Chapter Nine

R uthie wished he had let her walk alone. She preferred Harry when he was odd and arrogant. Even his pretentious lectures were better than the gallantry he was currently showing, because not only was he accompanying her home, he was tiptoeing around what had just happened in the Lucky Fish. The man valued control, but even Ruthie knew that must have been difficult for him.

For her, it was even more difficult. It wasn't like she didn't want to speak about Mason; it was that she had no experience doing so. Where her brother was concerned, there was no one to confide in. She couldn't speak to him , since he was usually drunk, almost drunk, or sleeping away his drunkenness. Lady Celeste never wanted to hear anything negative about her darling boy, and Ruthie hated causing her little sister stress in any way. The girl still loved her older brother—believed he was the best of men—and Ruthie wished for her to hold on to that innocence for as long as she could.

Her cricket club friends were always helpful and supportive, but other than Anna, Ruthie didn't know them intimately enough to ask for advice regarding her disastrous sibling.

That left Harry. Who currently was walking down the footpath trying desperately not to touch anyone that passed by or step on the cracks in the cobblestones. Ruthie didn't notice it at first, but once she saw it, she couldn't stop. Harry was usually so skillful at hiding his quirks, but around her, he struggled to keep up his smooth fa?ade. Out of the corner of her eye, Ruthie studied him as he glued himself to the very edge of the street where the granite blocks were long and rectangular so that his feet could fit inside each one, never touching a crack or groove, leaving Ruthie to walk on the smaller cobblestones.

Was Harry Holmes that eccentric? All signs pointed to yes. How did no one else see it? How could she be the only one?

Regardless, it was quite evident that Harry had his own problems. He didn't need Ruthie to pile hers on—which reminded her…

"Did you ever find him?" she asked abruptly. Harry arched an eyebrow, and she added, "The man who shot you? Did you ever find out why?"

"Oh," he said, as if she'd asked him about the weather. He glanced down at his injured side and patted it gingerly. "Yes, I've got some leads. Haven't done anything about it yet, though. Been busy."

"I must confess, it's rather alarming that you're not more upset!"

He smirked. "Unfortunately, it's a hazard of the trade and something I've become quite used to."

"Being shot?"

Harry shrugged. "People wanting me dead. I've never actually been shot before. Stabbed a few times, yes. Beaten, definitely. But never shot. I suppose even murderers must change with the times."

Ruthie shocked herself by laughing. Harry turned to her and smiled. Again, she was reminded with how handsome he was…in that dark and forbidding way. Ruthie was accustomed to wanting. She was even more accustomed to not getting what she wanted. So she allowed this little flirtation on her end. What was the harm?

"How can you be so nonchalant about it?" Slowly she walked closer to him, testing her theory about cobblestones. If Harry didn't want his arm to touch hers, he would have to move and risk walking on the cracks. She'd changed back into her dress before they left the gaming hall, and her cloak was more voluminous than the jacket she'd worn. It skated against her forearm, creating a lovely rustling sound. Furtively, she waited. He balled his hands into fists, squeezing mightily, but didn't move. It seemed that touching her was the lesser of two evils. Or maybe he just wanted to touch her as much as she did.

Harry's voice was hard as he answered her, his words short and clipped. "I don't mean to be nonchalant, as you say. I don't particularly like being shot or stabbed or punched. But when you start from the bottom, you quickly learn that you have to be willing to do anything to climb up."

"And when you reach the top?"

His boyish grin made her skin hum. "You have to be willing to do anything to stay there."

Ruthie studied the cobblestone mosaic at her feet, the same one that the man next to her feared more than a bullet. "It sounds like a lonely existence."

"You sound like my mother."

"Your mother?"

Harry pressed his lips together as if he didn't want to release whatever was inside. Eventually, he went on. "She died—"

"I know. You told me, remember? I'm sorry—"

He shook his head. "Don't be. We weren't close. That's an understatement, really. She hated me. Anyway, for some absolutely absurd reason, she wrote to me a couple months ago, asking me to visit her one last time. I obliged because Ernest made me. He said I would always regret it if I didn't."

"He was right."

Harry snorted. "Nuns were taking care of her. It seemed that all the money I sent her over the years, she gave to the nearby convent. I almost walked out when I saw them, but they spotted me and ushered me in, thanking me for my overwhelming generosity." He rolled his eyes before sighing. "Anyway, I'd waited too long. She was nearly delirious in her bed. So, so small. It was odd because she always seemed so large to me when I was little, even when I outgrew her. But her anger… Well, that didn't shrink."

"Why was she angry with you?"

"Because I wasn't the son she wanted," Harry said—remarkably, without a hint of bitterness. He was matter-of-fact over his mother's lack of affection, as if he understood it better than she might have.

"Because you joined a gang?" Ruthie asked.

"Fuck no," Harry replied. "Because I was different. An odd boy that everyone laughed at, a boy who shuddered away from her hugs and never cared when she began to withhold them. She said I never could give her what she needed, could never be the son she wanted. I tried, my God, I tried, but I just…couldn't."

The words shook Ruthie to her core. If she could understand anything, she could understand disappointing a parent. "Did she say anything to you when you visited?"

Finally, Harry lost his ambivalence. "Of course she did. She must have been reserving her strength for it. She grasped my hand even though I… Well"—he glanced down at his gloved hand apologetically—"even though I don't appreciate that, and yanked me down to the bed. I remember staring at her teeth—she'd lost so many. The ones that remained were so yellow they were almost green. She told me she'd had a vision from God and that I was going to hell if I didn't repent. She'd seen me there. I was going to die, alone and helpless, unless I found favor in the Lord. Bloody rot."

Ruthie was too stunned to speak. She had her issues with her mother, but she couldn't imagine Lady Celeste speaking to her so vindictively. Ruthie continued to watch Harry as he stepped on his stones, his gait confident and unwavering. For a moment, she allowed herself to look beyond the gray hairs and stubbled cheek, beyond the haughty, handsome fa?ade, and find the little boy who must have been terrified of his overzealous mother. So terrified that he'd abandoned her to make a life in the cold alleyways of London. So terrified that he grew into a man who considered murder attempts to be a "hazard of the trade."

Ruthie trembled and hugged her cloak tighter. "So that's your hurry to be married—your fear of death. You laugh and call it rot, but deep down you believe your mother's right." She paused, feeling undeniably hurt. "That…that is why you asked me to marry you."

Harry stopped walking. He turned to Ruthie, meeting her squarely. She tried to hide her disappointment, tried to put on a brave face as well as he did, but she knew she failed. "It wasn't the only reason," he said.

He stood there for a long moment, watching his sweet words sink into her. Ruthie attempted to keep them at bay; she reminded herself that this man was only trying to soften the blow, and yet…and yet those words found their way to her heart, easily and surely. Giddy and nervous, Ruthie broke the silence and began to walk once more. "You were so brave to leave when you were so young," she said, clumsily changing the subject.

Harry blanched, squinting at her ruefully. "How bizarre that you consider leaving home to become a thief as brave. Most would think otherwise."

"Well, I don't," Ruthie replied, lifting her chin.

"I didn't feel very brave at the time," he continued. "Really, it was a matter of necessity. I'd overheard her discussing exorcisms with a priest from our church." Harry scratched his chin. "I didn't think it would be wise to stay and be a part of one of those. I had a feeling that it might not end well for me."

"I should think not." Ruthie laughed. "But you shouldn't be modest. I don't think I would ever have that much courage."

"You would."

Ruthie pictured her mother lavishing all her attention and grace on Lord Dawkins while gesturing with wild eyes for her daughter to do the same. "No," she said glumly. "I couldn't. Can I tell you a secret?"

"I'd be most disappointed if you didn't."

Ruthie gnawed at her bottom lip. A minute ago, she'd told herself not to burden the man, and now she was confiding in him. Did she have any control of herself in his company? But Ruthie's heart was heavy; her soul felt even worse. She needed to talk to someone, and Harry Holmes was the only person who didn't mind listening. He might be a different, eccentric sort of man, but that counted for something, didn't it?

"I missed on purpose tonight," she said, watching closely for his startled reaction. When nothing happened, she went on, "My throw. I missed the sconce on purpose. I could have hit the candle off. Easily. But I decided not to at the last second."

"I know."

"You know?"

Ruthie stumbled over her feet. Usually, it was difficult for others to keep up with her pace; however, this night she was finding it a trial to stick with Harry's gait and conversation.

"Of course I know. I saw your mind change right before you threw the ball. Why?"

She angled her head. "Did you really believe I could hit the candle?"

Harry's expression turned guilty. "Well…not at first, but then it hit me."

"What?"

His smile was self-satisfied, as if he'd solved an ancient riddle. "You were always vaguely familiar to me. I swore I knew you from somewhere, but I couldn't place you. It was driving me quite insane, actually. I hate not knowing things."

"And?" Ruthie prodded, hiding a smile.

"Oh, yes. Then you mentioned cricket tonight. You're one of Samuel's darling cricket girls, aren't you? I must have seen you play last year. And I figured you had to be good if Samuel could stomach you. He's quite the snob about cricket."

"Yes, he is. But…" Ruthie bobbed her shoulders. "I'm not one of the better players, although I wouldn't say I was bad."

Harry cast her an appraising look. "Truly inspiring words."

"I'm sorry! But you can't expect me to… I mean, it's not right to speak about oneself in such a way…to be an egotist."

"Why?" Harry asked, truly baffled. "I do it, and it works just fine for me."

"Yes, but you're you and I'm me. We're very different people."

"Thank you for clarifying that," Harry returned dryly. "And you're right. I would have never let my arse of a brother win. Why did you?"

There it was. The question Ruthie had been avoiding, the one she didn't want to answer out loud. Because it would make her even more ashamed of herself than she already was.

"You wouldn't understand."

"I could try."

She turned to him. "Could you? There seem to be a great many things that you don't like to do, but your body compels you to do them anyway. How much control do you have over yourself?"

Harry had kept walking. When he noticed Ruthie was behind him, he looked down at the stones and changed course. He stopped right in front of her, the tips of his boots narrowly missing her own. "It's not as easy for me as it is for other people. It's not as simple as just wanting something."

"Wanting something isn't easy. Some of us try not to want with everything in our bodies, but still can't help it."

"And what do you want, Ruthie?"

What did she want? In her entire life, had anyone ever asked Ruthie that question? If so, had she ever dared to give her answer out loud? Could she do it now?

"I…I don't know," she stammered. Oh, but she did. She wanted the kind of life that other girls took for granted. It wasn't a grand life full of wild adventures on the Continent or schoolgirl fantasies involving pirate ships and turquoise waters. She wanted love. Pure and simple. Ruthie wanted a husband who adored her. A man who was excited to ask her about her day, who valued her opinion and wanted to build a life with her. She wanted a companion who knew how to make her laugh, a confidant who knew when to let her cry. A person to snuggle into when she was cold and a shoulder to rest her head on when she was tired. A lover to share her nights, to covet her days.

Ruthie wanted a man who asked her what she wanted. And she wanted the strength to accept him.

Harry's eyes darted over her, reading her. She felt herself turn warm; it was a slow, steady burn growing in the deep reaches of her belly. His voice was gentle, as soft as the pillow she laid her head on alone each night. "What do you want, Ruthie?"

You.

The word was at the tip of her tongue. How Ruthie yearned for this man to sweep her in his arms and kiss it free. Open her to a new world of freedom and enlightenment.

Harry cocked his head, waiting, ever patient—interested. Could anybody truly understand what a gift that was? To have someone desire to hear her answer rather than just branding her with theirs?

He leaned down to her. Ruthie opened her mouth to speak, only the words wouldn't come. Harry's smile was kind, so kind it hurt. And for a moment, she actually believed that if she told him she wanted him to kiss her, he would do it. That he would want to do it, too. He wouldn't grimace as his arms folded around her, and he wouldn't flinch as his boot straddled a crack in the stone, and he wouldn't falter as his lips fell to hers. And he wouldn't be disgusted as she devoured him with her aching, overwhelming want .

The picture Ruthie painted was nice. More than nice. Decadent. Sinful. No, not sinful. Beautiful.

And so very, very terrifying.

Harry's eyes fell to her lips, and fear rushed in, dashing all her hopes to the side. Ruthie stepped away, remembering that she was not a courageous woman. She was Ruthie. The loving daughter. The good friend. The sympathetic sister. The rock that willful people broke themselves against.

Harry stretched his arm, making to grab her elbow and bring her back inside the bubble of their moment, but it stalled halfway. His expression changed, almost like he were a man waking up from a long, unlikely dream.

So Ruthie answered him the way she was supposed to, the way she'd been told to her entire life, the only way she knew how. "I lost so my brother could win," she said, walking once more. "It's his destiny."