My headache and my memories had to go. I tossed my glasses to the desk then put my thumbs to my temples.
Pushing Wycliff away was for the best. I wasn’t sorry. I didn’t want to be manipulated. I didn’t need a man with secrets when I had my own.
Tonight, I’d save me, put me first, but Wycliff wasn’t done digging. My secrets needed to remain like my Adam, buried in an unmarked grave, lost in the woods.
Chapter Eighteen
Moving Forward Without You
The sun glaring through Wycliff’s bedchamber window was a sight to behold, bright and burning through the wretched curtains. He still hated mornings, even more so after a night like last night.
A bar fight wasn’t good, but he’d had to punch someone.
Wycliff’s old, dark heart had started to polish up, to shine like it was healed.
Rubbish.
Losing the same woman twice gutted him. Life had been better when all he’d focused on was revenge.
Coughing, he sat up. The stench of the freshly-whitewashed walls irritated his sore throat.
Man. Ruth had a good punch, but she should strike at villains, not a man desperate to love her. A week had passed, and his throat still hurt.
Wycliff staggered out of bed and pulled the curtains shut, letting his sleep-deprived eyes rest. “Lawden, no sunlight. You’ll not make me into a man who likes the morning!”
His shout went unanswered.
That was probably for the best.
His foul mood had surely tested his man’s patience.
Rubbing at his rumpled hair, Wycliff thought of his mission. He yanked the linen panels open again.
Grooms circled the lawn below. Others protected Nineteen Fournier. Mrs. Johnson recognizing him had complicated matters.
Being on the outs with Ruth, Wycliff couldn’t oversee their safety or make eyes at her or try to make her laugh again.
That galled.
Wycliff unclenched the curtain, his hands had twisted it miserably. The linen was badly wrinkled. No amount of smoothing and patting fixed it. He didn’t need to add another task for Lawden or the limited housekeeping Blaren House employed. All this was a job for the mistress of his house. Ruth should be with him, hiring and instructing the domestic staff.
His wife.
She hated Adam, and now she hated him.
How could the truth go so wrong?
Ruth was angry, hurt, lost. She was stretched to a breaking point, like this mangled curtain.
He’d seen men break on the HMSLiverpool, seen that glassy look before they’d fallen to pieces. Wycliff was smart enough to know her reaction wasn’t from his direct words with Mr. Croome. It was from something deeper. It had torn up his innards, seeing the pain on her face.
Was this reaction from the violence of their ambush or the violence of being one of Talease’s girls? Or both? Though the madam was decent enough, her patrons could be any dreg of inhumanity with a coin.
A knock.
“Come in,” Wycliff said and prepared for more problems.
Lawden entered with a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. “Good, my lord, you are up.”
