Chapter Twenty Five

G ive me the damned sword." Phoebe knew from the harsh tenor of Kit's voice alone that he was angry. Angrier, perhaps, than she had ever seen him. He'd wrapped his hand around hers upon the hilt of the blade—what would have been the handle of the cane, had the sword still been ensconced within it. It was a struggle to pry her fingers from beneath the cover of his and cede control of the blade to him. Not because he held her fingers too tightly. But because she really, truly , wanted to stab the man pinned beneath the tip. Skewer him like the vermin he was. She hadn't even suspected that she harbored such vindictiveness within her, such a capacity for violence. At last she managed to stagger back a step, uncertain whether the buzzing in her ears was from the report of the pistol or the blow Russell had dealt with it. There was the warm wetness of blood upon her cheek, an odd, raw feeling there that she thought might be a powder burn from the firing of the pistol a bit too close to her face. Kit breathed in rough pants, as if he could not quite catch his breath. But his hands were steady as he kept the tip of the sword pressed firmly to Russell's back and supported himself with his cane, even if he leaned a bit too heavily upon it. "You struck my wife," he said to Russell, and there was a deep, dark, ominous undercurrent threaded through his voice. A dangerous tide that lurked just beneath the surface, ready to pull the unwary down into the depths. "No one touches her and lives." "Ye would've kilt me anyway," Russell ground out into the grass beneath his cheek. "Yes," Kit said, and his voice dropped an octave further. "But now I'm going to do it slowly. And isn't it just all too convenient that you've got a place prepared already." Russell made a frantic motion—perhaps spurred into it by the naked truth in Kit's voice—and let out a cry as the tip of the sword pierced his skin anew. "I'll go," he said in a plaintive whine. "Ye'll never catch sight o' me again. I swear it on me mam." "I won't," Kit said. "And neither will anyone else. There won't be enough of you left for anyone to find—because I'm going to take you to the place you meant for me, carve you into pieces, and scatter whatever remains across the fucking country." "Ye'll never find it! I won't tell ye!" "I promise you," Kit said, his voice pitching to a guttural snarl. "You will . If I must carve it out of you alongside your tongue—" "I am going to pretend I did not hear that." Phoebe jumped, startled, and even that small, jarring motion made her head swim. "Laurence," she said in a tremulous voice, her shoulders wilting with relief as her brother appeared at the edge of the lawn. "When did you arrive?" "About two minutes too late to be of any use, it seems," he said, as he tucked the pistol he carried—Papa's, unless Phoebe was much mistaken—into his waistband. "Crossed paths with Rafe in the foyer. I'm guessing he'll be along shortly. Did you know there's a man bleeding all over your floor?" A hysterical gurgle of laughter slipped up her throat. "Yes," she said. "I stabbed him." Kit hissed out a seething curse. "And then left the damned dagger in his gut," he said. "He was bleeding rather profusely already. Do you know how difficult it is to get blood out of marble?" Phoebe asked inanely. "I can replace the fucking marble!" Laurence straightened his shoulders in offense. "Don't you dare swear at my sister!" "If your ears are too delicate for such language, you'll want to absent yourself," Kit said in scathing tones. "Because I'm going to use rather a lot of it in short order. Hold him down, if you please." "What?" Laurence shifted back a step. "I don't want to touch him!" "Well, I'm not going to ask your sister to do it," Kit said. "Put your foot just there. Back of his neck. It's just for a moment." With a grimace, Laurence settled his booted foot at the back of Russell's neck and pressed, studiously ignoring the muffled curses emanating from the pinned man. In one smooth motion, Kit withdrew the sword from Russell's back, flipped it round, and cracked the handle against the back of his skull. With a groan, Russell went limp, rendered unconscious. Kit turned on Phoebe at once, and Phoebe took a hasty, dizzying step back at the fury that contorted his face. "You're going to shout at me again, aren't you?" she asked. "Hell, yes, I'm going to shout!" Kit raked his fingers through his disheveled hair, tugging in a surfeit of agitation, and at last bellowed, " What the hell were you thinking? " Well, if the servants had managed to sleep through the nastiness of some minutes prior, almost certainly they had been roused now. Possibly that booming shout had woken the entire street. She fancied it had been louder even than the gunshots. "I was thinking I didn't wish to become a widow quite so soon!" Phoebe volleyed back. "I was thinking that none of us could have gotten a clear shot from my parents' balcony when it is so far away, and someone had to save you! And don't you dare shout at me—" "Shouting," Kit said, his voice tight and seething, "is infinitely better than throttling you." "See here," Laurence interjected. "I'd rather not be party to two murders, if it's all the same to you. Especially my sister's." "You can go home," Kit bit off, "when you help Rafe and Brooks shove this cretin and his accomplice into my carriage." With a sharp stab of his cane, he rounded on Phoebe once again. "And you! What have I told you? The most important thing?" Hesitantly, Phoebe offered, "Aim for the soft bits?" " Never fight when you can run! " Phoebe winced at the roar, her head aching. Her eyes had produced two of him somehow, refusing to merge the separate images down into one. "If you're only going to shout at me, when I have worked very hard this evening to save your life—" "Nearly getting yourself killed in the damned process!" "—then perhaps I should simply leave." Return to Mama and Papa, who would certainly not have the audacity to shout at her. But she stumbled on the first step, and Kit reached out to steady her, grabbing her arm. Perhaps it was the blow to her head, or the stress of the evening, or the fact that she had nearly lost him, or that he had shouted at her again, or even some unholy amalgamation of all those things, but she felt dangerously near tears at the moment, and she had the vague sense that crying so soon after pitilessly stabbing a man in the gut was somehow not the done thing. "Perhaps you fucking should," Kit said as his eyes raked Phoebe's face. "Laurence, I've changed my mind. Take your sister home. She needs a bath, a doctor, and a very large glass of brandy. In that order. Tell your mother." "I can't leave you alone with this villain," Laurence said, nudging Russell's prone body with the toe of his boot. "He won't be going anywhere I don't want him to," Kit said, canting his head toward the door, from which Rafe and Brooks had emerged at last. Brooks carried with him several lengths of rope, though Phoebe could not guess from where he had sourced it. "I won't be home before dawn. Got a bit of business to handle." He gave a jerk of his head as Rafe and Brooks knelt nearby to bind Russell hand and foot before the man could rouse to consciousness once more. "Stuff him in my carriage, if you'd be so kind." "You mean to kill him," Laurence said, with a long, hard swallow. Kit gave a restrained smile. "Not immediately." A shudder slid down Laurence's spine. "I could fetch a policeman," Laurence said. "There's no need to sully your hands with further bloodshed. Justice—" "Often goes unserved." "I'll attest to that," Rafe said, grunting as he and Brooks hefted Russell's limp body off the ground. "We'll just throw him atop the other fellow," he said. "Fairly certain that one's already dead." Good , Phoebe thought viciously. "And for the love of God," Brooks hissed, struggling beneath Russell's weight as they began to carry the man toward the door, "keep your damned voices down. Already the household is waking, and I'd prefer not to have to explain this to them." In deference to the terse demand, Kit pitched his voice lower as he said, "I've sullied my hands enough for any ten men already, and your sister will sleep easier knowing I have personally and permanently removed this putrid blight on the noble arse of humanity from the world. Isn't that so, Phoebe?" Phoebe gave an unsteady nod. "It's why I came myself," she said, her fingers going to the healing cut upon her throat. "He's attacked me once before, and I—" " What ?" Laurence snarled. "You didn't tell them?" Kit asked incredulously. "I didn't want anyone to worry." "For God's sake, Phoebe!" "Do not shout at me!" she shouted back, and cringed at the sound of her own voice. Oh, her head ached something awful. Laurence spoke through gritted teeth. "I'm coming with you," he said to Kit. "That bastard laid hands upon my sister—" "He'll die for it," Kit said, and swiped one hand down his face, rubbing at his jaw as if the conversation had grown tiresome. "That was never in question. Take your damned sister home, Laurence. You're not killing anyone tonight. Or ever." "But—" "Christ," Kit snarled. "I have got some shreds of conscience, you goddamned imbecile. His death won't weigh upon me, but for some godforsaken reason, the needless staining of your pristine soul would. So let me be the monster in the dark this evening." With one hand, he snatched at Phoebe's shoulder and shoved her toward Laurence. "Bath. Doctor. Brandy. In that order," he reiterated. And before Laurence could offer any more objections, he turned on his heel and walked away, fading into the shadows like the monster he'd claimed to be. There to do the nefarious deeds of which he was perfectly capable and more to the point, willing to accomplish when he had determined they were required of him. Not conscienceless, Phoebe thought. Only morally flexible enough to take on burdensome tasks that might have troubled another. She would sleep easier for it. "Do you know," Laurence said slowly, "I never thought I would say this. But it's…somehow comforting to have him in the family. I'd kill to protect my daughters. And when they marry, I suppose—I suppose I would like it to be to men who would do the same. Even if they aren't quite gentlemen." He couldn't know it, but Kit had just won himself high praise indeed. Phoebe felt her breath escape on a sigh, her shoulders listing down once more as the last of the remaining tension dissolved. "I really would like a bath," she admitted, swiping at a bit of blood that was drying upon her chin. "And then—bed, I think." Laurence gave a low laugh. "Oh, no," he said. "It's a bath, a doctor, and brandy for you, as ordered. And then…then, I think you have quite a few explanations to make before you'll find your bed." He canted his head, considered a moment. "Possibly there will be shouting." Lord. Kit would not be the only one up until dawn. She was certain of it.

∞∞∞

Phoebe had been sitting out in the garden for most of the night, her back pressed against the wall that separated her parents' garden from Kit's. She'd watched clouds slide across the oppressive black of the sky, listened to the wind rustle the leaves, and thought quite a lot about her marriage, her husband, and herself. Who she had been. Who she wanted to be. How she might temper the expectations of her family, of the society into which she had been born. How she might carve out some small scrap of happiness—her version of it—from the tapestry that had she had been woven into from birth. Dawn was just kissing the horizon, shining through the remaining cloud cover in tiny rays when at last she heard Kit's garden door open. There was the tap of Kit's cane upon the stone as he approached the lawn, steady but slow. Each step must be painful, she thought, given the way Russell had lashed out at him evening last, collapsing his knee from beneath him. He gave a muted groan as he reached the wall at last and sat heavily upon the bench just on the other side of the wall. "It's done," he said quietly. "Good." Phoebe bowed her head, emotions conflicted. Primarily there was relief, of course, but there was also worry, and the last lingering dregs of fear. "And…there will be no further trouble?" "Not from him." "That's not really what I meant." Phoebe wiped her suddenly-clammy palms upon the thin linen of her nightdress. "I mean to say, should anyone discover—" "Rafe can keep a secret," he said. "And so can Brooks. Your brother is less certain, but I doubt he's likely to go bragging about it when he really didn't do much of anything. But Russell will never be found, and I doubt he will even be missed." Good. That was good. She'd not been eager to lose her husband to the point of a pistol; it was just as well that she was unlikely to lose him to the business end of a noose. "Nightmares?" he asked. Phoebe shook her head, although he plainly could not see her over the garden wall. "I haven't been to sleep yet," she said. "Mama, Papa, and Laurence spent a good portion of the evening shouting at me." "Good," he huffed. "What the hell were you thinking, Phoebe? You might have been killed!" "So might you!" Perhaps they were not precisely on speaking terms at the moment, but she supposed shouting terms were acceptable, given the level of upheaval that had been wrought upon their lives just lately. "I taught you to defend yourself," he seethed, "not to protect my life but to save yours ." Tears burned her eyes, and she swiped them away furiously. She knew that. She did. It was just that—it was just that he had become the largest part of her life somehow. "Don't shout at me," she grumbled. "I am just going to shout back, and—and—" And they'd go on just as they had. She didn't think she could bear it any longer. "You sent me away," she said, hearing the color of resentment in her own voice. "You were in danger. Of course I sent you away." "Twice!" It wasn't precisely a fair accusation, given that she'd been the one to suggest returning last eve, but she had hoped—she had hoped that he would argue against it. She heard the long, drawn-out sigh that slipped from his lungs. "I didn't want you to be alone evening last," he said. "Scratch needed to be dealt with, and I had to do it myself. And I was going to shout at you again if I stayed. Phoebe, I'm likely always going to shout when I'm angry." "I'll shout back," she said. "I know. And I'll apologize if I'm wrong," he said. And then, doggedly, "But I wasn't wrong evening last. You put yourself in danger. I'm still furious with you." But he wasn't shouting any longer, and that was something. Not much, perhaps. But something. "I am sorry for that," she admitted. "Not for doing it—but for making you angry." An exasperated snort. "Never," he said, "risk your life for mine again. My life isn't worth yours." "It is to me." The words emerged slightly choked, muffled behind the press of her fingers. A sullen silence from the opposite side of the wall. She suspected they were going to have a fair few arguments between them. They were both of them too stubborn not to. "Perhaps we ought to save this conversation for when you're better rested," Kit said, and she could hear the faintly surly inflection to his voice. "Perhaps I'd be better rested if you had let me come home," she countered fiercely. "I couldn't sleep without you. I couldn't think of anything but the danger you might be in, couldn't—" Her fingers flexed, her jaw tightened. "I was so angry with you, so frightened for you." "I'm accustomed to such things," Kit argued. "I am not!" "Phoebe." She let out a shaky breath. Another long, tense silence, fraught with everything she'd held back these past weeks, everything she'd bottled up inside her. But holding on to the anger would hardly serve her. Serve them . At last, she said, "You never returned Pride and Prejudice to me." A low chuckle as he accepted the diversionary tactic. "It's half mine now. And—" A pause. "I might have stolen your most recent book." "I know," she said. Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus . "All three volumes were missing from my trunk." She'd discovered them gone when she and her lady's maid had unpacked her things upon her return to her parents' house. "Why?" "You never read it to me. Never even left it out for me to read myself. I wanted to know why." She wondered if he'd worked it out. "And did you finish it?" "I did." "How does it end?" She'd not finished it herself. "The creature drifts away on an ice raft, swearing to put an end to himself, never to be seen again." "Oh." Phoebe ducked her head strangely disappointed, dispirited. " Oh ? Had you expected something different?" Not really, given the larger context of the novel. But she'd—hoped, perhaps. "I suppose I would have preferred a happier ending." "You sympathize with a monster." And there it was, just the tiniest sliver of understanding within his voice. "He didn't ask to be who he was," she said. "What he was. He didn't ask to be feared, to be loathed. I suppose a novel like that has got to have a monster, but—but I wonder who the monster truly was. The creature, or the people that made him into one. Perhaps monstrosity is still a matter of perspective. I wonder who he might have been had he been embraced instead of feared." Another pause, heavy and poignant. "I'm not a good man, Phoebe." "You're not a monster, either." At least, he wasn't to her. "Perhaps…a little less so than I was. Than I have been." He sighed again, but it sounded less strained, less angry, less tense. "Hieronymus misses you." "He doesn't miss me. He's a turtle." "He does. I'll swear to it." There was an odd sound, a pained groan, the tap of his cane—and then his voice again, closer and above her head. "See for yourself," he said, and Phoebe turned, canting her head up to see Kit peering over the wall. Standing upon his stone bench to do it and holding aloft a turtle, who kicked his legs in the air. "Hieronymus!" Phoebe scrambled up from her seat and climbed atop her own bench. "I don't think he much likes being hefted into the air," she said. "He's very much a turtle who prefers solid ground. Have you got a cabbage leaf?" "What, in my pocket? No. But he's had a lovely breakfast of dandelions already. Missed all the excitement last night, it seems. Safe and sound in his pond." Phoebe stroked the top of Hieronymus' head with the tip of her finger, and his little legs stopped flailing long enough to enjoy the caress for a few moments. "See?" Kit said, as he briefly dipped back behind the wall to return Hieronymus to the lawn. "He's missed you." And then— " I've missed you." "If you hadn't sent me away—" Kit popped up once more, his glacial blue eyes narrowed into a glare, irritated all over again. "I would do it again. I'm not sorry for that, Phoebe. I will always make the choice that is best for you. The one that keeps you safe, because I—" For a moment his jaw worked, as if he had just managed to chew back a succession of unwise words. "Hell," he said, his eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" "I'd rather you went first, yes." "Goddammit, Phoebe. I don't do this sort of thing." "So I gathered. You're not very good at it." Phoebe chewed her lower lip, and decided to extend to him just the tiniest morsel of pity. "I don't do this sort of thing, either, you know. I was rather adamant about it, in fact. I think I could have been content if I had never married, as I expected, but—but I would rather be happy. I think I could be. But not in a marriage of convenience." Kit folded his arms atop the stone wall between them and slouched to rest his chin upon them. "I'm open to renegotiation." Despite herself, she laughed. Just a wry little sound, as she cast him a look that was meant to convey that he would not be getting off quite so easily as that. She said, "I suppose I haven't truly held up my end of our bargain. Your reputation is still in shambles. And our one dinner party didn't go particularly well." "You're hardly to blame for that. Difficult to attend events when one is recovering from a gunshot wound. It's possible my reputation will never sufficiently recover. That won't be your fault, either." He slipped one arm out from beneath his chin, lifted his fingers to tug at a loose lock of her hair. "There's many things I'll never be able to do," he said. "Balls are right out. I can't dance with you. I never learned how, and my damned knee won't let me." "I've had a decade's worth of balls, and they have become tiresome. I'll not complain of it." She'd grown accustomed to spending the majority of her evenings at home. Once, Mama had dragged her about town nearly every night of the week over interminable years of husband-hunting. Now, she would savor the peace she had finally acquired. "Naturally, we'll still have to attend Emma's annual ball. Even if we don't dance." "Naturally," he said. "May I make a small confession?" he asked. "Of course." "It's turned out that I fucking hate dinner parties." Phoebe smothered a snicker behind her fingertips. "Is that why you've been malingering? So you wouldn't have to attend another?" "No. That was just—pleasant," he said. "But I thought I needed to be part of Em's world. To be respected by her peers and to be welcomed into their homes, their events. By all rights, she should be embarrassed by me, her bastard half-brother. I thought I needed to become someone she could be proud to claim." "Of course she's proud to claim you," Phoebe said. "She loves you just as you are." Just as her own mother loved her—even if she would never fit into the mold of the perfect daughter, the perfect lady. It had never mattered. She'd just been unable to see it for herself. "I don't even like most of them. I don't care if they like me, or respect me, or invite me to the sorts of events I don't even wish to attend," Kit said. "As it happens, I never needed to be part of Em's world. I only need to be part of yours." He paused, turned his head just slightly. "How was that?" Phoebe blinked back a mist of tears. "Better. Did you practice?" "In the mirror before I came down. Brooks likely thinks me a candidate for Bedlam." With a chuckle, Phoebe swiped at her eyes. "I'm still going to be friends with Charity, you know. I like her a great deal." "She's not my mistress any longer. You can do as you please." "I won't always obey you just because you believe yourself to be in the right. And I won't be sent away again." It had been torture to worry for him as she had. "That is not open to negotiation," he said severely, his gold brows slashing over his eyes. "Hell, Phoebe—I sent you away because you are my vulnerability. My weakest point. I would die for you without hesitation." "I'd rather you lived for me instead." Her hand curled around his, threading their fingers together. "Ah, hell," he sighed. "I love you. Please come home." Phoebe shook off the grip of his hand to slide her fingers into those thick gold locks and hold him still. She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes, leaned as far as she could over the top of the wall, and pressed her lips to his. "I love you," she murmured against his lips. "And I'm coming home." "When?" "Right now. Move over a bit." She braced her palms flat upon the top of the wall and pushed with all her might until she managed to heft her chest above it. Kit snickered as she struggled. "You're going to fall on your arse on the lawn, and I'm going to laugh." "You could help!" The skirt of her nightdress tightened about her knees. "Where's the fun in that?" he asked. And then, idly: "I'm hoping your nightdress tears." "Then I'll fall on my bare arse on the lawn." Somehow, through sheer dint of will, she managed to swing her legs over the top of the wall to let them dangle above Kit's bench. The jump was higher than she had estimated. Her nightgown did tear, and she did fall on her arse, and Kit did laugh. But he also braced himself with his cane and extended his free hand to help her back up. "Your parents are going to worry," he chided. Probably they would, she thought as she brushed the dirt and the grass from the tatters of her nightgown and laced her fingers once more through Kit's. But they'd figure it out eventually.