Chapter Twelve

Jack was sitting, sunken into one of the large chairs that was positioned in front of the large fireplace in Mountebank's private office. He had been there for hours, wondering why he felt so hostile and trying to decipher his feelings regarding Meredith's secret marriage.

Why hadn't she told him?

It wasn't his business, he knew, but she had trusted him with her secret about the cottage by the sea and as small a thing as that had been, he had reveled in knowing about it. Jack couldn't explain it, but he felt entitled to all of her secrets. He had no right to feel like that, but he couldn't help being submerged in an oddly unsettled, primitive emotion that Meredith belonged to him. He knew that wasn't true either, but he wanted it to be.

Someone, somewhere had hurt Meredith and it possessed him. He desperately wanted revenge on her behalf. What a strange, all-encompassing emotion to feel. Even if she didn't belong to him, he wanted to do everything in his power to keep her safe.

His long, scarred fingers flexed into a fist as he imagined meeting the bastard who had abandoned her. How could anyone have ever intentionally hurt someone like Meredith?

Lost in thought as he took another sip from the scotch he had been nursing for an hour or so, he suddenly heard the doorknob click. Expecting Mountebank, he didn't move, only stared into the fire, hoping the man would leave him alone with his thoughts.

"Jack?" A feminine voice spoke.

Every inch of Jack responded to his name on her lips. It was as if tiny sparks flashed against his skin as he realized it was Meredith, but he remained still. His heart was suddenly racing as he listened to her gentle footfall. When she stopped, he tilted his head a fraction of an inch, not sure why he didn't want to acknowledge her.

"Miss Taylor," he said after a moment, his voice harsher than he had expected it to sound. "Have you lost your way?"

"No. I couldn't sleep," she said from behind him. "Why do you call me that?"

"Call you what?"

"Miss Taylor."

"It is your name."

"I thought we were to be friends."

"Friends who keep secrets?" he said, eyes on the dancing flames in the fireplace.

A heavy pause settled between them as the tension grew. Jack knew he was out of line, was vastly aware of it. He repeated in his mind the words his conscience seemed to spout every time he grew angry with her. It wasn't his business. He had no right. But he wanted to do damage to the man who had hurt her. He wanted to cause bodily harm to him and every person who ever made her feel less than. And he was angry that she hadn't trusted him enough to tell him the truth. Surely, she would admonish him for being such an ass. He knew he deserved it, but she remained still as the silence grew.

He should apologize. Regardless of how he felt, he knew that Meredith did not owe him anything.

Sighing, he adjusted his position, suddenly uncomfortable with his own bitter attitude.

"I'm sorry, Meredith. I have no right—"

"What secrets do you wish to know about me?" she asked softly, as he faced her.

She was dressed in a quilted, silk brocade dressing robe, covering one of those ghastly nightgowns that women wore, all lace and frills that went all the way up to her neck. How any one of them could sleep with such fabric always confused Jack, but as he stared at this woman, completely covered except for her hands and face, he felt himself go hard.

He had expected her honey brown hair to be braided, but it was only tied back by a single ribbon as it hung over her one shoulder. She was a paradox. She was equal parts innocent and tantalizing. Offended and pleased. Woeful and hopeful and he wanted all of her, in every form.

What the hell was the matter with him?

"You shouldn't be down here, dressed like that," he said as he stared at her.

"What secrets do you wish to know, Jack?" she asked, calling his attention back to his foul mood.

His eyes searched hers as he felt suddenly unsure about his reaction. He wanted to know all her secrets, but he wanted her to tell him of her own free will. He inhaled sharply and then exhaled as he gently placed his scotch glass on the small end table.

"Whatever ones you're willing to share." he paused. "Truthfully."

Confusion followed by contentment passed over her face as she watched him. In a moment, she came around the edge of the sofa and sat next to him, having decided something, he assumed. She suddenly seemed eager to share.

"I have a secret," she began, before shaking her head. "It is not a great secret. I do not hold it dear. If anything, it is my deepest regret, my greatest mistake." She paused, her hands coming together in her lap as she began to toy with her nailbeds. He remained still. "My family knew the Petersons for years. We weren't exactly friends, but acquaintances. I knew John, and Percy and," she paused, "Clyde from church and a few social dances that the entire village would attend."

"So, you knew him?" Jack asked.

"No, not very well," she answered honestly. "John had been one of a dozen suitors for Sarah, but drifted away once Sarah was married. Percy was not terribly good at any sort of conversation and I only ever spoke to Clyde a few months before…"

She didn't finish her thought, but bit her lip as she faced the fire. God, how he wanted to kiss that lip.

"Mama was so happy that Sarah had married an earl. She wanted me to marry a duke. Anyone would do, she said, and I remember having to attend dozens of dinners with these ancient men, some older than my own father." Her fingers became stiffer in their fidgeting as she continued. "All before my own season. I was going to be married off before I got a chance to, to … well, to enjoy myself a little."

The innocence with which she spoke made Jack want to give her all sorts of enjoyment.

"And this Clyde character offered you some enjoyment?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I think he knew from the very beginning what he was doing and how easy a target I was," she said. "The Petersons were landed gentry, but not very wealthy. As the third son, Clyde was pushed to join the clergy, but he said there was no place for a man like him in a ministry. He spoke to me after church and flirted with me at the local dances. For several weeks, it seemed whenever I turned around, whether on a walk or a visit to town, Clyde Peterson was there, waiting for me. He had told me how sad his brother John had been at Sarah's marriage, but when I explained that Sarah had fallen in love and with someone so handsome and wealthy, well…" She shook her head as her hands stilled in her lap. "I shouldn't have told him anything. But I fancied him so much and it felt nice to talk to someone about things, including my impending future."

"He listened to you."

"Yes. Oh, I know it was to get information from me, but I didn't know that at the time. I only knew someone was interested in what I had to say and with Sarah gone and Beatrice too young to speak with, I felt rather lonely. It was nice to have someone to talk to who soothed my fledgling jealousy. Sarah had married so well and to someone she loved. I wanted to do the same. I told him I didn't want to marry an old duke, or any old man whatsoever. I didn't care about money or position, as long as I was in love. If I married one of those titled gentlemen, I'd have to live the rest of my life attending boring dinner parties and never being able to dance because my husband walked with a cane." She paused, her face creasing with guilt. "Does that make me a bad person?"

"Pardon me?"

"I'm sure they were fine older men. I often think that if I hadn't been so judgmental, maybe I wouldn't have fallen for Clyde. If I hadn't been so prejudiced against them due to their age, I might have been happy with one of those older suitors."

"By forcing yourself to marry someone you didn't like?" Jack said, shaking his head. "No, Meredith. I think your opinion should be the only opinion in your own life."

Meredith glanced at him.

"Do you really believe that?"

He smirked and for the first time since dancing with her, he felt like his old self again.

"You're terribly easy to please. Do you know that?" he asked, his voice deeper than before. He wanted to reach for her hands, to touch and soothe away her apparent unease, but he waited. "Yes, darling. I think you should be in charge of your own life."

"I thought so, too, back then," she said, glancing back into the fire. "Clyde was so convincing. He told me I was the prettiest girl he had ever seen and how clever he thought I was and how I should marry someone my own age and shouldn't it be someone like him?"

"Why was he so invested?" Jack asked.

"Because," she started, before stopping, biting her lip once more. It was evidently something she had thought of a lot. "Because of Sarah's marriage to Robert. The earl was terribly wealthy and I told him so. Blast my stupid, youthful foolishness, but I told him that Robert was planning on setting up a hefty dowry for Beatrice and myself, at Sarah's request. She didn't want me to marry an old man either and told me in confidence that I was to refuse every proposal Mama set up for me and then eventually I would be able to choose my own husband. I think Clyde had the very bright idea to marry me and receive that dowry."

"Ah. I see."

"I didn't," she said softly. "I thought he liked me, genuinely liked me. And he began telling me stories. Stories about us, running away together and being in love for the rest of our days—well, I couldn't help but want it." She smiled sadly and Jack had the sudden urge to scorch these painful memories that made her eyes so haunted. "I believed him and when he asked me to marry him, I said yes and we ran away."

"To Scotland?"

She nodded.

"We were there for two weeks. There was a tiny cottage at the base of a rolling cluster of hills, before a small loch. It was humble. The floor was dirt and the bed was made of straw, but it was cozy. There was a small hearth and not much else, but, oh, I did love it." She paused, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she remembered. "It wasn't grand in the least, but I was so happy."

Jack felt the strangest sort of pull in his chest. That she could be so happy about a dirt floor and a straw bed simply because it meant she could be with the person she loved, well, it did something to him. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath when she continued.

"I was blissfully unaware of the growing tension between us. At first, I thought he was securing our future. He wrote several letters and when he received responses to them, he seemed annoyed. With the arrival of each letter, his anger grew. The night before he left, we got into a terrible argument. I thought for the longest time, had I not fought back so viciously that he might have stayed."

A pause followed her words. Fought back? The words seemed to be the only bit he understood as fury began building deep within his core.

"Fought back?" Jack repeated, his voice oddly chilled. "What do you mean fought back?"

"He hit me," she said, her eyes glazing over as she spoke, almost in a daze as if she were replaying the incident in her mind. "He had been in a foul mood all that day and I must have suggested something or spoke too much, because right before dinner, he struck me across the cheek."

A deadly stillness overtook Jack's entire body as he processed her words. He stared into the fire as his chest rose and fell. Something seemed to break within him at that moment and his fists rounded. He was going to kill Clyde Peterson, actually kill him, when he found him. Because if there was ever anything Jack Archer was certain of in his entire life, it was that he was going to find him.

"Bloody bastard," Jack bit out, barely able to contain his rage as fury exploded in his chest. He stood up. "I'll murder him."

Meredith shook her head.

"It wasn't terrible. And I did try to defend myself," she said as she continued. "But I was stunned for a moment. No one had ever raised a hand to me before. I suppose that's a good thing, because the next minute my mind went blank and I hit him back."

Jack stared at her, almost unable to believe that sweet, soft Meredith could ever lift a hand to someone in anger. He slowly sat back down, eyes locked on her.

"Is that the person you meant then? When I asked if you had ever hit someone?" She nodded and he felt the corner of his mouth hitch up as he imagined her striking back at the blackguard. "I thought you might have had an argument with your sisters as a child."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't never hit them."

"No. I should have guessed that," he said. "And did you make him sorry for touching you that way?"

"I wasn't very good at landing my fists on him. I wouldn't even call them punches," she said sheepishly. "And I'm not proud of myself, but in the spirit of honesty, I will tell you that I flailed my arms as hard and as fast as I could at him, until he ran out the door. He didn't come back that night and when I woke in the morning, he was gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. He wasn't swimming in the loch or in any of the fields. I went to the tiny village, some miles from the cottage, but no one had seen him. There was chatter in the next village over that a horse had been stolen, but I didn't think Clyde had done it. When he didn't return to the cottage that night, I figured he had gone to get provisions."

"How long did you stay there?"

"Seven days. I cried the entire time, thinking that I had ruined everything. It was seven days before the earl, accompanied by Sarah, came to get me, and brought me to my parents' home."

"Your brother-in-law went to get you? Not your father?"

Meredith became very still.

"No. Papa hadn't been well for some time and he had died during the two weeks I was away. Mama always says I hastened his decline." She gazed down at her hands once more as her fingers knotted together. "I supposed I didn't help it. I don't think she ever forgave me."

"I doubt his death was your fault," he said, but she didn't seem to hear him. "What happened once you returned?"

"I was kept away from society. After Robert and Sarah delt with the Petersons, who were equally embarrassed, it was decided that I would become a spinster, so to avoid scandal and keep Beatrice's reputation intact."

"But why would Beatrice's reputation be affected?"

"The only thing worse than being a fallen woman is being the sister of a fallen woman," she said lowly. "Or so Mama would say. She said others would believe it was a hereditary trait."

"How did your sister handle the Petersons?"

"I believe she and Robert paid them off to keep it all quiet. They affectively disowned Clyde and banished him from their home. They moved a year or two later to another part of the country and I never saw them again."

"And Clyde?"

She turned to face him, a strand of honey colored hair falling against her cheek.

"Not since he left me in Scotland," she said. "Not a note, no whisper of his whereabouts. I often wonder if he left the country."

Jack watched Meredith as she peered into the fire once more, seemingly lost in her thoughts. He was oddly proud of her for having defended herself, but his pride was drowned out by the notion that she should have ever had to do so. He tried to imagine a younger version of Meredith, left alone in the wilds of the northern country. How could he have left her without any sort of resources, alone to defend herself without any help? Besides that, what kind of man struck a woman?

It made his blood boil.

The more he thought about it, the more he recognized that the fury he had felt earlier when he had been alone wasn't directed at Meredith, but Clyde. How could he have basically left her for dead? It was infuriating to picture.

An unbearable tension snapped through him. He felt just like he had the night he had received his scars. He needed to move. Standing up, he pushed back his coat with his hands as they rested on his hips. He paced the floor between the fire and the sofa.

"I know you must be angry with me for lying to you," she said suddenly, watching as he paced. "Believe me, I'm angry with myself. I have been ever since, but I hope you won't rescind your friendship."

Jack stopped.

"I'm not angry with you."

"Aren't you?" she asked, a weak laugh followed her words. "You look it." Jack dropped his hands, trying to relax his tense body. "I feel like such a fool."

"You're not," he said defiantly. When she didn't face him, he came to stand before her before squatting down to his haunches. Still, she didn't let her eyes meet his. "Meredith," he said softly, his hand reaching up to touch her chin, tilting it up until she had no choice but to see him. "You are not a fool."

"I must be," she said softly as her bottom lip began to shake. "Because I never do what's best for me."

God save him, he didn't know what she was talking about. He only knew that he had become increasingly worried over her wellbeing and he felt it was his duty to watch over her now. Not only her wellbeing, but her happiness and all the things that made her happy, because somehow, she had become incredibly important to him. Even now, as much as he wanted to touch her, to hold her and do all the things he had been dreaming about for weeks, he hesitated. His only concern was for her.

Did she just tilt her chin up and lean closer? God, no, this wasn't happening. Not in Mountebank's private study.

Jack needed to remove all hedonistic thoughts of Meredith from his mind. He needed to not think about all the ways he could love her, protect her, and make her know things so that she would never have to wonder about his feelings for her.

But he also needed to keep his distance.

"Jack," she said softly.

"Yes?" he said gruffly.

She opened her mouth to speak and he was sure she was about to tell him something. But instead, she just shook her head.

"I should go back to my rooms," she said.

"Yes," he agreed. "You should."

Neither one of them moved, though. Jack was absolutely still, knowing that if he moved even a fraction of an inch forward, it would be a signal. Though neither spoke, it seemed a world of communication moved between them. Gradually, Meredith's hand moved from her lap and Jack's eyes watched as her cold fingers came up and wrapped around his large, scarred ones. Her eyes moved down to their joined hands and he felt the gentle pressure of her hand squeeze his.

"Thank you for listening without judgment," she whispered.

"I would never judge you," he said hoarsely.

"Then you don't think I'm some kind of harlot?" she asked quietly. "A woman without virtue."

The vulnerability in her voice both broke him and solidified his feelings. Meredith Taylor had become the single most interesting, central person in Jack's entire life and he wasn't completely sure what that meant. All he knew was that he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her and tell her all the things she wanted to hear. She would believe him too because he wouldn't leave any room for doubt.

"You're perfect, just the way you are."

She exhaled and her warm breath moved across his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to fight off his growing desire. God, he wanted her.

"That's kind of you."

His eyes opened and he stared longingly into her hazel ones.

"I don't mean it to be kind," he said. "I mean to say that I admire you. You were brave to run away. I like that you were so determined to live happily ever after with the man you thought would be your beau forever. I'm sorry that you chose poorly, but I don't blame you for falling for a charlatan."

Her hand dropped but he grabbed it.

"H-how can you say that?"

"Because I like you, Meredith. I like every bit of you," he said. "I like the fact that you're so damn honest. I like the way your hair always looks when it's about to fall out from its pins. I like that I don't frighten you and I like those hideous dresses you wear. I like that you fought back, even if it tears me up that you were ever in a position where you were required to fight back. I like the fact that you can't seem to stop telling me things about yourself. I want to know every little detail about you and your life, because I like everything about you and even the things you consider faults are more tempting to me—"

Her free hand came up to cover his mouth to try and stop him from speaking, but in a single motion he grabbed it, holding both of her wrists in a single, biting grip. He leaned forward, his forehead touching hers in a terribly intimate way.

"I can't seem to help myself where you're concerned. Tell me what you want, Meredith." She tried to shake her head, but she couldn't. "Tell me and I'll do everything in my power to give it to you."

Her eyes floated up to his and he saw a lust there that he had never seen before. With a particularly agonizing slowness, she tilted her head up, their mouths just barely touching as she spoke.

"I can't."

"Should I tell you what I want then?" he asked, his breath moving over her lips. "I want to take you to Burnwall. I want to lock you away with me for a week and learn every inch of your skin. I want you to trust me and I want you to believe me when I say you are the single most thought-provoking, mind-boggling woman I've ever met."

Meredith's eyes seemed to shine a little brighter that moment.

"Jack," she whispered. "Please." She hesitated for only a fraction of a second. "Please. Kiss me."

Without hesitation, without preamble, Jack's hands seized her upper arms as he pulled her up to stand before him and he kissed her so deeply, so senselessly that all sensible reason disappeared the moment their lips touched.