Chapter 3

Three

K eats hid behind a rose bush of some sort that made him sneeze and watched his sister. Miss Jones, the doctor, and his wife had left her just moments ago. The doctor had asked Alex questions with a cool calm that inspired trust, looking at a bruise Alex showed him on her forearm and then inspecting her ear and hearing on one side. Where the devil had she come by such wounds? Why had he not known about them? Was he really so drunk so often that he'd not noticed her wearing long sleeves in the middle of the summer?

Apparently so. Alex sat with a book in her hands, but she did not read. She stared off into the garden but stared at nothing, too, a horrid blankness in her gaze. He needed to talk to her. He needed to tell her that she must return home. He needed to tell her he was there to take care of her.

He rustled around the side of the bush but stopped before making himself known. He still smelled a little—well, perhaps a lot—like he'd taken a bath in whisky. And he hardly looked like himself, having borrowed a real stable hand's clothes. None of that of any consequence. He still did not trust these strangers who absconded with women in the dead of the night. Alex must return home. He must confront his sister.

But then she closed her eyes, and a single tear dropped down her cheek, and he threw himself behind the rose bush again, his heart beating madly in his ears, his soul wailing like it never had before. He'd not even known it could do that. Had never really thought about having a soul, actually. How did he turn it off?

Talking to Alex, banishing her tears—that would do it.

He hated weeping women. That's why he'd given himself away early this morning. After Sacks had been bribed and threatened into handing over a grubby suit of clothes, sharing his cottage accommodations, and keeping his bloody mouth closed, he'd spied Miss Jones trudging toward the gardens. He'd followed only to discover her secrets and those of this house, not to escort her, protect her, pledge allegiance to her. But then she'd closed her eyes and dropped a tear, and hell if he could keep away.

The crunch of gravel on the path signaled a new arrival, as did a sunny voice saying, "Alex, would you like some company?" Miss Jones. Lucy, the doctor had called her.

He'd almost kissed her, had wanted to with every fiber of his being. But for all he knew, she was the enemy.

But she'd not put that bruise on Alex's flesh, not put those shadows in his sister's eyes.

Alex wiped away a tear. "I should like company very much. Apologies. I do not mean to be a watering pot. I never am." It was true. Good old stalwart Alex never cried, never made a fuss, always did everything she should. Until now.

Who had bruised her arm? What or who had left her concerned about her ear? Palmerson? Her betrothed? Surely a man that old could not muster much force. Alex was safe with a near-corpse like him. Wasn't she?

"Please join me," Alex said.

Keats peeked through the branches of the rose bush, pricking his thumb on a thorn. He hissed and sucked at the blood between his teeth.

Beyond the bush, Miss Jones said, "I hope you are not too exhausted after my brother's examination."

"No. He's quite reassuring," Alex said.

"Do you have the energy for a few more questions?"

Alex nodded, ran her thumb along the edge of her abandoned book. "I believe so."

"You must not answer anything that discomfits you, but… it is rather necessary for me—for us—to know… will anyone search for you?" Miss Jones seemed to hold her breath.

"I do not think so. I left no evidence of our correspondence. I fed every letter to the fire as soon as I'd done reading it. My fiancé will simply find another young lady to wed. My father and brother… they will eventually realize I'm gone but not, perhaps, for a few days. My father might look for me. For a few days, a fortnight at most. But then he'll put my dowry to other uses. And my brother… he'll think it a curiosity, but he'll forget my absence at the bottom of the next whisky bottle he turns up."

"I'm sorry," Miss Jones murmured.

I'm sorry , Keats's soul whispered.

"That no one cares for me? Don't be. It allowed me the opportunity to escape. If they truly cared, I would be better watched. They would search for me mercilessly. But they do not, so they will not. And it is for the best."

Miss Jones nodded.

And Keats clapped a hand over his mouth, glued his feet to the dirt because every bit of him demanded to run out of his hiding spot and tell Alex she was wrong. And he was sorry. And… bloody hell. This place was not full of villains.

"I'm the villain," he whispered, words like ash on his tongue.

"Last night Mrs. Beckett said that I must begin thinking." Alex's voice rang not with the fragile discards of a fire, but with the new flames of life itself. "Now that I am no longer to be a lady, I must do something useful with my life."

Miss Jones nodded again, offered more silence.

"I do not know yet what that will be," Alex said so softly Keats almost did not hear her. "I do not know if I'm good at anything."

"Oh, but you are!" Miss Jones leaned into the space between them, her arm stretching out to grasp Alex's arm. "You will soon find out exactly what. There's a bright intelligence in your eyes. They…" She tilted her head to the side. "They look quite familiar, a most unique shade of blue. I swear I've seen them before." She shook her head.

Keats did not know whether to be relieved or offended. He rather wanted the lovely Lucy to remember the face where she'd seen blue eyes like that before—his.

"Everyone on my father's side possesses eyes the same shade. They are unique, but I think they have been a curse too. My betrothed is rather… obsessed with my eyes, watches them always, accuses me of looking with them where I shouldn't. I suppose it's not an idle accusation. The first kind, handsome man to pay me attention, I rather… collapsed into his arms. Grateful. He praised my eyes as well. I hate them." Alex dropped her gaze to her lap. "I wish I could change their color. Or pluck them out entirely."

And Keats wished the bullet from last night's abandoned duel had found his heart. A more humane death, that, than the silent desperation in his sister's voice.

Miss Jones bolted to her feet, hauling Alex up with her and wrapping her in a tight hug. "Oh, no, no, no! Your eyes will see sights much kinder from this day forward. I promise!"

Keats could take no more. Let the angel care for Alex. His sister had found much better hands than his own to keep her safe in spirit as well as body. He walked back to the stables on numb legs.

None of this could be true. It couldn't . He wasn't cruel. Neither was his father. Women were meant to marry whomever they were told to marry, and surely Keats's father would not have chosen someone who…

The bruises on Alex's arms told truth. And he'd heard truth from her own lips. Anger pulsed his steps forward more quickly. Men who hurt women deserved to meet bullets in Green Park at dawn.

Alex's betrothed had hurt her, and she'd sought protection in the arms of strangers.

Alex did not need Keats's help. He hadn't even known she'd needed saving in London. Too stuck in his own whisky bottle, in his own fornications, to care about anyone but himself and his cock. Let her eyes remain and see kinder sights.

Let his be plucked out instead.

"New boy!" the stable master called as Keats neared the stables. "If you're going to remain here, you have to actually work . You may be Mr. Sacks's nephew, but you'll abide by the same rules as all the rest."

Why not? He'd done so little for Alex, he had to make up for it. He'd stay, watch over her. He'd wasted his life thus far; he could do a little good with it now.

The stable master threw a shovel at him, and Keats caught it. Barely. Apparently doing good meant shoveling shit. He deserved it.

He worked for hours, until the smell of dung and dirt and hay had soaked into his skin as much as the smell of whisky, almost chasing that other sour scent away. Not an improvement. But somehow, also, yes an improvement. Because by the time the sun began to sink in the sky, his muscles ached, and he'd sweated out an entire river of alcohol. He'd imagined each sweat droplet taking away his negligence, his thoughtlessness.

"Mr. Geddings?" he called out, wiping sweat from his brow. "I need to procure…" Perhaps less formal. "I need somethin' from the village."

"I suppose you can shove off, then. You've worked hard today. Wouldn't think a young, pampered lad from London would have it in him. You've surprised me. Got more of Mr. Sacks in ya than I thought you did." He took a huge sniff in Keats's direction, then wrinkled his nose. "There's a lake down the hill. Use it before you visit the village. No one wants to smell you."

No one had ever told Keats he smelled, but he'd also never shoveled shit before. The two were bound to happen at the same time. He propped the shovel against a wall and took off toward the lake. Easy enough to find, and he stripped down to his smalls after a quick look around. Alone entirely, he slipped into the cool water with a groan, diving into deeper depths after a few slogging steps forward.

He'd sell his left ball for a bar of soap. He'd acquire one in the village and… oh. No, he would not. He had no money to acquire soap or otherwise. Hell. He must consider his current poverty the penance he had to pay for being so blind to Alex's plight.

When he surfaced, he scrubbed his hair hard, then his cheeks and jaw. In a few days, he'd have the beginnings of a beard. No money for a razor, either. All he had to his name—which everyone here got wrong—was a set of dueling pistols and a fine suit of clothes he could not wear. Keaton Godwin, Earl of Ennis wore silk and fine wool. Mr. Keats, stable boy did not.

He ducked under the water once more and screamed. Muffled pain and frantic bubbles, murky darkness, and Keats sinking down, down, down until his lungs burned and he began to kick. He popped up above the water with a gasp of air. When had he last cried? He couldn't remember ever once doing it. He felt like he should now, like he must.

Or drown himself.

No time for that. He had to get to the village and send word to his father— Alex is with me; do not worry, and do not search. I will take care of it. By which he meant he'd let Alex do whatever the hell she wished to do. He owed her that much.

He set off for the shore, and when he stood, the water up to his waist, a cry and a splash from the other side of the lake swung him around. A head popped up above the water—blond hair darkened by the water, a round, soft face, with wide, parted, lush lips.

Miss Jones, rolling onto her back to float belly up, eyes closed not far from where she'd jumped off a bank and into the water.

The water lapped at Keats's hips, barely hiding the most pertinent bits of him. He should dress, walk to town, and send word to his father. The right thing to do.

Damn, but he'd never been good at being good. He swam back out into the lake. Really, it was her fault she'd not seen him. Or… perhaps she had.

He grinned as he swam. How to approach her? Didn't want to scare her, after all. Some feet away, he came upright and treaded water.

She floated, softly, making tiny waves with the languid movements of her arms and legs, the corners of her luscious lips tilted up ever so slightly. Her shift had molded to her body, and hell, his own body pulsed to life. Big breasts, soft belly, wide, full hips—she was a feast, and he was ravenous. He wanted to set his lips to the nipples that peaked against the shift, rosy shadows he needed to taste.

"A divine treat to a man who deserves one."

He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until she screamed, her entire body dunking beneath the water then resurfacing with a sputter, her hair tangled over her face.

"Hell." He swam forward. "Let me help."

"No!" She flung out an arm to keep him away and sank beneath the water once more, popped up more quickly this time. "No, no, no." Each word tripping into the next. "Do not come any closer."

Her legs pumped beneath the water, and one arm waved wildly to keep her treading upright, she pushed her hair off her face with her only free hand in jerky movements, blinking water out of her eyes. When she seemed to catch her breath, she stared at him with… well, there was no other word for it but horror .

"Perhaps we should move to a shallower bit of the lake," Keats suggested.

Her gaze darted from one of his naked shoulders to the other. "No!" Then her eyes narrowed. "How far down does that bare skin go?"

"All the way down."

Her eyes widened.

"To my smalls."

She released a breath and closed her eyes. "Thank God."

"I thank him, too, for bringing us here at the same time." She'd told him not to flirt. He'd determined not to flirt. Unfortunately, flirting ran thick through his veins. Like breathing, he couldn't not do it. "I was about to leave."

"Do not let me stop you."

"Oh, you already have. No stopping me from being stopped. But you may certainly leave if you wish." There. Better. He wasn't here for a flirtation. He was here for Alex. And this woman, this goddamn heroine , certainly deserved better than a drunken coward like him.

"I will." She swam toward the bank, slowed, and turned around, muttering a curse.

And he watched it all, unable to look away as long as she was within view. "What is wrong, Miss Jones?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Asked around. Miss Lucy Jones. I must say, my tongue rather likes saying it."

She scowled. "Don't say it. And you must turn around and close your eyes."

"Must I?" Hadn't he, after all, just determined he couldn't close his eyes? Not against the sight of Miss Lucy Jones.

"I am going to tell Mr. Beckett he's brought a wolf into our midst." She took off for the bank.

Panic shot through him, propelled him through the water and after her. He couldn't let her tell Mr. Beckett anything of the sort. He'd be sacked.

"I apologize!" he called after her. "Don't go." She did not stop, and damn but the woman could swim quickly. Those thick limbs harbored strong muscle. He had to kick harder to keep up. "Where did you learn to swim?" Said more to himself than to her, but she slowed and then stopped, then looked at him over her shoulder. She seemed to have found some footing on the lake bottom, and she no longer had to work to tread the water.

She ducked low beneath it, though, the waves lapping just above her breasts. "My father taught me how. I grew up in the country. How do you know how to swim?"

"I may be a London lad, but my father has—" A country seat with a lake twice this size on the property. Couldn't say that, though, could he? "A brother, my uncle, with a farm. We used to visit as children in the summer. No one taught me. I seem to have a knack for it, though." That much true at least. He swam a few inches closer and reached for the lake bottom with his foot. Yes, just there, silty and cool.

She turned toward shore, and he needed more than air, more than soap, to keep her just where she was, not quite within arm's reach inside that lake.

"Do you have brothers and sisters?" he cried out. Then swallowed a groan. Of course she had a brother. He knew that. She knew he knew that.

When she turned back to him, merriment made her eyes glow. "One brother."

"Yes, of course. Perhaps he should inspect my mental capacities. My wits seem to have sunk to the bottom of the lake."

"Do you? Have brothers and sisters?"

"One sister."

"Oh. Is she well? Your face fell when I asked, and…" Miss Jones chewed her bottom lip.

"No, I do not think she is well. But I have high hopes she will be. She is smart and strong, and I find I greatly admire her."

"You seem surprised about that."

"I am a bit. And that's a shame." He ran a hand through his dripping hair, slicking it back against his skull. "I know we're not supposed to speak of the ladies who come here, but… I can't help but wonder, where do they go… after?"

She looked up to the sky and shivered. "All over the place and wherever they wish. Wherever they feel safest. Some seek out family. Others cross the ocean to pursue new lives in different lands. They go where they are wanted and where they will be loved. Hopefully." That last word an afterthought, a crack in her armor.

"Hopefully?"

"We can never know for sure what the future holds for us. Love or… something else."

"No. I suppose we can't." He'd certainly never expected to be talking to a mostly naked woman in a lake while mostly naked himself. And not even flirting but discussing the cruel inconsistency of life. Good God, he never thought about life .

But… maybe he… should? "What will you do when you leave here?"

"Marry. And you?"

"I will… I will…" Return to drinking and whoring and infidelity and duels at dawn and dying. Slowly. Surely. Tedious day by tedious day. Why did he do it? Why did he run thoughtlessly through life like a drunk man swinging about a sabre? Did he mean that metaphorically or literally? He had been drunk once at Griff's place. His friend, the Earl of Finley, had been trying to pry another bottle from his hands. And once Keats's hands had been freed of drink, he'd busied them with something else, jerking an antique sabre off the wall. He'd swung it about wildly, stumbled… Griff wore a scar on his jaw to this day where Keats had slashed him well and good.

Some damage could not be undone.

"Well?" Her eyes were brown. He'd not seen her in enough light until now to notice it. A light brown, burning gold at the edges. He'd never seen their like, so clear and confident. That more mesmerizing than the color. The way she watched him over the water's edge as if she studied him from across a ballroom. She would rule there, throwing every rake and rogue into a tizzy because she'd see right through them.

Did she see right through him? Hell. He should keep his distance.

"Well?" she said once more.

Well what? Oh, yes. "I'll find another lark, I suppose. When I leave my… position here." But he didn't feel like larking. Not anymore.

Every goddamn thing changed in less than twenty-four hours. Anger, irrational and boiling, rippled through him like the water circling rings around him in tiny, lapping waves.

He knew who he was—a rogue. And he knew what he wanted—her.

And rogues took what they wanted. Always. He surged through the water, meeting her widening eyes, and grasped an arm around her waist. He yanked her tight against him and, before she could so much as gasp, devoured her mouth in a hungry kiss.

That taught him more than he'd learned in all his eight and twenty years. Not about kissing. Of that she seemed to know very little, certainly not enough to teach. But about passion and about himself, who he was and what mattered to him.

Because she kissed him back, her arms wedged between their bodies. Her kiss seemed a punishment. She offered it like she might a parting laugh, one that would leave him shattered.

And then she ended it, softening each movement, showing him she could lead him where she wished, then peeled her lips away from him with a hot breath. He strained his neck for more, to catch her up again, but she pushed him away, sent him sailing into the water, stunned. Then she swam after him.

And slapped him. The hard sting of her hand etched into his cheek.

"It seems I left a rule out, Mr. Keats. You do not touch the women here. And that includes me." She swam off, and when she reached the bank, she did not hesitate to rise out of the water, her shift molding to every perfect curve of her body. She stepped into an abandoned gown and shoved her arms into the sleeves. One lift of a fine, golden eyebrow was all she offered him by way of a farewell before she disappeared into the woods.

Keats sank under the water. Did this lake, perchance, possess any monsters? Multi-tentacled beasts who might rise out of the depths and swallow him whole. He'd throw himself into its maw. Because shame weighed his limbs down, suffocated his heart. He was an earl, would be a marquess one day. She was a farmer's daughter, a radical. But she was better than him, and he would never deserve that kiss he'd tried to steal.

And he would feel her slap's sting across his cheek till the day he died.