Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

W ho the hell was Liam Fletcher? Liam Murray? A vicar's son or a wine merchant's. A bastard or a viscount. He'd not thought you could be both. Apparently, you could if your mother happened to marry at the right time. Hell, what did any of this mean? Well, it certainly explained why his father hated him. Why his father had treated all his children with kindness, but why Liam had only ever seen disappointment in his eyes. Why he'd been so worried over Liam's soul no matter how well Liam acted, how well he behaved himself. It also explained why his siblings resembled his father, and he did not.

Was he a fool for not seeing it sooner? Yes, likely.

But he would never have thought his mother… He shook his head and picked a blade of grass, a spare little thing that grew between the gravel of the drive. Then he flicked it at the vicarage sitting squat in front of him. He'd traded one drive for another—the humble dirt path that led up to the house of his childhood.

He'd belonged in the vicarage as much as he belonged now in Norton Hall—not at all. He should have always been a plain William Murray, wine connoisseur. Had Angus ever planned to tell him? If given the time, would he have walked up to Liam after breaking his fast one day and said, Why good morning, but did you know I am your father? Oh yes, your whole life is a lie, and you're not even English. Well, half English but you have Scottish blood, too, my boy. And then he'd thump Liam on the back, and Liam's blond hair would turn red, and he'd develop a brogue, and… He groaned.

"Liam, is that you?" The voice made Liam jump and turn.

Beckett stood behind him with his wife, Mrs. Greene, his black garb crisp and fresh, and her gown and bonnet sensible and clean. They regarded him with looks both worried and, he could not help but notice, slightly amused.

Liam scrambled to his feet. "Evening, Becket. Mrs. Green. What hour is it?"

"Just before sunset," Becket said, studying Liam from the tip of his dusty boots to the top of his bare, sweaty mop of hair. "When did you get here?"

"No idea. A few minutes ago." The screaming numbness in his legs said otherwise. Hours. He'd been sitting in front of the vicarage for hours.

"You could have gone in, my lord," Mrs. Green said. "It used to be your home."

Liam offered a weak smile. "I did not wish to intrude.

"But what are you doing here?" Becket asked.

"Becket," Mrs. Green stepped in front of her husband. "The man is in no state for an interrogation. Come inside, my lord, and I'll put on some tea." She hurried ahead of them into the vicarage, and Becket followed.

Liam did, too, at a slower pace. He tripped over the threshold, as if the very house he'd grown up in had risen up to kick him out. As if it didn't want him back inside.

"Feeling's mutual," he mumbled.

"Do you need a hand?" Beckett asked from inside. He stood in shadows, a tall, lean part of them with glittering, kind eyes and an outstretched hand. Liam could imagine his father standing just there. But he'd never stretched out a hand. And though he'd often smiled, the expression had never extended to his eyes.

Hands, skeletal fists on the doorframe, Liam found the strength to push inside, to follow his friend to the kitchen, and to plop into a chair as Mrs. Green poured him a cup of steaming tea and placed a plate of biscuits on the table before him.

"Stay as long as you like, my lord." She placed her hand on Becket's shoulder and squeezed. "I'll be upstairs."

It wasn't until Liam finished his entire cup of tea, his throat raw from the heat, that he could speak. "I'm a bastard." He laughed, a short bitter thing. "Not really? My God—apologies for the blasphemy—but it's so damn—apologies, Beck—confusing." He dropped his forehead to the table with a thunk .

"You're going to have to explain," Becket said. A screech of wood against wood as Becket pulled out the chair and sat.

Liam sat up and tipped his empty cup toward Beckett. "Got anything harder?"

Beckett poured him another cup of tea, Liam took a sip, and then he did as his friend had asked and explained. As best he could, at least. When he'd finished, he felt empty but no clearer on how to move forward with living another man's life.

"No wonder I was never a good vicar," Liam said, a pitiful ending to his pitiful tale.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I barely completed my degree. I knew more ribald jokes than I did Latin. I never wrote an original sermon in my life."

"Few do."

"But I never even considered it."

"You're too hard on yourself."

"I always wondered why I could not be more like my father. Now I know. It's rather simple, really. He was not my father."

Beckett laughed, pounding a fist on the table and making the china shake. "If every son turned out the image of his father, there would be much less strife in the world. My own father would be a lot more pleased with me." For a moment, he watched his fingernail scratch a line into the worn kitchen table. "You were not a bad vicar because you did not share the blood of the man who raised you. You were not a bad vicar. Do you know the Liam I remember from Oxford? He was not a dunce. He worked harder than the rest of us at something that gave him little joy. If he could not learn Latin, it was simply because he did not wish to sit still long enough to learn it. And if he never wrote an original sermon, what of it? He knew the right sermon to read every week, and he knew to keep it short."

"Another fault, that. A few sentences, and I was letting the flock loose."

"And they were likely grateful for it." Beckett reached across the table and placed a warm hand on Liam's shoulder. "I, too, shorten my sermons"—his grin widened—"and this is what I feel called to do with my life."

"There are other things."

Beckett propped his chin on his hand and rested his elbow on the table. "Do tell."

"Women. There were no women. Not really. Not for long." He snorted. "But I wanted there to be."

"Liam, we're not Catholic."

Liam rubbed a palm down his face. "I used to feel guilty for my desire. My father said… Mr. Fletcher said… who cares what he said, actually."

"That's the spirit. Truly, Liam, you do not think men of the cloth are virtuous souls, do you? You've met many of them. You've met me. Clarissa and I knew one another quite well before the bans were read."

"You're not taking my misery seriously."

"I am. I am sorry that your life has been moved about by winds beyond your control. I am sorry you lived with a man who agreed to be your father but did not act fatherly toward you. It was cruel of him. Once he agreed to raise you, he should have let you into his heart. If you ask me, you were a better man of God than he because you have such an open heart, a heart that seeks joy and gives it."

Liam snorted, a rough exhale of sour breath that wrinkled his nose. "I need to go home and bathe. I've been… stewing in my own misery all day."

"I can tell." Beckett smacked his palms on the table and pushed to standing as Liam wobbled to his feet. "Whatever blood you were born with, whatever choices were made for you, remember you get to choose now." He threw the front door open.

Liam winced in the dusty sunlight. "Why are you so good at vicaring?"

"Because I actually want to do it. I'm far from perfect, though. You're much more suited to viscounting. Do you enjoy it more?"

Liam nodded, rubbing his temples where a pounding had begun.

"See, then—neither of us were born to be what we are, yet, we're rather good at it, I think."

"Hubris… even I know that's a sin. You might not be so good at vicaring after all."

"You're barely two months married and out here staring down a house instead of weighing down your wife's bed when a lord's main purpose is procreation. Maybe you're not so good at—"

"And you curse. I've heard the foulest language pass between your lips."

"And you kept a collection of pictures in your trunk at Oxford that would make a brothel owner blush."

"Hm. Perhaps I'll show them to her and see if you're right."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." Liam slapped his friend on the back. "Thank you."

"Do you feel any better?"

"Not at all."

"Naturally. You just found out you're a bastard."

Liam groaned and set his steps toward Norton Hall with a wave. He should feel better, shouldn't he? Beckett had the right of it in so many ways. A man who chooses to raise a child should show that child love. But Liam had been denied. Accepted, then denied. And Liam's whole life dedicated to winning what he hadn't a chance of winning—that man's love and approval.

What did this new discovery change? He'd always thought himself a fraud, and now he knew it to be true. What now? Did he go to Scotland to learn how to be a Murray? Give up having children so a true Fletcher could inherit the title? That meant giving up Cora's bed. Oh, he knew there were things they could do to avoid that risk.

Risk? He'd never thought of children that way. He'd looked forward to having them, playing with them, running through the halls and gardens and picking them up when they fell. This lie didn't change only his name. It changed everything. It changed him , changed his future.

And what did it mean for Cora, who had married one man and now found herself shackled to quite another. Cora, who reveled in the pleasure of loving and being loved, mind and soul.

And body.

What would she do when Liam could no longer give her that because he could not risk conceiving a child?

For a moment, he broke into a sprint, his body needing to scream in some way. Pumping arms and legs, racing heart, and gasping lungs. The wind whipped what might have been tears into oblivion.

Cora deserved better than the life he could give her now.

But she was yoked to it, to him.

A rock or stick beneath his boot reached up and grabbed him, yanked him down. For a moment, he fell through the air, arms flailing. He might be falling forever now, the sky flipping, and the ground rushing up over and over again each morning when he woke alone and remembered.

His shoulder hit the ground first, and then his head bounced off the dirt road. He lay there for a moment, breathless, thoughtless. Then he crawled to his feet and stood, dusting his trousers off and setting off toward home once more.

Home. Cora had asked him where home was. He hadn't known then, and he damn well didn't know now.

By the time Norton Hall rose before him and the sun's descent had painted the sky purple and pink, he had given up on finding answers. He knew only the deadening weight of defeat. He'd given all of himself always to be who they needed him to be. None of it mattered.

He needed food and sleep and—

"What in hell…?" What he did not need was Angus marching down Norton Hall's long drive with a burly footman beside him. " Angus ." He growled the name that felt for some inane reason like traitor on his tongue.

"I'm in no mood for a father-son chat, Mr. Murray," Liam said as the Scotsman and the footman neared.

But they did not appear in the mood either. They marched right past him, parting so he could pass between them. But he didn't pass between them because they hooked their arms with his and dragged him in a circle until they faced Norton Hall, and he faced the gate at the end of the drive.

"What in hell," Liam sputtered. "Let me go."

They did not. They dragged him toward the house as if he hadn't been going there all along.

"Angus, what are you doing?" Liam thrashed and dug his heels in, but they held him tight.

"Hold fast, Gregory," Angus said to the footman. "We're no' to let him loose till we reach the coach."

"What coach?" Liam cried. "Release me!"

Angus just grunted and held on tighter. "Steadfast, Gregory. Remain steadfast."

"Yes, sir," the footman said.

"Release me, Gregory, or I'll replace you."

Angus grunted, holding Liam tighter. "Don't listen to him. I won't let him fire ye."

"And you think you hold any influence over me?" Liam kicked at a rock, seeking purchase, escape. It sailed up into the air and plummeted down right onto his head. "Hell, that hurt."

Angus smothered a laugh.

"Do not laugh," Liam cried. "You who have lied to me from the beginning! You are my father , and you knew , and you pretended to be a stranger ."

Gregory gasped.

Hell, he'd be providing the servants with gossip for tomorrow's breakfast.

"Aye," Angus said softly and in the gentlest brogue.

Liam gave up. He let his body go limp. Perhaps if he didn't fight and made himself an immovable weight, the other two might give up as well. They did not. They simply dragged him toward the coach he'd failed to see waiting in the courtyard to the side of Norton Hall. They threw him up into the waiting coach, and before Angus could slink away, Liam grabbed his wrist, held him tight.

"Is it true? Are you really?"

Another soft, "Aye."

"Did you really love my mother?"

"Aye."

"You couldn't have. Otherwise, you wouldn't have let her—"

"Sometimes forces exist that are stronger than love. We were young. Her parents took her away, and I had nae idea where she'd gone. My father died, and I had to take over the business. I never even looked at another woman after her. And when she showed up in Edinburgh twenty-six years later, it was like a miracle. It was… the moment I had been dreaming of for over two decades. And she was looking for me, and she had the same questions ye have, and I had the same questions for her. We were angry, and we wanted answers. But we could no' stay angry at one another long when we'd loved so hard. We forgave ourselves and each other and decided to spend the rest of our lives being happy. I'm sorry."

"So am I." Liam released Angus's arm, throwing it away, throwing the man away.

"I'm so verra sorry, Son."

"Don't call me that."

Angus paled, nodded, and shut the coach door, draping the conveyance in shadows despite the bright light of the day surrounding it. Only then did Liam see Cora, holding her breath in the corner on the opposite seat. Her gloved hands were wrapped around the edge of the seat, and her face was pale and quiet.

The coach rumbled into motion. "Liam… I'm—"

"What is this? Why have I been dragged into this coach?"

Tentatively, as if she walked a tight wire, she crossed the space between them to sit beside him on the forward-facing bench. She folded her hands primly, slowly in her lap. "I am afraid it is a kidnapping. A viscount napping? No matter the terminology, I have abducted you."

The corners of his lips twitched with something like amusement. Gone as quickly as it had dared to come, poured over with bitterness that weighed the corners of his lips down. "What for? And where are you taking me?"

"A place called Whitwood Manor. The Earl of Whitwood's country seat and home to Lady Escher outside of the London Season. I had to pore through Debrett's for far too long a time to discover that bit of information. I'm not exactly sure how to get there, but we'll figure it out. And as for why"—she straightened her spine—"you need to escape. Your family, your heritage—"

"Not my heritage."

"Stop saying that. It is yours now, no matter whether it should have been. At Bluevale, I needed escape, though I did not realize it. And you helped me to it. Now I am helping you. At least you're not unconscious while it's being done. Though I must admit I considered it. It might have been much easier for Angus to haul you about that way. Excellent job hiding, by the way. He searched for hours and could not find you. Where were you?"

"The vicarage."

"Ah. I told him to look there. He must have missed you."

"And why did you not wait for me to sleep to carry me off?"

"It was an impulse. I remembered how well yours usually turn out for us and decided to give in. We shall see if mine are equally successful. And"—she dropped her gaze to her lap—"I need to fix you, and I'll do so now."

After several moments of silence in which evening shadows flickered across the empty seat between them, he finally said, "Fix me?"

"Yes. You said the most un-Liam-like thing today, and I hated it. It made me so terribly sad. That is saying something since the poems I write do not lack for tragedy. Neither has my life."

He'd crushed her. He'd crushed her again . Of course, he had. He'd only ever been a disappointment, a stain on the world.

She scooted closer, and then closer still, until her skirts flirted with the edge of his thigh. And then the soft lace of her glove smoothed beneath his stubbled chin, and she turned his head toward her and angled it down so he could see better into her face. What had he always seen in her eyes? The haughty distance of a cat. The cold ice of a careful woman.

Ice melted, distance vanished.

Nothing but warm worry now and something more, brimming like tears set to spill.

"Whatever you are thinking in that brain of yours"—she pushed a lock of hair off his forehead and trailed her fingertips down his face, his ruined cravat, to set her palm on his chest—"it is overly dramatic. I do not know what you are thinking, but I do know. Stop thinking it." She leaned forward and reached up just a bit to touch her lips against his, and how could everything in the world be wrong when something like this was so absolutely right?

He should back away from her, from everything she was offering him with that kiss, but he felt more like a selfish bastard than ever, and he cupped her cheeks, pulled her closer, and deepened the kiss, finding in it everything he'd ever needed, everything he could be but wasn't.

Then he ripped away, tried to put distance between them if she no longer would.

But she wrapped her hands around the insides of his unbuttoned waistcoat and dragged him closer. "No. I won't let you run." She spoke so close to him he could feel the heat of her words. "You ran after me. Now I will run after you. So sulk if you must, Liam. I understand the need for it at times. But if you have a spare moment between sulks, you might consider reading this." She bounced across to the opposing bench and picked up a leather satchel. She opened it and pulled out a pile of papers, which she set on his lap. They sat like feathers, precariously perched. His breath might blow them away.

Her breath would not, though, because she stayed on the bench across from him, settled into it as far from him as she could get. "It is the poem I promised Lady Escher. It is done, and I could not have finished it or even gotten this far without you. Without you chasing me and loving me even when I did not want it. Now I will return the favor. Read it or not, I do not care." She shoved her chin in the air, attempting to prove a clear lie true. If he didn't look at her but for her face, she'd have him convinced. But her fingers, long and agile and strong and resting in her lap, plucked at the folds of her skirt.

He picked up the top page and read the words, her letters swooping like birds in black ink across it— Midnight Garden .

"None of us get to choose the lives we're born into," she said, looking out the window. "You are no different from any of the rest of us."

The paper was cool, the ink a road his fingertips could not help but travel.

"What matters, Liam, is what you make of your life. How you shape it."

"I've let everyone shape it for me."

"Well, now you must take control. Can you do that? You promised me a happy marriage. And I know you can deliver that promise. But I suppose the question is now… do you want to? Because whatever life you choose for yourself now, it must be because you want it, not because others want it for you."

Of course he wanted it, wanted her, but there was duty to consider, his brother's rightful inheritance. But Cora's happiness was his solemn duty, too.

She was so lovely in the early evening gloom, determination shaping her jaw and hope glowing in her eyes.

He had no way of knowing what the future held. But today, tomorrow, on this road going where she wanted to go, he chose Cora's happiness over everything else, flipped open the first page of her manuscript, and read in the dim light.