He went still. Stunned.
It was perhaps the perfect thing to say. He liked the word “our.” He liked the confidence of the past tense: “has been.” It allowed for the fact that one day Brundage would be a mere distant memory. He liked the singular of “story.” For, somehow, for all of the turmoil, their stories had converged into one, and that was what mattered.
“He is only a chapter, and that chapter is almost over,” he said.
She gave him a half smile, sad and wry.
“But Aurelie... in order for us to have a future, I cannot let him go free. He needs to pay for what he did to you.” His voice was hoarse now. He had ground out the word “pay” a little too viciously. He took a steadying breath. “And for what he did to me. And for what he did to England. And in order to do this... I must return to London. And... I must confront him.”
Aurelie stared at him.
Slowly her gut turned to ice.
He didn’t need to tell her how stunningly dangerous this was. A British soldier who thought Hawkes was intent on harming an earl would likely be inclined to shoot him on sight if he saw him anywhere near Brundage.
Don’t do it for me. You’re all I need. We can cross the ocean and begin again and forget all of this, all of this.
But she already knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t do it, and she would never wish that suffering upon him.
Moreover...
The largest part of her wanted him to do it.
Her life had been characterized by injustices and violence.Enough,she said silently now, to fate.We’ve hadenough.This is where we win. This is where we fight in the way my parents had been unable to fight, and Hawkes had been unable to fight. This is where our green meadows are cleared of hidden knives. Forever.
What would become of her if Hawkes was captured or killed?
Grief and fury and frustration at the caprices of fate, at the onslaught of injustices and upheavals in her life... they were like the enemy clamoring with torches and pitchforks outside her castle. She couldn’t let them get past the drawbridge.
Because he was right. There would be no future until they’d vanquished the past, and he was the only one in the world who could do it.
No matter how else she felt, what he needed was her strength and her faith and her love.
“Of course, you must go and get him, Hawkes,” she said softly. “For me, and for you, and for every other person he’s harmed or may harm.”
She saw in his eyes that he knew what this had cost her.
He lifted her hand and gently, tenderly, lingeringly kissed her wrist. And then he kissed the other. As though he could exorcise the memory of another man shackling them in a single fist. A promise to her that they would soon be free of that man forever.
Luck was the breeze at their back from the moment they woke before dawn the following morning.
Just past dawn, Hawkes rode into town to deliver his hired mount unto the care of the livery stable in charming Baggleston, and there he learned his favorite thing about Bagglestonians: they were thrifty. Because while the regular stage coach was already jammed full of passengers, every traveler in Baggleston refused to pay theexorbitant prices of the royal mail coach, which would be passing through in just an hour or so. Save one.
With a little assistance from the shrinking cache of bank notes in his pocket, he persuaded one potential royal mail coach passenger to await the next coach so that he and his new wife, Mrs. Mary Gallagher, could have seats together as they traveled to visit his ill, possibly dying, father, in London. Another shilling pressed upon the driver along with a liberal application of charm and supplication persuaded them to stop at Starling Cottage to fetch Aurelie’s trunk, as well as Aurelie.
And then the royal mail coach driver cracked the ribbons and they hurtled down the road.
Both Hawkes and Aurelie found themselves craning their heads for one final view of Mr. Bellingham’s cottage.
Aurelie’s eyes misted over.
She brushed at them with one hand.
Hawkes threaded his fingers through hers and brought her knuckles to his lips.
Mrs. Farquhar—of Mr. and Mrs. Farquhar, their companions on the journey—beamed at them with indulgent curiosity. Her salt-and-pepper curls sprang from beneath a bonnet trimmed with a preponderance of felt cherries. Mr. Farquhar, solidly built, a great handsome English nose jutting from a pleasant face featuring thick, anarchic gray brows, was clearly an old hand at long trips: in moments he’d fallen asleep.
Hawkes and Aurelie smiled back at Mrs. Farquhar.
