A Bride by Moonlight (40 page)

So he shut the door, and dragged her hard against him with his good arm, then kissed her long and very, very thoroughly. And when he was finished, he held her tighter still, and set his forehead lightly against hers.

“Good Lord,” he said, dragging in the comfort of her scent. “I cannot ever live through that again. Do you hear me, Lisette? Not
ever
.”

She made him no answer, but she kissed him again, a light brush of the lips. A kiss, he hoped, of promise. “Sit down on the bed,” she said.

“Just
sit
down?” he echoed incredulously. “A beautiful woman barges her way in my bedchamber, and orders me to merely
sit
on the bed? I must not be a lover worth my salt, Lisette, if that’s all you can think to ask.”

She smiled up at him—well, not quite a smile, but a curious little quirk—and pushed him toward the bed. “Sit down,” she said again, “because I’m going to wrap that arm. There’s a very real danger of infection still, so don’t be so bloody cavalier.”

“I love it when you curse,” he said.

But he did sit down, and watched with an intense, almost heart-wrenching love as she pulled his desk chair to the bed, then tenderly bandaged his wounds. It took some time, and she worked with care. When she was done, she tore the ends of the cloth, wrapped one end around, and tied it in a tidy knot at his wrist.

“There,” she said, clutching the roll of bandaging in her lap, her chin lowered.

Napier reached out with his good hand, and tipped her chin up. Her eyes were swimming with tears. “Oh, love,” he whispered. “Oh,
don’t
.”

Her shoulders seemed to draw in, even as her face crumpled a little. “Don’t
don’t
me!” she cried. “That knife could have killed you! I can bear a great many things, Royden. I can. But that? Better Diana should cut out my heart.”

“Ah, could you not live without me, then?” he asked, holding her watery gaze. “I only ask because—well, I’d as soon there were two of us in that miserable state of existence.”

She dashed a hand beneath one eye. “I can live without you if I must,” she said. “But I could not bear it if anything happened
to
you. You are the most alive, the strongest, most physically
real
person I’ve ever known. To me you are . . . invincible, really. But that
knife
—oh, God!”

He caught her tear-dampened hand and lifted it to his lips, saying nothing. He hardly knew where to begin. There was so much, really, that wanted un-saying.

Lisette saved him from his introspection.

“Thank you,” she said on a snuffle. “Thank you for saving me.”

“I was terrified,” he said.

“I was not,” she answered. “I knew you would save me. But then I saw the blood. Oh, you were bleeding
so much
.”

The silence fell around them again. Not awkwardly, no. So often with her, he had no wish to fill the void with unnecessary conversation. And she—well, she was weighing her next words. He knew it, for he
knew her.
And this time, he would wait.

He still held her hand, small and warm, in his own. He wanted to kiss it again, to press his lips to the back of it and swear his undying devotion. But he did not.

“How long were you standing behind me?” she finally asked.

“Long enough,” he said.

“Ah. Well.” She made a little sound in the back of her throat. “So you know.”

“And so I do.” He did kiss her hand then, holding her gaze as he did so.

She gave a faint, thready laugh. “And so you’re destined to let two murderous criminals waltz away today, I gather?” she said with feigned lightness. “I confess, you’re not quite as advertised, Roughshod Roy.”

He shrugged. “You killed a man who deserved it,” he said. “I know I ought to be more troubled by it. And yet I seem unable to summon any moral outrage. And I think, my dear, you’ve suffered enough remorse.”

“I think of it every day,” she whispered, her gaze falling.

Napier didn’t understand. “I hate to pry,” he said, “since it’s thus far netted me nothing but heartache. But do you want to tell me
how
you came to shoot him?”

“Well, I meant to shoot Lord Lazonby,” she said.

“Oh, well,” he said. “I’m not sure I’d have stopped you.”

She gave a feeble laugh. “Of course you would have,” she said. “You have a frightful temper, but you never let it best you.”

“Well, thank you for that,” he said.

“As to
how
it happened—well, I daresay it was because I’d got in the habit of carrying Papa’s pocket pistol,” she said, her brow knotted. “I wanted to shoot Lazonby, true. But I carried it because . . . well, at the
Chronicle
, one had to frequent some vile places . . . and I was . . .” Her breath had caught oddly.

“Lisette,” he whispered, “forget about it. All of it. Because it just doesn’t matter.”

She shook her head, shut her eyes, and set a finger to his lips. “
And I was Jack
,” she finally said. “There, it’s said. I was Jack Coldwater. It was just . . . a name. A name I’d used over the years.”

He squeezed her hand. “I know that,” he said. “But someday, if you feel like it, I should like to hear how it happened.”

Lisette drew a deep breath. “It just . . . happened,” she said. “I had a knack for writing, I suppose.”

“It’s never so simple as that,” he countered. “You clearly have a classical education.”

“I just read a lot,” she said. “And helped out in the shop. Then Uncle’s drinking worsened. One night there was a terrible accident in the harbor. A ship caught fire.”

“Is that what you and Sir Philip were talking about over dinner?” he asked. “Did you write that article?”

She lifted her gaze to his. “There was no one else,” she said simply. “Ashton was drunk as a lord, and hadn’t paid the staff. I’d written up other people’s notes before. So Aunt begged me, and I just . . . well, I pulled on a cap and some breeches and went down to the harbor to see what might be done. That’s where I learned about arsenic, you see.”

“Was it?” he said, surprised.

“One of the passengers was just dripping in green worsted,” said Lisette. “She was pulled from the water early on, perfectly safe. But she refused to get out of her wet things until they found her husband, and it took hours to row everyone ashore. By then, however, the damage was done.”

“And after that,” said Napier grimly, “your uncle piled more responsibilities on good old Jack, I don’t doubt.”

Her only response was a short nod, and her hands thrown up as if in surrender.

A part of Napier was deeply angry, though he tried not to show it. Angry she’d had to face such an awful situation. Angry she’d been forced to carry too many burdens at too young an age—and carry them more or less alone.

It was just as he’d always suspected. There had been no one in Lisette’s life that she could trust, or even depend on. Instead she’d been stuck with a scoundrel of a father and an inebriate of an uncle, while quietly going on about the business of keeping life afloat.

“It was not right that your uncle put you in such a grim and dangerous position,” he said honestly. “By comparison, it must have made you miss your father all the more.”

Her eyes widened. “I missed my entire family,” she said. “Yes, of course I miss my father. What child would not?”

He leaned over and set his lips to her forehead. “I know you loved him,” he said. “I know you did. But a part of him failed you, Lisette, and it is not wrong to resent that fact.”

She was silent so long he feared she might not answer.

“Well,” she said after a time, her shoulders falling. “We have got off our subject, haven’t we? I was explaining about Sir Wilfred. But save for the truth about Jack, it happened pretty much as Lazonby told you. Even in that, the man did not lie. It pains me to admit how honest he is, really.”

But one thing had never made sense to Napier. “And were you following Anisha?”

“Oh, yes. Because I saw her from a distance slipping around to the back gardens, and got this odd notion she meant to meet Lazonby.”

“A logical assumption,” he acknowledged.

“But when I caught sight of Sir Wilfred dragging her through that door, I knew something terrible had happened,” she went on. “I crept up by the open window, and saw she was injured. And when I heard what he said about having framed Lazonby, and wanting rid of Papa, something inside me . . . it just
snapped
.”

“Anyone would have been distraught,” said Napier soothingly.

“But
I
leapt down the stairs and told him I was going to kill him,” she said. “I was not distraught. I was crazed. And Royden,
I meant it.
I made him get on his knees and put his hands behind his head.”

“Let me guess,” said Napier. “That’s when Lazonby turned up?”

Lisette nodded. “He tried to talk me out of it at first,” she said, “but after a while, he said—cool as could be—that I should just go ahead and shoot Sir Wilfred. He just wanted to come down the steps and get Lady Anisha out first, in case my shot went wild.”

“Very wise,” remarked Napier dryly.

“So I stepped back, you know, to let Lazonby pass between us,” she whispered, “and somehow—somehow, just as Lazonby scooped her off the floor and turned, Sir Wilfred leapt up and attacked me. I slammed into that marble counter. And the gun just . . . went off. But I killed him. I did. And I meant to.”

“Lisette,” said Napier firmly, “that is called
an
accident
—or self-defense, at the very least.”

“That’s what Lazonby kept saying,” she whispered, staring down at her open hand. “But I knew the truth. I knew what was in my heart. And I knew I had only Lazonby—a man I’d made my mortal enemy—to defend me.”

“Not Anisha?”

Lisette shook her head. “She’d been struck nearly insensible. And her face—it was buried against Lazonby’s coat. She couldn’t have seen. And that’s when I think I started screaming . . . and screaming. I couldn’t stop. It was as if the gun—even my own hand—didn’t belong to me anymore.”

“Because it was an accident,” he said again, more emphatically.

“Only by chance,” she said, lifting an abject gaze to his. “Royden, I wanted to kill him. I truly did. And I think . . . I still think I would have done it. I think, in that moment, I was utterly mad. No better, really, than Diana today. And I wonder—
how
does that happen? How does life turn you into that sort of person? And are you that person ever after?”

Even now, however, she looked frightened. Frightened, he realized, of herself. Of what she could be capable of.

But all people had it in them to do brutal things, under certain—and usually horrific—circumstances. He’d learned that much from his police work.

“Lisette, come here.”

He shifted around on the bed, and patted the spot beside him. With a withering smile, she joined him, tucking her slender length along his, and nestling her head in the crook of his arm.

Bending his head, he pressed his lips to her temple. “Lisette, I think it likely you
wouldn’t
have killed him,” he said. “That in the end, you’d have broken down like Diana. But
I don’t care
.”

“But Royden, you are—”

“
I don’t care,
” he repeated. “Do you understand? I know you’ve feared I would—that I would judge you. That I’d keep silent because I love you, then live to regret that silence. But I meant what I said to Duncaster. There’s no black and white in life, and more’s the pity.”

“But I really meant to—”

“Besides, am I any better?” he interjected. “I’m keeping silent to protect my father’s legacy and my family’s good name. Is that right? Perhaps not. But unless I see a harm I can undo—something I can somehow set to rights—then I’ll go to my grave with my lips sealed. As to Sir Wilfred, he was evil and venal and patently cruel, and if you hadn’t shot him, he would surely have been hanged.”

“Well,” she said in a small voice, “I have not grieved him. But I’m sorry to have been the instrument of his death.”

He realized Lisette had been through a terror, and it was little wonder she didn’t want to relive it. “Sir Wilfred sealed his own fate,” he said grimly. “And it makes me angry you were ever left alone and unprotected. You should never have been placed in such a position.”

He was still irrationally angry with her father, he realized—and she was not. But so it often went with handsome scoundrels, Napier knew. They eschewed duty, died young, and were then practically canonized, the family wishing to believe that, if only their beloved had lived, he would have turned his life around. But it would never have happened with Sir Arthur Colburne, and Lisette had paid the price for his weaknesses.

As usual, it was as if she read his very thoughts. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Royden,” she warned, her voice grim. “I’m not a fool. I know that, had Papa lived, I’d have been more parent than child in the end. Ellie would have ended up Lady Percy, diamond of society, and I’d have ended my days rowing Papa’s boat and bailing out the water.”

“It’s called the curse of the competent, Lisette,” he said. “Those that can do are ever called upon by those who cannot—or will not.”

She gave a little shrug. “No, the curse, Royden, is that we do it and yet we cannot resent them for it,” she said. “I loved my father, even knowing his shortcomings. Don’t you? Even knowing—?”

“Knowing what Sir Wilfred accused him of?” He sighed. “Yes. A part of me does.”

Though in his case, Napier considered, he’d at least had the luxury of being a man grown when the scales had fallen from his eyes. Even now, he had little more than a mere suspicion of what Nicholas Napier had been.

But in his heart, he knew the truth.

“Perhaps I suspected what my father was even before Sir Wilfred’s ugly accusation.” It was the first time he’d been able to say the words aloud. “For much of my life, Lisette, I worshipped him—despite the fact that he was distant, even forbidding at times. He was, for good or ill, my idol. My understanding of all a man should be.”