t even wearing his hat. How had that happened? Had he forgotten to put it on? Had it flown off as he ran for the ship?
The godforsaken woman had him tied in knots. He wasn’t even sure if his trunk had made it aboard. For all he knew he’d just embarked on a monthlong voyage without a change of undergarments.
“Edward?” Her voice came from behind him, small and hesitant.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked.
“What?”
He turned around and said it again, with even more precision. “Are. You. Pregnant.”
“No!” She shook her head in an almost frantic motion. “I told you I wasn’t.”
“I didn’t know if—” He stopped. Cut himself off.
“You didn’t know what?”
He didn’t know if he could trust her. That was what he’d been about to say. Except it wasn’t true. He did trust her. On this, at least. No, on this, especially. And his initial instinct—the one goading him to question her word—that was nothing but a devil on his shoulder, wanting to lash out. To wound.
Because she’d hurt him. Not because she’d lied—he supposed he could understand how all that had happened. But she had not had faith. She had not trusted him. How could she have thought that running away was the right thing to do? How could she have thought he didn’t care?
“I am not with child,” she said in a voice so low with urgency it was almost a whisper. “I promise you. I would not lie about such a thing.”
“No?” His devil, apparently, refused to give up its voice.
“I promise,” she said again. “I would not do that to you.”
“But you would do this?”
“This?” she echoed.
He stepped toward her, still seething. “You left me. Without a word.”
“I wrote you a letter!”
“Before you fled the continent.”
“But I—”
“You ran away.??
?
“No!” she cried. “No, I didn’t. I—”
“You are on a boat,” he exploded. “That is the very definition of running away.”
“I did it for you!”
Her voice was so loud, so full of keening sorrow that he was momentarily silenced. She looked almost brittle, her arms sticklike at her sides, her hands pressed into desperate little fists.
“I did it for you,” she said again, softer this time.
He shook his head. “Then you should have damn well consulted me to see if it was what I wanted.”
“If I stayed,” she said, with the slow and heavy cadence of one who was desperately trying to make the other understand, “you would have insisted upon marrying me.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you think this was what I wanted?” she practically shouted. “Do you think I liked sneaking away while you were gone? I was sparing you from having to do the right thing!”
“Listen to yourself,” he bit off. “Sparing me from having to do the right thing? How could you even think I would want to do anything else? Do you know me at all?”
“Edward, I—”
“If it’s the right thing,” he snapped, “then I should be doing it.”
“Edward, please, you must believe me. When you recover your memory, you will understand—”
“I got my memory back days ago,” he cut in.
She froze.
He was not such a noble man that he did not experience a small pang of satisfaction at that.
“What?” she finally said.
“I got my—”
“You didn’t tell me?” Her voice was calm, dangerously so.
“We had just found out about Thomas.”
“You didn’t tell me?”
“You were grieving—”
She smacked him on the shoulder. “How could you keep that from me?”
“I was angry!” he roared. “Didn’t I have the right to keep something from you?”
She stumbled back, hugging her arms to her body. Her anguish was palpable, but he couldn’t stop himself from advancing, jabbing his forefinger hard against her collarbone. “I was so bloody furious with you I could hardly see straight. But speaking of doing the right thing, I thought it would be kinder if I waited to confront you until after you’d had a few days to grieve for your brother.”
Her eyes grew large, and her lips trembled, and her posture—somehow tense and slack at the same time—brought to Edward’s mind a deer he’d almost shot years ago, while hunting with his father. One of them had stepped on a twig, and the animal’s large ears had perked and turned. It didn’t move, though. It stood there for what felt like an eternity, and Edward had had the most bizarre sense that it was contemplating its existence.
He had not taken the shot. He had not been able to bring himself to do so.
And now . . .
The devil on his shoulder slunk away.
“You should have stayed,” he said quietly. “You should have told me the truth.”
“I was scared.”
He was dumbfounded. “Of me?”
“No!” She looked down, but he heard her whisper, “Of myself.”
But before he could ask her what she meant, she swallowed tremulously and said, “You don’t have to marry me.”
He couldn’t believe she was still thinking that was possible. “Oh, I don’t, don’t I?”
“I won’t hold you to it,” she half babbled. “There’s nothing to hold you to.”
“Isn’t there?” He took a step toward her, because it was long past time they eliminated the distance between them, but he stopped in place when he realized what he saw in her eyes.
Sorrow.
She looked so unbearably sad, and it wrecked him.
“You love someone else,” she whispered.
Wait . . . What?
It took him a moment to realize he hadn’t said it aloud. Had she gone mad? “What are you talking about?”
“Billie Bridgerton. You’re supposed to marry her. I don’t think you remember, but—”
“I’m not in love with Billie,” he interrupted. He ran his hand through his hair, then turned to face the wall as he let out a shout of frustration. Good God, was that what this was all about? His neighbor back home?
And then Cecilia said—she actually said, “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he retorted. “I’m certainly not going to marry her.”
“No, I think you are,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve recovered your full memory, but you said as much in your letters. Or at least Thomas did, and then your godmother—”
“What?” He whirled around. “When did you speak to Aunt Margaret?”
“Just today. But I—”
“Did she seek you out?” Because by God, if his godmother had insulted Cecilia in any way . . .
“No. It was entirely by chance. She’d come to see you, and I happened to be leaving to purchase my ticket—”
He growled.
She backed up a step. Or rather she tried. She’d clearly forgotten that she was already up against the edge of the bunk.
“I thought it would be rude not to sit with her,” she said. “Although I must say, it was very awkward to play the hostess in a public house.”
Edward went still for a moment, then to his amazement he felt his lips cracking into a smile. “God, I would have loved to have seen that.”
Cecilia gave him a bit of a sideways glance. “It is much more amusing in retrospect.”
“I’m sure.”
“She’s terrifying.”
“She is.”
“My godmother was a dotty old woman in the parish,” Cecilia muttered. “She knit me socks every year for my birthday.”
He considered this. “I am quite certain Margaret Tryon has never knit a pair of socks in her life.”
A little grumbling sound formed in Cecilia’s throat before she said, “She’d probably be ridiculously competent at it if she tried.”
Edward nodded, his smile by now reaching his eyes. “Probably.” He gave her a little nudge so that she sat on the bunk, and then he sat beside her. “You know I’m going to marry you,” he said. “I can’t believe you thought I would do otherwise.”
“Of course I thought you’d insist upon marrying me,” she replied. “That’s why I left. So you wouldn’t have to.”
“That’s the most ridic—”
She placed her hand on his shoulder to silence him. “You would never have taken me to bed if you thought we weren’t married.”
He did not contradict her.
She shook her head sadly. “You slept with me under false pretenses.”
He tried not to laugh, he really did, but within seconds the bed was shaking with his mirth.
“Are you laughing?” she asked.
He nodded, clutching his middle as her question set off another wave of glee. “‘Slept with me under false pretenses,’” he chortled.
Cecilia frowned disgruntledly. “Well, you did.”
“Perhaps, but who cares?” He gave her a friendly nudge with his elbow. “We’re getting married.”
“But Billie—”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “For the last time, I don’t want to marry Billie. I want to marry you.”
“But—”
“I love you, you little fool. I’ve been in love with you for years.”
Maybe he was a little too full of himself, but he would swear he heard her heart skip a beat. “But you didn’t know me,” she whispered.
“I knew you,” he said. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I knew you better than—” He paused for a moment, needing the time to collect his emotions. “Do you have any idea how many times I read your letters?”
She shook her head.
“Every letter . . . my God, Cecilia, you have no idea what they meant to me. They weren’t even written to me—”
“They were,” she said softly.
&nb
sp; He went still, but his eyes held hers, silently asking her what she meant.
“Every time I wrote to Thomas I was thinking of you. I—” She swallowed, and although the light was too dim to see her blush, somehow he knew her face had gone pink. “I scolded myself every time.”
He touched her cheek. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not. I—well, maybe I am, but it’s because I’m embarrassed. I felt so silly, pining over a man I’d never met.”
“No sillier than I,” he said. He reached into the pocket of his coat. “I have a confession.”
Cecilia watched as he unfurled his fingers. A miniature—her miniature—lay in his palm. She gasped, and her eyes flew to his. “But . . . how?”
“I stole it,” he said plainly, “when Colonel Stubbs asked me to inspect Thomas’s trunk.” He’d tell her later that Thomas had wanted him to have it. It didn’t really matter, anyway; he hadn’t known this when he’d slipped it into his pocket.
Her eyes went from the tiny painting to his face and back again.
Edward touched her chin, raising her eyes to his. “I’ve never stolen anything before, you know.”
“No,” she said in an amazed murmur, “I can’t imagine you would.”
“But this—” He pressed the miniature into her palm. “This I could not do without.”
“It’s just a portrait.”
“Of the woman I love.”
“You love me,” she whispered, and he wondered how many times he would have to say it for her to believe him. “You love me.”
“Madly,” he admitted.
She looked down at the painting in her hand. “It doesn’t look like me,” she said.
“I know,” he said, reaching a shaky hand out. He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, his large palm coming to rest against her cheek. “You’re so much more beautiful,” he whispered.
“I lied to you.”
“I don’t care.”
“I think you do.”
“Did you do so with intent to hurt me?”
“No, of course not. I only—”
“Did you wish to defraud—”
“No!”
He shrugged. “As I said, I don’t care.”
For a second it seemed she might stop protesting. But then her lips parted again, and she took a little breath, and Edward knew it was time to put a stop to this nonsense.