Clare cleared his throat. “There is a way.”
“And what way is that?” She was growing exasperated. “I donotfancy playing a maid.”
The air went still and heavy, as if weighed down by the words Clare had yet to speak. Portent stole up Hortense’s spine, and she braced herself.
“Marry me.”
Chapter Eleven
Marry me.
Had he truly expressed the idea aloud?
Judging by the parade of emotions marching across Hortense’s face, he had.
The idea that had been forming in his mind had weighed on the tip of his tongue, as substantial as a solid object, composed of but two small words.
Two small words to alter the trajectory of a life.
Her first instinct had been a jittery smile. Then came a disbelieving widening of the eyes when he didn’t respond in kind. At last, she settled into shocked silence.
No care for the silent drama playing out between Jamie and Hortense, Doyle rocked a few times in his chair before shoving to his feet. He shuffled to a corner and pushed a chest of drawers out of the way to reveal a safe. A few moments later, he returned to his place at the table and set two items before him.
First to grab Jamie’s eye was the tiara.
Even in the dimness of tallow candles, its diamonds and sapphires caught the murky light and threw it sparkling in every direction, its platinum settings glittering white and sharp. It was a costly piece that would have fetched hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds. Yet this man—Flick Doyle—who lacked decency, honor, and principles, had held on to it. Jamie doubted not the man’s love for his mam.
It was then he noted the other item on the table. A bottle of rotgut. The variety didn’t much matter. It was all the same in the end.
Twin ribbons of dread and desire slithered through him when Doyle reached into a drawer and pulled out three mismatched teacups. Jamie knew what was coming next.
“I do not drink spirits.” He needed that to be clear, most of all to himself.
Doyle’s head cocked. “The way I see it is I’m puttin’ more faith in ye, than ye are in me. And I don’t put faith in ye if I ain’t slung back a glass with ye.”
Hortense pinned Jamie with her intense blue gaze. “We can walk away.”
That she understood his struggle, well, it stirred something to life inside him. But, no, they couldn’t walk away. The lad—Rafe—was his son. It was clear to anyone with eyes. He wouldn’t walk away from the boy.
Doyle sloshed a few fingers of the spirits into each glass. As if outside himself, Jamie reached for the cup. He noted a slight tremor in his hand as sweat coated his body, the acrid, sickly smell assailing him with its familiarity and promise of oblivion.
Doyle held up his chipped teacup and indicated they do the same. “To old wine and young women.” He gave Jamie a wink before slamming his drink back.
What precisely was Doyle implying?
Jamie stopped himself there. If he didn’t, he might have to consider the old rogue was implying a few thoughts he’d perhaps thought himself.
Right.
“Think nothing of it,” Hortense murmured. “That’s what he always says when he starts getting into his cups.”
She tipped hers back, and Jamie followed suit. It was like fire going down the throat. It was like a drop of rain in the desert. Of a sudden, his body demanded more. A single drop—or an ocean full—would never be enough.
On a wheezing cough, Doyle barked one of his laughs that didn’t quite sound jolly. Untrustworthy, that laugh. “That’ll grow fur on yer nethers.” He plunked his teacup on the table, chipping off another piece of porcelain. “Ye have a fortnight. Me mam has been poorly, and I want this done before she’s off to meet her Maker with a clear conscience.”
Jamie caught the man’s shifty gaze. “And I have your word about the lad? You’ll let him go?”
Doyle had the temerity to snort. “If the word of an old scoundrel means anythin’ to ye.”
