Page 12
If Mitchel had died, that left Roxina utterly alone—not that her brother had ever cared. He’d resented her since birth, begrudged her very existence. Shelby doubted the bastard had ever spared her a groat’s worth of concern.
Regardless, she would never come to Shelby for help.
Never.
Despite every hard truth Shelby had forced himself to accept about Roxina, the thought of her abandoned and vulnerable disturbed him. But if Mitchel had truly disappeared—whether by flight or by force—she would need protection.
Even if she never knew, he would ensure she had it.
She shall always have me to care for her.
If I can remain alive, that is.
After Shelby discovered that Mitchel neglected Roxina, failing to provide even the barest essentials, he stepped in to care for her. He had done so ever since—over six years now—taking every precaution to remain anonymous.
She must never suspect he was her benefactor.
He had no doubt Roxina would refuse any aid he gave.
She despised him with every ounce of her being.
His heart clenched, a sharp pang spearing through him at that reluctant admission.
Scratching his chin, he sighed.
None of that mattered, though.
He had sworn to care for her as long as he could.
With Mitchel absent—the bloody silver-tongued jackanapes—and no longer able to abscond with the monthly allowance Shelby sent, he prayed Roxina might finally live in peace and comfort. Whenever possible, he sent her more, but thief-taking provided his only source of income now.
A temporary fix.
A desperate means to an end.
Until his ship literally came in loaded with sugar, coffee, tobacco, and spices.
Or…
Nay.
Shelby could not—would not—allow himself to consider the alternative.
Once he paid off the accursed debt Mitchel had shackled to his name, Shelby would be free.
Free to rebuild his life.
Free to walk the streets without the constant sensation of eyes boring into his back.
Free to stop sleeping with a pistol beneath his pillow and one eye open.
What then?
Honestly, he didn’t know, but he did know his first order of business.
Ridding himself of this damned beard and burning every stitch of this wretched clothing he had worn these past months. A warm bath—no, a week of warm baths—sounded like heaven. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would find a cottage somewhere along the coast where he could breathe air free of the stench of desperation and deceit.
And Roxina?
