Chapter Seventeen

Talia paused at a wooden pillar along the entrance to the mews. Dizziness had attacked her three times on her push back to London, and just as she had descended from the mare she had borrowed from Wellfork Castle, another wave had overtaken her.

Gripping the pillar, she closed her eyes, her chin down until the tilting of the gardens in front of her subsided. Then the fury in her gut propelled her forth.

Entering the townhouse through the rear, Talia considered for a moment going to the kitchen for food, then realized she wouldn't be able to choke down anything in her current state. She walked down the hallway, trying to keep her feet from stomping. It had only taken an hour of hard riding to get into London, and then another fifteen minutes of picking her way through London streets to get to the townhouse. Not nearly long enough to quell the rage still ripping through her veins.

Passing the lower drawing room, she heard voices and glanced in. She skidded to a stop in the open doorway.

No.

Not him.

Not in her house.

Not Cousin Arnold.

Her mother flittered about the room, nervous with the glass of port she held in shaking hands. But Talia barely noticed her. She could only stare, stunned, at the man sitting in her drawing room, in her house. Her mother handed the glass of port to the current Earl of Roserton.

It was him.

There was no mistaking the stringy grey hair tied into a ponytail off the back of his bald head. The nose that twisted on the end. The beady eyes looking up at her mother. The jowls.

The bastard sat in the middle of her drawing room, his feet propped on the low rosewood table in front of him, scuffing the gloss. Owning the place.

Talia's rage erupted.

"Get out of my home, Cousin Arnold." Her words thundered into the room before her feet could get her in front of the bastard.

She stopped, heaving in front of him. Her arm flew up, shaking as she pointed to the doorway. "Get the hell out of my home, Cousin Arnold."

He looked up at her coolly, a slight sneer lifting the left side of his mouth. Still the same. Same sneer. Same greasy grey locks of long hair falling about his face from his ponytail. Same jowls—one, two, three deep down his neck. Same portliness.

"Cousin Natalia," Arnold said. "You truly should address me as Lord Roserton. You were mannered, once in time. I think you can be so again."

Talia stepped closer, shoving her knee into his shin to knock his foot off the table. "And you would do well to address me as Lady Lockston."

He looked down pointedly at her knee, his sneer deepening. "Ah, yes, your marriage. I was disheartened to realize I somehow was neglected to be invited to the nuptials."

"Yet you did not take that as the direct cut it was, and instead, you have egregiously erred in inviting yourself into my home." Talia's arm did not lower from its point to the door. "Again, I ask that you leave at once. You are not welcome in this home, Cousin."

Talia's mother grabbed Talia's outstretched arm, pushing downward on it, her voice frantic. "Lord Roserton wishes to marry Louise now that you are married, Talia."

Talia's jaw dropped, her eyes whipping first to her mother, and then falling to skewer her cousin. "What? What lunacy is this?"

"Your sister is now of marriageable age, and as you are now married, there is nothing unseemly about our union."

"Nothing unseemly?" Talia's stomach flipped, bile threatening upward. "No. Absolutely not."

Cousin Arnold's sneer turned into a smile. "Yes. I would like to marry her in four weeks' time."

"No." Talia's head shook. "She will never marry you, Cousin."

Her mother moved closer to Talia, flanking her side. "We were just preparing Louise for the upcoming season, Lord Roserton."

Talia bit her tongue. One battle at a time. And she needed her mother at her side on this one.

The sneer overtook the smile on Cousin Arnold's thin lips. "Do not tell me you honestly think to put a girl such as Louise on the marriage mart."

"What do you mean, a girl such as Louise?" Talia's eyebrows furrowed, and she looked to her mother.

"I mean one that has already been on the open market," he said.

Talia's gaze snapped to him. "What are you speaking of?"

His head tilted to the side, his sneer deepening. "Perhaps I should be more specific—a girl that has been purchased on the open market."

Hand flying to her throat, Talia's mother gasped and stumbled backward, falling to sit on a side chair.

Talia took another step closer to Cousin Arnold, staring down at him, her words seething through clenched teeth. "Just what exactly are you insinuating, Cousin?"

"Your face has turned quite dire, Lady Lockston. Interesting." Cousin Arnold shrugged. "I was merely referencing a conversation I had at my club with a gentleman that has the most peculiar tastes in young females. Not my sort of thing, but he went to great lengths to explain some of the girls he has recently taken a…liking to. One with an unusual birthmark of a six-pointed star on her left shoulder."

Hell.

He knew. How he knew of Louise's very specific birthmark, she didn't want to imagine. But he knew of it. And he knew Louise had been in a brothel, sold for her innocence. Ruined.

Talia's hands curled into fists, aching to pound the sneer from his face, consequences be damned. Yet she forced herself a step backward. "Get out of my house, Cousin Arnold."

"I would hate for any untoward gossip to taint Lady Louise," Cousin Arnold said as he stood. "I would prefer she not become my bride with a wave of scandal upon her tail."

Talia's arm swung up again, pointing to the door, her voice vicious. "Out of my house this instant, Cousin Arnold."

He gave a slight bow of his head. "You are right, Lady Lockston, it is time for you and your mother to think upon consequences again. Perhaps you will take greater care in consideration this time, than you did the last time we were at this juncture."

He stepped past Talia's arm and exited the drawing room.

Talia's shaking arm fell slowly to her side, the true horror of the situation sinking into her mind.

"You cannot let this happen, Talia," her mother said from the side chair, her fingers rubbing her brow. "I would not let you marry that odious man, and I will not allow Louise to either. You need to fix this, Talia."

Talia's palms swung up to the ceiling. "I do not know how to, Mother."

Her mother gained her feet, moving to stand in front of Talia. "You must figure out a way. Louise has been through far too much. You cannot let him ruin her, nor let him force her into marriage. You need to fix this, Talia."

Talia spun from her mother, her throat clenching.

Fix this. Fix this. Fix this.

Words that she had heard repeated again and again during the past four years.

Talia stared out the front window at Cousin Arnold heaving his lumbering form into his carriage. The Roserton carriage. Her family's carriage.

She shook her head, failed plan after failed plan flashing through her frantic mind. Each and every plan she contemplated ended in her sister's utter ruin.

Talia knew she herself could weather any scandal, but Louise was still in much too delicate of a place to even fathom putting her within striking distance of Cousin Arnold's threats. She needed to protect Louise. There was nothing more important. And Cousin Arnold's demand of four weeks' time was far too short a span to work within.

Time. She needed more time than four weeks.

If only…

With a gasp, Talia sprinted from the townhouse, not stopping for a cloak. Down the front stairs, she searched the street to see Cousin Arnold's carriage turning at the end of the block. She ran, attempting to not slip on the splotches of ice that lined the sidewalk.

Three blocks of racing after the carriage, and Talia was within yelling distance.

"Arnold—Lord Roserton—Cousin Arnold," she screamed at the black coach. "Lord Roserton, stop. Stop. Cousin Arnold."

The carriage slowed.

Talia caught up to it, her chest burning with every breath. She reached the carriage door before the footman alighted from the back of the coach.

Flinging the door open, she forced breathless words. "I will do it."

Lips pursed, Cousin Arnold looked down at her. "Do what?"

Talia gasped for air, one hand clutching her side. "I will do it. I will marry you."

His eyebrow cocked at her. "Need I remind you that you are already married, Lady Lockston?"

Talia reached down and yanked out the metal carriage step, jumping up onto it and leaning into the carriage, her voice low. "My husband. Lord Lockston. You have heard of the curse of his family?"

"Curse?" His curved nose wrinkled. "I do not put stock in curses, Lady Lockston. Leave me. Close the door. You are letting a draft in here."

She leaned in further. "The curse, Cousin Arnold. No man in my husband's family has ever lived past the age of thirty-two."

"What does this have to do with marrying your sister, Lady Lockston?"

"My husband is three months shy of his thirty-third birthday." Her stomach flipped at her own words, and she had to take a quick breath to gather her spine with her next utterance. "I will be a free woman very soon, Cousin Arnold. I will marry you."

"You?" He shook his head. "I can have your younger, even more delectable sister, Lady Lockston. Why would I not take her over you?"

Talia made her lips curve into a smile. "You always wanted me, Cousin Arnold. You still do. I saw it in your eyes when I entered the drawing room just now." She leaned forward, taking a deep breath to push her breasts out as her voice dropped to a whisper. "Louise is broken. And I do not think you want a broken wife, Cousin Arnold." Her eyes narrowed as her words slowed. "No, I think you want a wife you can break."

Bile slipped up into Talia's throat as he stiffened and then reached down to adjust himself through his trousers. As gruesome as they were, her words had the effect they needed to.

He cleared his throat. "You say three months?"

"I do."

"You understand what will happen if you betray your word? It is your sister that will be sacrificed." He adjusted himself through his trousers again.

"I understand."

"Then get yourself off of my carriage. You're of no use to me now." He kicked his foot out, the ball of his boot landing on her ribcage and shoving her from the carriage step.

Talia slipped backward off the metal step, flailing. She hit the cobblestone street hard, her left wrist snapping under all her weight. Brutal pain sparked up her arm, wrapping around her.

Gasping at the stabbing agony, she dropped her head, fighting for breath.

She couldn't let him see.

Toes scrambling on the rounded stones of the street, she found her feet but refused to look up. The carriage door slammed shut and it rolled away.

Clutching her mangled wrist to her belly, vicious pangs rolled up her arm. Talia started to walk, wobbling.

The spasms collected in her gut before running to her head, wooziness setting thick into her mind. Talia searched in front of her.

Park. Bench. Sit.

She stumbled across the street and a horse brushed her backside. She staggered. Yelling. Lots of yelling.

At her?

The park. The bench. She forced her feet forward. Step. Step. Another step. Then blackness fought into her vision, even as she tried to blink it away. The park started to slide sideways in front of her.

A tree. She could reach that tree. Catch it. A tree could hold her upright.

Her fingertips went forward, far, far from her face. She touched bark. The bark slipped away into darkness.

She dropped.

***

It was only the smallest fold of her plum-colored skirt trimmed in gold cording. That Fletch saw the tiny swatch of fabric in itself was a miracle.

But there it was, a splash of gold and plum flopping out past the feet of a group of men huddled around a tree, looking downward. One of the seven riffraff had a hatchet propped over his shoulder.

His heart sank.

He had missed Talia at the townhouse by only minutes, her mother had said. So frantic she could barely get words out, she had sent Fletch out the direction Talia had disappeared.

One of the men by the tree shifted, stepping on the edge of the skirt, digging it into the cold dirt.

It was that slip of cloth, the gold cord grinding into the ground that turned him savage. That sent a raw rage so brutal through his limbs that he transformed into a warrior of old.

He was across the park in seconds, ripping the closest man to him from the group and throwing him to the ground.

"Get the hell away from my wife, you bastards." Fletch's roar echoed around the trees of the empty park.

"Pardon, sir." The man directly across from him standing by Talia's head threw his hands up. "The lady was bumped by our horse."

Fletch pushed his way to the man by her head, shoving each of the men near Talia a step back on his way. He stopped in front of the man that spoke, his hands shaking to choke the bastard. "Your bloody horse hit her?"

"T'was just a nudge, sir, honest." The man's palms stayed up, attempting to calm. Fletch would have none it. Talia was lying in the dirt.

"Sir, honest, we all seen it. Her eyes be closed when she ran in front of us and then the rump o' the beast sweeped ‘er back. She stepped away a ducky, but then she staggered along, fell by this tree."

Fletch's head whipped around, looking at the crowd of men. Through the blinding red in his eyes, he could see all of them were nodding.

"Truly, sir, we seen she be a lady, and we stopped to help her. Good thing ye came. Cause we ain't know what to do with ‘er."

"Do with her?" Fletch's look snapped back to the man.

"She fainted—she still be in blackness—look at ‘er. We think it be ‘er wrist."

For the first time, Fletch truly looked down at Talia. He hadn't wanted to do it for fear of what he would find.

His stomach curdled. Talia's eyes were closed, dead to the world.

His look travelled down her body.

Her left arm was awkwardly splayed onto her belly. Her hand flopped over to the side, grotesque, the angle of it unnatural in every sense. Fletch could see raw bone poking rough just below her skin.

"Oh, shit." His grunt came out flat. He turned from the man, dropping to his knees at Talia's side.

"Can we help with ‘er, sir?"

Fletch shook his head, staring at Talia's closed eyelids. "No. No. I will bring her home."

"Do you need help carrying ‘er?"

"No. I can bloody well carry my own wife."

"As you say, sir." The group of men backed away, the lot of them going to the wagon that they had been riding in.

Fletch glanced up to the departing group, offering up a weak, "Thank you."

A few nods and a wave came in his direction.

He turned back to Talia, a rock settling into his gut. "Dammit, Talia, what did you do?"

Slipping his arms under her knees and back, he lifted her, trying to curl her body into him so her head wasn't completely limp, dangling off his arm.

He walked through the park before he realized her left arm was starting to slip from her belly.

Fletch shifted Talia, getting her rebalanced in his arms. Her wrist bumped into his chest.

Damn.

Her eyes jarred open, terrorized with a gasp. Then she saw his face and instantly calmed, but the pain remained evident in the crinkle in her forehead. "Fletch?"

Relief swept him, his arms almost turning to jelly. Her eyes were clear. Pained, but clear. Whole—a wicked crack in her wrist—but she was whole. He gave her a half smile. "Sorry. I didn't want to move your wrist, but I bumped it."

She gasped against the pain, her eyes squeezing shut. After a long breath, she opened her eyes. "Fletch, you're carrying me."

"Yes."

She paused, looking up at him, confusion plain on her face. It took several steps before she looked from his face to her wrist resting on her belly. Her face blanched as the confusion drained away and she identified where her pain came from.

Her eyes stayed on her crooked wrist. "Fletch, I can walk."

"Not at the moment, you cannot."

"I can. I got dizzy and I fell. I did not eat. That is all."

"That is all? Is that how you broke your wrist?"

She looked up at him. "I broke it?"

"You did look at it, didn't you? That is what a break looks like, Talia."

Her gaze dropped down to her wrist once more, a soft groan floating up to him.

His earlier savage rage not fully dissipated from his veins, Fletch glared down at the top of her head. "Dammit, Talia, what were you doing? You nearly sent me to my grave seeing you unconscious under that tree."

Her look flew up to him, her hazel eyes skewering him. "Do not utter such blasphemies as your grave, Fletch. Never. Not in front of me. You do not get to do that. Be mad at me, but you will not speak of your grave in front of me. Save it for your whores."

Fletch had to hide an instant smile. She was furious at him—and rightfully so—but he didn't care. The harsh edge in her voice told him that she was fine—her fire was already back about her—and that was all that he cared about at the moment.

"And you need to save your ire, Talia. You are going to need all your strength about you for the next hour."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"

"I'm going to have to call the bonesetter."

She swallowed hard. "A bonesetter?"

Fletch nodded. "Yes. He is going to have to reset that bone. And it is going to hurt like hell."