He had humbled himself before her, going to his knees. His protestations of love had held the unmistakable ring of truth. His calm acceptance of her brother’s overly protective aggression suggested he meant what he said. All of it compounded, until she was hopelessly confused, looking from her husband to her brother, one unconscious on the inn floor, and the other shaking his head, burning with anger. Then back again, down at the man she had married. The man who had humbled himself for her. Who had sank to his knees before her.
She worked her thumbs over Griffin’s sharp cheek bones, willing him to return to lucidity. Her heart was in her throat, fear and worry churning within her.
“Leave him,” Lucien ordered from above her. “He is not worthy of your concern, Lettie.”
“He is my husband,” she found herself arguing on his behalf. He had hurt her, yes, but he had also raced back to her side.
This big, brave, powerful man had shed tears.
He had told her he loved her, and part of her rejoiced in his confession. Part of her wanted to believe in it, in him, with a desperation that shook her. Because she loved him too. They had shared so much of themselves with each other in the last few days, and surely not all of that had been a lie. Surely some of it had been true.
“I know you think you love him, Lettie,” Lucien interrupted her thoughts, his voice grim, “but he is not a good man, and neither is he trustworthy. He is dangerous, faithless, and capable of anything.”
She wanted to argue, but then there was the other part of her, the cautious Violet, who had not entirely fled in the face of her rebellion. He had manipulated her to gain what he wanted: his advantage over her brother and the chance to prove his innocence. His chasing after her and confessing his love could well be a ploy designed to weaken her resistance.
Helplessly torn, she gazed down at him, wondering what she should do next. She loved her husband. She loved her brother. And yet the two men were at daggers drawn. For some mad reason, an image returned to her then, of Strathmore cooking her dinner. Of the way he had looked at her, not just that evening on the stairs, but on their wedding night. Of how he had made her feel just this morning, when he had shown her how to shoot a revolver.
He had been so proud. And she had felt proud of herself. She had felt as if she could do anything with him by her side. With him as her man. Maybe she should not have run. Maybe she should have stayed and confronted him, demanded an explanation for his words. Maybe their marriage was salvageable yet.
“He is not who you think he is,” she said to Lucien. “I know you do not believe me, but though he may have broken my heart, this man is not guilty of treason. He is not the villain you seek.”
She remained just as certain of the truth of his innocence as ever.
“It would appear as if I have found you at just the right time, Your Grace.”
A new voice, emerging from behind her, gave her a start as Griffin moaned and began regaining consciousness. Violet turned to find the officious Mr. Swift approaching. Dread unfurled in her stomach. She looked askance at her brother.
“Lucien? What is Mr. Swift doing here?” she demanded.
Surely he could not intend to arrest Griffin here and now.
“Rescuing you, my lady.” Mr. Swift stopped alongside her and leveled a vicious kick into Griffin’s stomach before she even realized what he was about.
Griffin grunted, rolling to his side, half-awake now, the wind knocked from him by the force of the blow. In his confused state, he struggled to rise, cursing. Shock stole her breath, robbed the saliva from her mouth. Horror made her jaw numb.
“Is this how you defended yourself against the French, Strathmore?” Mr. Swift demanded. “Little wonder you came back covered in their beauty marks. Stand and face me, you coward.”
“No,” Violet cried out, throwing herself over Griffin as a shield when the vile man appeared ready to kick Griffin once more.
“Enough, Swift,” barked Lucien. “All that and worse will be awaiting him where he is going.”
Prison.She wrapped her arms around Griffin’s shoulders. “Lucien, I beg of you. You cannot mean to do this.”
“Hush, Vi,” Griffin gritted in her ear, his voice hoarse. “I will do what they wish of me.”
“You will surrender?” She sank back on her haunches, studying him, aghast.
After all they had been through together, after all the sacrifices they had made—fleeing from London, marrying in haste—he would simply give in and allow himself to be taken to prison?
“He has no choice,” came Lucien’s hard voice from above. He offered her his hand. “Rise immediately, Lettie. Leave him to his fate. Strathmore’s own actions are responsible for the plight in which he now finds himself.”
She ignored her brother’s offer, her entire attention consumed by one man and one man alone. She sought his brilliant-blue gaze. “You cannot simply surrender.”
He moved beneath her, grimacing and pressing a hand to his ribs. “Christ. Do not worry over me, Vi. I do not deserve it. I shall be fine.”
“No, Griffin.” Desperation seized her, panic gripping her lungs. He was injured, he was at a disadvantage, and he was innocent. “I will not allow you to do this.”
“Vi,” he said softly, cupping her cheek with one hand while struggling into a sitting position, wincing as he did so. “Don’t.”
