His fingers made faster motions, big circles at the nape of my neck.
The pressure, the urge to vomit eased. “To bring such relief. Grin away.”
He laughed, the rumble low and throaty.
“Ruth, make him let you alone. We can’t trust him.”
Was he taking liberties?
Perhaps, but it seemed his fingertips knew where the pain was, and he’d chosen to rid me of it. “Hush, Ester.”
“Ruth, Wycliff’s staring at you like a dog hungry for a bone.”
“Are you staring…like that?”
“Hmm.Yes. Yes, I am. You are lovely. One doesn’t see such works of art at the mercantile ports. I’ve been a seaman for a while. Only London has such beauties. Here, you can wear your hair uncovered, something not done often in the Indies.”
One of his gifted fingers again traced the scar at my temple.
That was the only lasting reminder of the truth about me and Adam.
Shame filled me.
My cheeks heated. I caught his hands. “I’m feeling better. You can stop.”
“Sister, why are you giving comfort to this cretin? Bed wenches, he called us.”
Ester was at my side, maybe looking around Wycliff’s shoulder. That image brought me a chuckle. “I’m not a bed wench, and neither are you. You say all the time it doesn’t matter what others say. How different is this?”
“We are here to learn about Adam Wilky, not to let a blowhard touch my sister’s face.”
Wycliff sat with athudon the desk. “I know everything of Adam, Mrs. Wilky. I’m sorry for your loss, for everything.”
Done with everyone’s pity, I clenched the edge of the desk. “I only want the truth.”
“Of course, ma’am. Ask anything.”
That was one of those open-for-interpretation responses. The man was flirting, but I was immune to such passions. My reticule remained looped on my wrist. I risked Wycliff’s ripping my proof, but I needed to hear his reaction. “This is my half of our marriage registry.”
“Our marriage registry?”
“You know what I mean. Mine and Adam’s.”
He put his hand on it and mine. “May I?”
For a second, maybe more, this was Adam in front of me—same height, same way of hovering, and asking permission. But my Adam was dead, and this was a mere relative, a copy.
“Lord Wycliff, it’s all I have of Adam, but you can see that this is valid. Do you have the other half?”
“I’ve seen it. It was sent here four years ago. I don’t know where it is now.”
So close.
So close, and I’d lost again.
My Job’s luck won. Well, no boils or falling roofs with this judgment. I’d walk out of here the way I came, without that smidgeon of hope the registry had offered.
In my head, I recited my gifts, my blessings—Chris, a home, clothes, food, the kind barrister, knitting.
