Winterblaze (40 page)

Sensing his tension, Poppy stilled and lifted her head. Tears gleamed on her reddened cheeks. She flinched, her hands tightening on his shoulders. Win leaned in close. “I will send them away if you want me to.”

“No. Thank you. I should talk to them.”

“As you wish.”

Miranda and Daisy waited for him to approach. They were beautiful women. Stunning, really. Yet he remembered them as girls. Miranda started when he reached out, but she let his hand rest on her cheek.

“We ought to have insisted on bringing you into our house when we left,” he said. “I’ve always regretted that.”

Her green eyes widened. “No, brother. My life had to be as it was. Or I would never have found Archer.”

He found himself smiling. “I still view you as the little girl who taught me to polka, and yet you are far wiser than me.” When her hand clasped his, he leaned closer. “You know, I do not think I’d change a thing either. As you said, one change and the whole story alters.”

Miranda’s shrewd eyes lit with amusement. “Well played, Winston.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

Daisy peered at him, her blue eyes glittering in the way of the GIMs. “Don’t you?”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “None whatsoever.”

Her sisters were here. Horribly, she could not stop sobbing. Her emotions were out of the gate now, stampeding with impunity. Now she clung to Daisy like a child. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered against the plump smoothness of Daisy’s cheek. “I-I did not mean to hurt you two.”

“We know that. You’ve always tried to balance the world’s troubles on your shoulders. You are so strong, sister mine.” Daisy’s blond curls trembled as she shook her head. “Rock of Gibraltar and all that. I have always been in awe of your strength.”

Poppy made a noise of irritation. “It isn’t strength. It’s tenacity. It simply isn’t in me to let go of an endeavor once I start.” A lump formed in her throat and made her words thick. “But it is not strength. Each day I feel weaker. So very weary.” She clenched her fist, and snow began to fall again, landing in icy flakes upon her skin. “I’d like nothing more than to lay my head down and forget the world, truth be told.”

Miranda’s voice was soft. “And yet how can a person keep holding on without strength?” Her green eyes assessed Poppy from beneath dark lashes. “You simply have to learn how to lean on one of us now and then.”

Poppy stared down at her workworn hand with its short clipped nails. Her wedding ring gleamed on her finger. It was a glorious ring, a delicate gold band that held a fiery orange cabochon carnelian surrounded by diamonds. She’d been speechless when Win had slipped it on her finger, for it spoke of beauty, grace, and strength. His eyes had been dark when he looked at her, and in that moment, she felt as though she was his whole world, that no one existed for him but her, just as he was the only thing right and perfect in her life.
“It is only a ring,” he whispered, his fingers warm upon hers. “Not nearly enough to encompass my love for you. But wear it and know that I am yours. Always.”

She’d lost that because she hadn’t opened herself up fully. Was it as simple as saying what one felt? Her lips twisted in distaste, but she had to try.

“We always end up bickering,” she said to her sisters as she stared at her hand. “But I…” She gathered herself and met her sisters’ wary gazes. “I have always wished I could be more like the two of you, able to find light in the darkness.” Daisy’s eyes widened, and Poppy forged on. “If I pushed you two, it was because I never wanted anything to snuff out your light. I wanted you to be strong and be more than I ever could. And… well, now you both are.”

Daisy’s lips parted, shock apparently rendering her silent for once. Poppy’s face heated, and then Daisy smiled. “Good Lord, but you’ll have me watering like a pot in a moment.”

Miranda’s hands stroked her hair. “Oh, hell, Pop, it isn’t as if I’ve a right to cast stones. I burned down Father’s warehouse and ruined the family. And you… You never once shamed me for it.” And then she was sobbing too.

Poppy turned into her embrace, trying to quiet her even though she couldn’t quiet herself.

Beside them, Daisy began to sniffle. “That’s old news. If you really want a confession, I must admit… I was the one who ate those cream caramels Winston sent you when you were courting!” With a pathetic pout, she held her arms out for a hug.

Miranda and Poppy glared at her, and then Miranda snorted. “And you talk of old news.”

“You had a caramel smudge on your chin when you denied your sins and did not even notice,” Poppy added in disgust.

Daisy scowled. “I felt terribly guilty! For hours!”

“Bah,” Miranda said as Poppy wiped at her face. “You merely had a sour stomach to lament.”

There was a small silence in which someone sniffled. And then they were laughing.

London, 1869—At Home

W
inston awoke in the dead of night, knowing immediately that something was wrong. Lying on the big bed he and Poppy had recently purchased for their new home, he focused on the plaster and wood-beamed ceiling above him before taking stock of his surroundings. All was quiet, the room warm from the late spring weather. Why then did his heart race? And then it hit him—Poppy was not beside him. He lurched up and looked around for her. The ghostly blue light of the moon reduced the bedroom to an array of sharp angles and shapeless lumps. Still no Poppy.

Finding his smalls, he slid them on and left the room. Years of avoiding his father’s notice gave him the ability to negotiate the narrow stairs that led from the bedroom down to the main flat without a sound. His skin was too tight, twitchy with anxiety that he could not name, and as
he descended, so did the temperature. The slight chill that first greeted his feet, then his bare torso gave him pause, but he supposed it was to be expected—the bedroom was always warmer than the rest of the house. Even so, the cool air rushing through his lungs as he breathed felt odd.

Ahead of him, past the dark hall, toward the kitchen, a soft light glowed. For reasons he couldn’t name, Win held his tongue and did not call out for Poppy. His heartbeat was a hard rhythm against his throat as he crept toward the door and moved into the kitchen.

There, hunched over the table, was Poppy, her vibrant hair gleaming copper in the light of a single taper. The air here was cooler still, and sharp with silence and tension. She hadn’t heard him and he couldn’t make himself speak. Inexplicably, he felt as if he were trespassing on her privacy. She appeared to be fiddling with something, the line of her shoulders drawn tight even as she moved. But then she stopped, and her shoulders began to shake. The movement snapped Win out of whatever spell that had hold of him, and he stepped farther into the room.

“Poppy?”

She whipped around, her eyes wide in her pale face. “Win.”

He smiled. “Were you expecting someone else?” he teased. His smile faltered when she merely gaped at him, and again came the odd feeling that danger lurked. “What are you doing up, love?”

“I…” She said nothing more, but he’d stopped listening at any rate, for he spied the blood-covered rag that lay in her lap.

“You’re hurt!” His bare feet slapped over the icy floor, and he was kneeling before her in the next breath.

“Win.” Her voice was a rasp. And her hands were so
very cold when he closed his own over hers. She winced, and he looked down. A deep gash marred her inner forearm. Cursing softly, he picked up the rag and pressed it back over the wound.

“What happened?” he whispered as gently as he could, for the sight of her bleeding left him inexplicably angry. “And why didn’t you wake me?”

Poppy was silent for a moment, then she leaned into him. Fell into him, rather, which alarmed him more than anything. Instantly he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight.

“Poppy,” he said against her hair. “Tell me what makes you tremble.”

Her broken voice was half-lost against his skin. “I…” She took a breath and calmed a bit. “I had a nightmare.”

“Sweeting.” He stroked her hair. “About what?”

Her slender throat moved with a swallow. “A monster was hunting me.” So quietly she spoke that he had to strain to hear her. “He almost had me, but then I… I defeated him, Win.” She shook violently, and her good arm slung around his neck. “I defeated him. I did it.”

The relief and joy in her voice was so strong that it almost sounded as though she thought the dream real. He knew of such dreams. They lingered in the flesh and shook one’s soul.

“Of course you did, my brave love,” he said. “I never doubted you for a moment.”

She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and squeezed him tighter. Cooing under his breath, he rose and then, with a bit of shifting, settled on the kitchen bench and settled her upon his lap. Gently, he brushed a long lock of scarlet hair away from her face. “Why did you not wake me?”

Her lids lowered as if she couldn’t quite face him. “I did not want to bother you.”

Win cupped her cheek and made her look at him. “You will never be a bother to me, Boadicea.” His thumb stroked her skin. “You can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you?”

She grimaced, and he understood; his Poppy had always been self-sufficient. To the point of stubbornness. Letting her have a moment, he lifted her wounded arm and tended to it. “How did you hurt yourself?”

She tensed again and cleared her throat. “I came down for some tea and grew hungry.” A small sound of derision left her. “I suppose the dream still had me, for in my clumsiness, I let the bread knife get the upper hand.”

“Poor girl,” he murmured, and they shared a smile. Poppy was grace in motion yet oddly clumsy. From time to time, she’d appear with the worst bruises, the result of walking into table corners or some similar accident.

Winston held her close and cleaned her up, quietly talking nonsense until she settled. Then he took her up to bed and tucked her in. It wasn’t until much later that he realized there hadn’t been any food on the table, nor a bread knife.

P
oppy wanted to sleep. She wanted it so badly her eyelids drooped. Yet in the same breath she wanted to act. Crying things out with her sisters had drained her, but it had also strengthened her resolve to see this thing with Isley finished. A bath had not helped her relax. Only one thing would, and Win had not returned to their rooms so she stood alone before the rain-streaked window and stared out at the desolate street. The night was thin, and even the most exuberant of revelers were now in bed. All in bed, save her and Win.

While Poppy might have stayed at her own home, she’d returned to Ranulf House. Call it stubbornness, call it pride, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t return home with Win until things were settled between them. Besides, Win’s things were still here at Ranulf House. So here she would wait.

Perhaps he wouldn’t return at all. He’d comforted her well, but some small, childish part of her feared that he’d done so out of pity. A humorless snort left her as she
rested an arm on the window sash. Why shouldn’t he pity her? She’d cocked up her life by hurting everyone she’d ever cared for.

A small click of the door handle had her stiffening. A sliver of light traveled over her shoulders and made the window shine as the door opened. In the reflection of the glass, Win was a tall shadow against a patch of yellow. He stood for a moment, watching her watch him in the window. Then he closed the door behind him with a muted thud. She lost sight of him as the room grew dim once more.

His steps were almost undetectable as he moved farther into the room. “Are you well?”

“As I can be.” Still she did not turn. Everything in her screamed for her to go to him, beg him to hold her until she felt whole once more. But she couldn’t. She was too raw, an open wound, and he was her salt.

The rustling sounds of him removing his coat and hat filled the void. Domestic sounds. She knew them well. Poppy swallowed convulsively. The moment was almost normal, a peaceful close to the end of a long day. Save nothing would ever be normal again. Sacrifices had to be made. Someone had to die.