Wayward One (19 page)

“I’ll be married in a month.” They’d wait as long as required and no more. He’d even suggested he get a special license, but Sera had been reluctant to agree. He figured he’d best not push his luck.

“To who?”

“Miss Seraphina Miller.” As if he’d been courting anyone else. Not that he’d been precisely courting Sera. He’d adapted to an adjusted timeline.

Rick chuffed and turned to the bar. The bartender brought him a glass of brandy.

“Is something the matter?” Fletcher asked.

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with joining the masses in the march to matrimony. I’m told it’s a quite enviable state.”

Disgust rolled off Rick in waves when he snorted. “Being hammered for life is for chumps. Always has been. Your father thought so.”

“He was married to my mother,” Fletcher reminded him.

“Who had the good grace to up and die right quick. And he never married again, you’ll notice.” Rick took a healthy swig of his cognac. By the wrinkle of his nose, one might think the taste was off, but Fletcher was pretty sure it was another dose of disgust at the idea of marriage. “Marriage is a yoke women use to lock men down and make them march to the piper’s tune. You mark my words, in no time she’ll have you shutting down this place, and Mrs. Kordan and every other roll we’ve got going.”

Fletcher set his glass on the bar and flattened his hands on the scarred, nicked surface. “I’ve been trying to get out for a while now and you know it,” he said in a low, cold voice. If Rick had half a bit of sense, he’d stop while he was ahead.

“That’s bullshit and
you
know it. There’s no getting out, not for the likes of us. Not without taking apart the very people we are. We’re meant for this life. It’s meant for us. She’ll grab you by the dick and twist you around. You’ll start making stupid decisions, like your pa did for her mother, and it’ll be all for a thrust of quim.”

Fletcher moved before he could even think. His hand wrapped around Rick’s throat. He drew his fist back. His muscles vibrated with the need to slam Rick’s face flat. Until blood streamed from his nose. Until he shut his bloody gob.

Everyone else in the bar stilled. The bartender froze in the act of pouring a pint. Foaming liquid sloshed over the edge of the glass and his hand. The card players in the corner craned their necks.

“Don’t say another word,” Fletcher growled. “Sera will be my wife and you’ll like it. You’ll wish us many happy years. Or you’ll get the fuck out of my life.”

Rick’s handsome face snarled mean and ugly with his anger. “You see? It’s already happening. A bit of cunt—”

The words died under Fletcher’s fist. His knuckles stung with the force of their crack against Rick’s teeth. Blood welled.

“Are you going to watch your mouth?” Fletcher spat. His fist hovered by his shoulder, ready to give more. His muscles constricted with the urge to hurt.

Rick nodded. Fletcher forced himself to release the older man.

Fletcher’s breath charged in and out of his lungs as he stepped away. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

Blood sprayed when Rick turned his head and spit. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away streaked red.

“It’s happening already. You’re not yourself.” Rick held up his hands. “Let me say my piece and I’ll be done. Only look at yourself. You’re not the man you were.”

Fletcher couldn’t take any more. Too much swirled inside him, unwilling to separate itself out into tidy little piles. There were other places he could be and always more work he could attend. He walked out.

But before he went, Fletcher threw over his shoulder, “Who the hell wants to be the man I was?”

Chapter Fifteen

Two weeks later, Sera allowed Fletcher to talk her into attending a circus. Despite reasoning that no one from society was likely to be at such a tiny venue, and despite having a wonderful adventure marveling at the wild animals, her nerves wound into raw bundles by the time she climbed into the carriage.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to that. What if we’d been seen?”

Fletcher sat directly beside her. His solid body pressed against her consciousness. Even though she shouldn’t have been able to feel it, his knee branded the edge of her skirts.

He shrugged. “So what if we had? We’ll be married in a matter of weeks.”

What a fascinating idea. It was enough to wash away the tension that lodged in a knot at the base of her skull. Soon she’d be a married woman, safe behind the shield of respectability forever. More than that, she’d be married to Fletcher. Allowed to speak to him and be with him and heavens above, even
touch
him as she liked. She hoped that would be enough to file away the sharp blade of hunger she felt for him.

Surely it was dependant on his forbidden status.

“Do you know, we’ve been engaged over two weeks,” he said, stretching his legs across the narrow space between the seats.

“I do tend to notice the passing of days. It happens when the sun rises and then sets,” she said with tart humor.

He only smiled at her. “I notice more the absences.”

“Absences?”

“I’ve yet to taste you again.” He said the words lightly, but his eyes burned with an intensity that would incinerate her.

The air in the small carriage went thick and damp. Just like her. She swallowed. It did nothing to tamp down the embers. “As you said, we’ll be married in two weeks. Won’t that be enough?”

He touched her with only a single fingertip, tracing a line across her cheek. “I die with wanting you, every day.”

So did she. Not giving in to such effrontery was half the reason they were marrying. She looked out the window, watching gaslights sweep slowly over the glass. “Soon.”

“Answer me one question and I’ll be satisfied.”

She watched his reflection flicker in a span of darkness. “I find myself doubting that.”

His finger stroked over the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh prickled in its wake. His smile was everything endearing, tucked up on one side in that way she was coming to love. “You’re a wise woman. But answer and I’ll be satisfied enough for tonight. Is that more believable?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. It sounded like the warm, full-throated chuckle of a woman who knew what she was doing. But she was beginning to think every facet of her being was merely playacting. Anything to find a true home, untainted by the poison of charitable acts. “I’ll try to believe. That will have to be enough.”

His quiet laugh warmed her from the inside out. He pressed against her shoulder. The heat of him matched her own. So solid. Every muscle an assurance that he’d be there when she needed, that nothing could blow him away. His mouth grazed over her ear. The gooseflesh exploded into a full-body tingle she couldn’t control no matter how rigidly she held herself.

“Do you dream of kissing me as I dream of tasting you?”

She risked a glance at him. So near, his eyes looked like pale beacons home. “Every night. I fear I’m developing an obsession for you.”

“Good,” he growled. “I’d hate to think I was alone.”

“We’ll neither of us be alone again,” she whispered. Together, they’d create a quiet knot of safety in the wild world.

He cupped her jaw in his big hand and traced his thumb over her bottom lip. By all rights, he should have been wearing gloves. He
had
been wearing them earlier; she’d made sure of it. Now nothing protected her from the hot brand of his fingers. Foolishly, she ventured a tiny lick. He tasted like salt and man and, strangely, like homecoming.

The carriage bumped to a stop outside Fletcher’s house, saving her from herself and her wretched weakness. They were only engaged, not married yet. She couldn’t indulge in anything of the like.

Still, they stayed locked in each other’s gazes, victims of mesmerism. The spell didn’t end until James opened the door, allowing a wash of cool air to breeze over them. Sera jumped back and knocked her head into the corner of the wall. Fletcher laughed at her as he hopped out, then turned to hold up a hand.

Sera rubbed surreptitiously at her temple while she faked a sniff of disgust. He winked at her, the rotten bounder. She rested her hand on his arm, resisting the temptation to press too close. It would only be a torment.

So focused on him was she that she noticed nothing else until a footpad slammed him in the back of the head. Fletcher grunted.

Three of them. Rough men in the rougher clothes of sailors. Sera screamed, but it was already happening. The tallest punched Fletcher in the back, while the shorter man went after James. The footman flailed wildly, landing blows where he could, but it was obvious he was no brawler.

Terror flushed her ears with the roar of her pulse. Her voice squeezed off when the last man grabbed her by the shoulders. She tried to whack him with her reticule, but it was a useless bit of fluff, hardly enough to carry a few pence.

“Fletcher,” she screamed.

He pushed off his attacker and came for her. Like she knew he would.

He roared as he slammed his fist in the man’s face. The grip around her shoulders loosened and she ducked away. The sailor yanked a weighted sap from his pocket, swinging it with malice shining in his beady eyes. Fletcher didn’t seem to care.

A shot boomed overhead. Sera squeaked and clutched herself.

Hareton stood in the open doorway, a pair of pistols in hand. Feet spread, resistance shone from him. The three attackers fled unceremoniously. James trotted after them.

Sera stood where she was, unwilling to get in the way of the blustering men. Fletcher put his arms around her but watched over her head at James’s retreat.

“Get back here,” Fletcher snapped. James’s feet stuttered to a stop obediently, but his shoulders continued without him. Fletcher clapped the boy on the back when he returned. “Good lad, but you can’t be going up against three alone.”

“Yes, sir,” said the lanky man. He cranked his head toward the sailors, who’d long disappeared into the oppressing fog. “I’ll fetch the Metropolitan Police.”

“You do that.” Fletcher rubbed Sera’s back. “And you? Are you all right?”

She forced a smile. The ever-present fog had pressed in to wrap her mind in its smoky haze. “Of course I am. All’s well that turns out well, yes?”

The way he peered into her face felt like an examination. “That’s ballocks and you know it.”

She blinked up at him. “Fletcher, your language.”

He muttered a curse that was ten times worse. Well, she assumed it was though she’d never heard the word before, but the emotion laced through it was decidedly unpleasant. “Let’s get you inside,” he said, and swept her up into his arms.

“Oh, you shouldn’t!”

Her arms clenched around his neck anyhow. He was so solid. She loved that about him. Nothing about him was floating, unlike her. She buried her face in the warm wool of his coat, the better to pretend she was a part of that solidity. He smelled like spice and lemons plus something indefinably him. If she were blindfolded, she would be able to pick him out from a hundred men, even if they all used the same soap.

She curled in more closely, surreptitiously tucking her face to the bare skin of his neck. It proved surprisingly difficult to do because of his dratted neckcloth. She wiggled her fingers under the thing, feeling smooth skin with a hint of bristly whiskers beginning to sprout.

He lowered her slowly to a chaise. She didn’t want to let go, but he took her hands in his and that had to be enough.

Propriety, of course.

The rose salon. She blinked again as she looked about. She liked this room, despite the painting of Salome wearing only her veils—or perhaps because of it. Salome looked rather pleased with herself. Sera rather envied her assurance. Salome would never worry about the rules inflicted on her by others, nor twist herself into knots trying to obey.

“Now I know you’re not right,” Fletcher said. His voice was so low. Rather like a purring cat, only it would have to be a big one. He was nothing like a tabby. On the other hand, she’d never tried to bury her face in a lion’s neck before.

“What’s that?” She sounded as if she were speaking from the far end of a long hallway. Or perhaps that ought to be hearing herself from the far end of a hallway. Either way, she didn’t sound right.

“First you touched me of your own volition.” His smile invited her to join the joke, but she couldn’t quite catch it. “Now you’re staring at a half-naked woman.”

“I’m quite all right. I’ve a very hardy constitution.” She tried to push out of her half-reclining position, but her arms were surprisingly watery. “I’m just—” She burst into tears.

The quickest flash of alarm widened his eyes, then he bundled her into his arms. “Quiet now, hush that up.” The words were soothing, but the slightest hint of panic colored his deep voice. “Everything’s over. Quiet.”

“It was so— They were so…mean.” She sniffled through her tears. “They were so mean.”

“I know. But don’t cry. It’s all over. You’re safe now.”

His shoulders shook under her grip. She pulled back as she swiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “Are you laughing at me?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he assured. His lips quirked at the corners as if he wished to smile.