We both had to outrun our secrets. I didn’t know if we could.
I was weak and strong, submissive and demanding. It was my hands in his hair, my mouth pushing to explore.
“Oh, Ruthy.” He released me. “We’ll discuss marriage later, when I have a special license, and these horrible men aren’t a breath away.”
“He murdered Adam. I heard his voice at Blaren House. I’m the proof of it.”
“I know. Both men I’m meeting are responsible for everything, for leaving you no choice but to work for Madame Talease.”
My ears stopped working.
I clutched the chair. It was the only thing keeping me upright.
“Ruth, I don’t need any more proof, but I need you to stay here. I can’t be strong, fearing you’ll be reckless.”
My chest crushed, caving in, smashing whatever was there, but I tried to hang on to Wycliff.
He winced, and I held on tighter. There had to be a tomorrow for us.
“Trust me. Know that I’m right this time. No changing my plans.” He pressed his lips onto my cold hand. “This time, my way.”
He said it like I’d changed his plans before, like Wycliff was Adam.
My chest shuddered.Wycliff was Adam.
Going to the curtain, he opened it and let a groom, one armed with a short blunderbuss pistol, inside. “If anything happens, you get Mrs. Wilky to Fournier Street.”
He slipped through the curtains, and I was left to muster up my faith and listen to Adam greet his killers again.
…
Wycliff closed the curtains to his theater box.
He’d crossed the platonic boundary with that kiss. It was emotional and passionate.
And she’d kissed him back.
She’d bloomed at his touch, not like a delicate rose. Her lips could scald hot coals.
He had to finish this war, now. Then he and Ruth could live in peace.
His groom was loyal and would follow his instructions, but Ruth was a different matter.
Yes, his old gut was always right. He knew Ruthy would try to help, but he hadn’t expected to act upon his passion. He wasn’t sorry about this, but his double life had to end.
Scooting down the hall, he focused on the battle ahead.
Lawden was face-to-face with Wycliff’s cousin, and in the shadows of a snuffed sconce was the devil himself, Uncle Soulden.
Big, tall, one eye larger than the other from an old military wound, his uncle had towered over Wycliff’s father and had terrorized his poor mother. The fiend had aged, but he was still a cyclops.
Wycliff’s favorite Homeric hero slew the cyclops Polyphemus. No, blast it. Odysseus merely blinded the beast. Time to do better than that. Since he kept sowing murder, Soulden needed to pay—pay with his life.
Uncle clapped his hands, timed with the audience’s reaction, then stepped forward. “Nephew, it’s—”
“It’s Wycliff.”
“I wanted to see you. To commend you on your disloyalty.”
