He hoped he sounded steadier than he felt, but probably not, because Arthur’s eyes softened. “You can control the wind and once sent the man who tortured me into the fifteenth century,” he said wryly. “I don’t think you’re helpless. You’re actually a little bit terrifying.”
Rory couldn’t help grinning. Then, his grin became a shyer smile. “You’d really go see my dad so I don’t have to?”
Arthur nodded.
Rory let out a breath. “Then yeah. Save me, soldier.”
Arthur visibly shivered. “Don’t you dare start with that,” he warned, “or I’ll call the whole thing off so I can take you back up to my hotel room instead.”
That was all Rory wanted too. He pushed his desire down. “My own soldier, fighting my battles,” he muttered to himself. “Is this really my life?”
“It is,” Arthur said firmly. “And I hope you start to believe you deserve it.”
The words stayed with Rory as he watched Arthur get in the car and drive away.
Chapter Eight
It was less than an hour to the church, an imposing stone building with a tall steeple. It was set back from the road on a large plot of land next to a schoolhouse and a small square building that might have been where Rory once slept.
Arthur’s driver pulled the car over onto a gravel drive next to the church, where a handful of other cars were parked. “This shouldn’t take long,” Arthur told him.
The man simply nodded. Arthur had hired him for the day; he’d be waiting.
Inside the church it was dim but not dark, with stained glass windows glowing in the late afternoon light. Rows of pews framed the path to the altar, where a boy of maybe ten was dusting.
Arthur’s throat tightened.
A woman with gray hair approached. “May I help you?”
Rory had lived here only four years ago. Some of the staff might even remember him. Arthur pushed the emotions away and tried to smile. “Yes, actually. I’m Congressman Kenzie’s son, here on behalf of our family’s charity. We heard about your orphanage and might be interested in donating. May I speak with Pastor Westbrook?”
“Oh!” The woman’s hands fluttered. “That would be wonderful. Yes, of course, I’ll get him at once.”
“Thank you.” Arthur’s smile slipped as soon as she turned her back. Rory would probably be happy to know he wasn’t lying in a church; his brother Harry and his wife Celeste took their charity work seriously. If the orphans were being properly treated, Arthur would leave a donation himself today, and see that Rory’s former home was added to Harry and Celeste’s list.
Arthur kept his steps as quiet as he could against the stone floors as he walked to the altar and scanned everything on display. And sure enough, there was a brass snuffer, the only item of its kind on the altar, exactly as Rory had described. It could very well be the item he needed.
“Mr. Kenzie?”
The new voice was thin and generically American, reminding Arthur of the white men in Arthur’s parents’ circles, nothing like Rory’s rough grouching in his city accent. It was a voice that would never have a rare word with the Italian flair that made Arthur wonder what Rory had sounded like growing up, if he’d learned his first English with his mother’s accent.
Arthur turned, and there was no mistaking Rory’s dad. He was perhaps an inch shorter than Rory, with the same nose and slim build, although Pastor Westbrook lacked Rory’s wiry muscles from constant miles walked on Manhattan’s streets. Westbrook was very pale, his hair a light blond almost indistinguishable from the white mixed in, with nearly colorless blue eyes and blue veins visible through pale skin.
He was more handsome than Arthur had expected, with a politely kind expression, like he would listen to all your troubles and give compassionate advice, not throw his own son into an asylum and tell them to drill through his skull.
Westbrook held out his hand. “Lydia said you’re here about the orphanage?”
Arthur gritted his teeth, keeping his emotions off his face as he shook the man’s hand. “Yes,” he said neutrally. “Children are so very precious, you know. So vulnerable. Adults should be caring for them, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” Westbrook said, with complete sincerity. “They are the Lord’s own. I never had any children myself, of course, but we care for the orphans here as if they were our flesh and blood.”
You can’t hit a pastor in the middle of his church.
Arthur forced a smile. “What a nice sentiment,” he said, hoping there were no cracks in his veneer of politeness. “Of course, actions matter more than words. We wouldn’t want to support any organization where children are being mistreated.”
“You’re welcome to meet the children,” Westbrook said, still sincere. “You can see their quarters and talk to them yourself. We have no money for luxuries, but they are fed, clothed, and educated. What more could they ask for, really?”
“Fathers?” Arthur said lightly.
