“Do it,” I said, lifting my chin. “But you won’t like the results.”
My uncle appeared thunderstruck. Slowly, the angry bafflement cleared from his expression, leaving total desperation. I instinctively guessed that he was recalling every time I had put him through hell since I’d arrived in Egypt.
There were several occasions.
“Oh my God,” Tío Ricardo said. “Dios.” He fell back onto the bed, his shoulders shaking. When he spoke again, his voice was flat and devoid of any emotion. “I will undo it.”
“I could be pregnant,” I said, this time less cheerfully.
The blood drained from Whit’s face. “Good God, Inez.”
My uncle pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly fighting for some semblance of control. I hadn’t expected the news would actually wound him. I expected his fury, but not his profound concern. In my anger, I’d just assumed this was about control. But I’d been mistaken. My uncle cared for my well-being, and he genuinely didn’t want to see me hurt. Whether by my mother’s machinations or by Whit.
Whit shot me a look, exasperated. “Could you try for tact?”
“He doesn’t understand tact,” I said, forcing myself to remember my uncle’s high-handedness. If he hadn’t pushed me, then I wouldn’t have married Whit in secret. It was his domineering behavior that had left me with no recourse. I’d only had two real choices.
Leave Egypt or marry.
“Maybe if you could try not to terrify everyone in this room,me included, the conversation might move in a more productive direction.”
I faced my uncle. “You’ll have to accept it.”
“He doesn’t deserve you. Whit doesn’t have a penny to his name, and when I found him, he was a drunk. He didn’t know what year it was.”
“He told me,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true. I hadn’t precisely known my new husband was penniless, not that it mattered. I needed his name. A husband.
“Whitford shares enough of himself to let you think he’s being vulnerable,” my uncle said wearily. “But he only lets you see what he wants you to see.”
I felt as if I were standing atop a tower, and with every sentence, my uncle was removing a block. If he kept going, the whole structure would crumble. And I’d be buried underneath the rubble.
“I know enough,” I said, my voice warbling at the edges. Whit had talked to me of his family, his past, the friendship he’d lost, and his disillusionment with his years in the militia. I snuck a glance at him, startled to find him completely stone-faced and withdrawn.
“You don’tknowhim.” Tío Ricardo jabbed a finger in the direction of my husband. “Tell her I’m right.”
I flinched, his words grating against my skin. I didn’t know how to protect myself from them because a small part of me worried about the same exact thing. Our marriage was like shifting sand in my palm. Our tenuous connection might slip through my fingers.
With visible effort, Whit met the criticism with a grin that reminded me of the sliver of light reflecting off the surface of his gun. He wore it like a weapon. “I didn’t know you thought so little of me.”
My uncle might never realize how he’d hurt Whit with his careless words, but I did. Now that I knew where to look, I could see the subtle display of pain in his tightened jaw, the rigid shoulders. A muscle jumped in his cheek. But he would not defend himself. He’d take every accusation, every blow to his character and honor with a detachment that was painful to watch.
This was how Whit survived.
He shut himself away and buried his wounds. Hid behind a bottle of whiskey, a quicksilver grin and caustic wit, a wall of cynical blocks that shielded him from the world before it could hurt him again.
“Did you get married in a church?” Tío Ricardo asked suddenly.
“We did,” I said. “With a chaplain.”
My uncle smiled. “It isn’t legal yet, Inez.”
“I sent a telegram to my brother,” Whit said. “He’ll file accordingly, and the banns will be read. It’s all over England by now. Lord Somerset broke his betrothal agreement and is officially off the marriage market.”
I shot him a questioning glance. I hadn’t seen him send anything of the sort. But then, we hadn’t been together the whole time. He could have sent it in the morning after he had woken me up. Whit didn’t meet my eye, and realization dawned. Perhaps he was lying? Yes, it had to be a ruse meant for my uncle.
Tío Ricardo seemed at a loss with this information, and I silently cheered Whit’s quick thinking. Then my uncle swayed forward, and I automatically gripped his elbow, steadying him. He still looked much too pale, and his clothes hung off his slighter frame. He’d lost weight since he’d been struck by that bullet. I knew that he’d been given excellent care, along with some maple syrup that had a touch of an old healing spell attached to it. The physician had shown me the bottle himself.
“I’ll never forgive you,” he said.
