Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

" D o you know how tediously exhausting it is to wander Bond Street in search of the exact maker of a very specific black silk cravat?" Tristan sighed dramatically as he walked up behind Savannah on the crowded street.

She turned, unsurprised to see him, since they'd already made plans for dinner. That gave him pause. Not because Savannah wasn't constantly aware of her surroundings—one had to be in the rookery, especially a woman. No, for a heartbeat, he hoped it was because she knew he'd followed her. That she knew it was him, as she had once always known where he stood.

Now, standing with her in the most unlikely of places, he swore Savannah's lips twitched. Whether in annoyance or humor, he couldn't tell, but at least it was a reaction. She walked along the street quite alone, which made the skin between his shoulders itch. He knew she carried her dagger in her specially made pocket, but it would take her precious seconds to reach for it.

Even if she wore it on her hip, it'd take too long as far as he was concerned. Then again, she'd assured him that Dem and his gang would protect her. They might, but at that moment, he didn't see anyone else following her.

"Where's Browne?" He looked behind her but didn't see her footman or Peters. Not even one of Dem's lieutenants.

"Waiting at the carriage," she said, pausing near an abandoned doorway and turning to face him. "Why? Miss him already?"

Tristan ignored that, though part of him was grateful for the joking manner in which she said it. He asked seriously, "Why isn't he protecting you?"

She sighed but didn't roll her eyes or snap at him.

Definite progress, he thought.

"He was, for a long time. Still would be, if I let him." She stepped closer, and her voice lowered. "Part of it is that the women weren't comfortable, and if he stood behind me, they wouldn't share what was truly the problem. He helps deliver food baskets to the houses that will accept them, then waits beside the carriage. An added protection for any would-be thieves."

"All right." He still didn't like it, but at least it was a valid point. "And the other reason?"

"Dem controls the street. If it looks as if he can't protect me, then he loses power, and I lose protection. No one wins."

Tristan scowled. "No one is protecting you now." He waved a hand around them, where people milled through the filthy streets, some in threadbare shoes, most of the children barefoot. Not one looked like her protector.

"As I'm sure you remember," she said condescendingly, "I can take care of myself." Savannah paused and frowned. The relaxation in her shoulders stiffened now, and her eyes grew wary. "Though I admit, it's odd no one is here. Not even Robbie, who usually follows me everywhere."

He remembered Robbie. The lad had raced to do Savannah's bidding, finding the vicar and reporting sharply to Dem. Had that been for show? To show Tristan, the newcomer, just how much power Dem had over this little street?

Having spoken to both Dem and Ailene, Tristan doubted it. They cared about Savannah. Indeed, many of the people here did. Even at the theater, Moll had shown worry about Savannah's questioning so dangerous a topic.

"Why are you here?" Savannah asked, her hand on his arm. Probably to draw his attention back to her and away from the street. Still, her touch was warm and soft. "I'm sure it's not for the sights, as captivating as they are."

He snorted and steered her forward once again. Not Dem's house, he noted. "Who are you here to see?"

"I see many women. Several have had babies in the last month and need care." She stopped again, hugging the house, heading away from the street and its river of filth. "Browne and I delivered food to several mothers earlier. No one here has enough, especially not the new mothers. I bring enough food for the family for a couple of days, but it's best I do so with an armed guard."

That made sense. Food was the costliest commodity. If Savannah delivered baskets every few days, she'd need more than one guard, though Tristan knew Browne could hold his own better than most. He'd fought in the Peninsular Wars, part of the Rifle Corps. Knowing that didn't lessen Tristan's unease. He wanted to say more, but he knew her all too well. He'd fight with her about her safety later—and it'd be a fight, no doubt about that.

One thing at a time.

"What did you find out?" she asked, nodding at his pocket, as if he carried the cravat with him.

"Do you know how many kinds of silks there are?" he asked easily. Glancing around as if he hadn't a care in the world, he noted several men watching her from across the street and down three houses. She didn't seem concerned, and Tristan didn't recognize any of them from his time here. Not part of Dem's gang, then. "Who are they?"

Savannah slid her gaze to the side and sighed. "People who don't approve of my being here. Those who don't want their wives or daughters accepting the help of a woman of my color."

Tristan scowled. He didn't know if his next step involved thrashing the lot of them for that insult or something else, but Savannah's hand stopped him. This time, she hadn't placed a staying grip on his arm, but took his hand.

"They aren't worth it. Dem controls them, for the most part. Those who don't accept my help aren't forced into it, but that doesn't stop a small number of people from trying to run me off the street." She paused, holding his gaze. "The cravat?" she asked again, softer this time. She also, he noted, hadn't released his hand.

"Right." He memorized the faces of the small group—four men who looked as filthy and malnourished as the rest of the street—just in case they made a move he didn't like. "Silks. There are far too many for me to keep track of them all."

She offered a small laugh and tilted her head, looking up at him with a slight smirk. "You are many things, Tristan. Fashionable isn't one of them."

"Not fashionable!" He glowered, but his lips lifted slightly. He looked down and met her gaze. When he looked up again, the men had drifted away, into one of the houses. "I would have you know I'm quite fashionable. The height, even, I'd say."

"My apologies." Her lips twitched again, and he swore she fought back a laugh. "Perhaps I should've said you aren't cognizant of the latest fashions."

"Hmm," he mumbled disbelievingly.

"Silks?" she prompted innocently.

"I spent the morning wandering Bond Street with Arnault. He knows more about fabrics than anyone has a right to," Tristan grumbled.

Arnault had lectured him on silks, satin silks, imported Chinese silks, and the method for discerning quality based on how much…something was in the silk bundles. Twigs? Debris? Arnault had specified, but Tristan couldn't remember the term now.

He'd also spent the morning ignoring Arnault's none-too-subtle hints that perhaps Miss Savannah would like this silk or that as they passed the dressmakers and milliners. That maybe he should think about gifts for the lovely woman rather than murders and assailants.

"Tristan," Savannah cut in disbelievingly. "You once quoted to me an entire treatise on newfound animals on the penal colony of Australia. If anyone has more knowledge about anything than they should, it's you."

"I like animals," he muttered. "I'm not that fond of silk production."

She rolled her eyes, which sparkled in the hazy overhead light. Thin clouds covered the sky, making the day seem to shimmer rather than shine. He'd forgotten that particular quirk of London, that it could rain one minute and be sunny and cloudless the next.

"And this imported silk. You found a seller?"

"Arnault is still working on that," he promised. "My cabin boy is still eavesdropping around various sellers."

"Then why are you here?"

I missed you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me for being an idiot. I love you.

He had a list, but, somehow, they were never in the perfect place to talk. Or maybe there was no such thing and he put it off because her answer, and a future without her, terrified him.

Savannah waited, but he didn't immediately answer.

"Please." She sighed, annoyed with both herself for wanting more from him and with him for not being able to offer it. "I have several more families to visit before my tea with Eliza."

"It's—" He reached out and stopped her, holding her hand tightly in both of his. "It's not that. I'm here because I need to keep you safe. That has never changed. I'm here because I realize I talked a lot about what I wanted and not about you."

"About me?" Savannah took a startled step back. "What about me?"

"What you did in the last three years." His voice remained quiet. Not soft, but…sorrowful, she thought. "How you changed."

"I didn't chan—" She cut herself off. Of course she'd changed.

She'd hidden away, cut off contact with friends and family and anyone who had known Tristan. Christiane, her oldest and dearest friend. Aunt Nadia, her beloved godmother. Every single one of the Conrads, though she'd always regarded them as close as her own family. Her grandmother, whom she hadn't seen in years because she refused to travel to Nelda Hall.

"I didn't…at first," she admitted, the words coming haltingly from her as if pulled out. "I didn't know what to do."

Then, because it was important to her to say and for him to know, she swallowed and dived in.

"I cut off all contact," she admitted, skipping over the pain of his sudden departure. No need to rehash the crying and anger and heartache. "Your parents wrote, arrived within days. I'm sure Aunt Nadia told them, or perhaps Esme. She visited, too. I couldn't speak to any of them, though they were all understanding of why." Her lips twisted, and the pain she'd buried for so long finally began to diminish. "I think they wanted to skewer you as badly as I did."

Tristan grunted and nodded. "I'm sure. I deserved it, too."

She held his gaze and wanted to agree, but finally found it within herself to release that pain and anger. She'd held onto it for so long that she truly had changed.

"Then I picked myself up. I didn't know what else to do, so I gathered Browne and found Denmark Street." She nodded around, at the street as familiar to her as her own, even with its ever-changing residents, its crumbling fa?ade and stench. "I help here. I'm useful here."

"You thought you weren't useful before?" He couldn't mask his surprise. His hand tightened around hers, pulling her closer both physically and metaphorically.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I had to move on after you left. Become more independent, I suppose you could say. Or as independent as a woman can be."

"What do you want now?" he asked, his fingers soft over the inside of her wrist.

Savannah didn't think that stroking made her forgive him, but it felt as if with every stroke of his fingers on her bare skin, a piece of her anger evaporated.

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Savannah. What do you want?"

"I don't know how to say it any more plainly," she snapped, tired of arguing, of the weight of her anger, of not knowing what she wanted.

Mostly that. She'd wanted Tristan for so long, wanted the life they'd planned together. Then he left, and she'd been forced to pick up whatever pieces of her life remained, to build them into a wall surrounding her heart. One that protected her from hurt, from the searing agony of having been left behind.

"I don't know how to forgive you, Tristan." She hadn't meant to say his name. Doing so hurt, though of course he stood before her watching her with guarded eyes that looked like he'd break at any moment. "I don't know what you expect of me."

"I don't either," he admitted. "I know I hurt you, that ‘hurt' is not an adequate word to describe it. I—I was a fool, thinking my leaving wouldn't change anything."

Savannah thought she should stay angry at him. He left; he had no right to look so worn down and exhausted. Yet she couldn't, not when he stood before her looking broken. When she had changed also, and there, she realized, lay the crux of the matter.

Forgiving him wasn't the hardest thing she'd ever had to do.

"I've always been the planner of the family. You're right; I take more after Yara than anyone else." His lips twisted into a rueful grin. "I planned everything out, planned out a life with you." He gingerly squeezed her hand.

"I know. I was there," she added in jest, but it came out quieter than she'd wished.

"I planned everything from my career to our future, but suddenly there it was. This opportunity." He shook his head again, and his words tumbled out faster. "I didn't run from you, though I know it might look like that. It was more, here's a ship. Here's a ship that's sailing out right now, and you can go with her."

"So you said." She eyed him skeptically. "I find that hard to believe. It's not at all like the Tristan I know." Knew.

"I didn't say it was wise." He didn't smile or joke it away, but held her gaze, serious and steady. "It simply was. That's what I chose, and I chose wrong." He shook his head, eyes closed for a brief moment. When he met her gaze again, the weight of that choice sat heavy in his eyes. "I don't know if Arnault thought I was running from something or what, but I eventually told him about you."

His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist in long, slow movements. Savannah shivered, her fingers flexing against his at the forgotten touch. She struggled for a comment, anything, but could only manage, "He must have been very confident in his role if he let you captain the ship."

Tristan tilted his head and frowned. Slowly, he nodded, his fingers still doing delicious things against her skin. She wanted to pull away. She wanted him to never stop.

"I hadn't thought of that, but you're right. He knew what he was about, saw me, a green Conrad out for adventure or risk or whatever, and offered me that chance."

"Why tell me this now?"

"Because telling you my feelings is important. I should have told you before I left, but I didn't fully realize them then. Things would've been different if I had."

She pulled back, too tempted by his touch, his heartfelt confession. She needed space. She couldn't breathe and doubted it was because of the closed-in feel of Denmark Street and the houses literally falling down around them. Her hand dropped from his, and she took another step back. She didn't know how to respond. "Thank you" seemed trite.

"I don't know how I feel," she admitted honestly, taking another step backward. "I—when you left, it felt as if my heart had been cut out and stomped on."

"I'm sorry." His anguished whisper floated over the growing distance between them. "It's so inadequate, but I am. Deeply."

Savannah nodded and turned, at a loss about their next steps. Or hers, for that matter. She gripped her basket, tears blurring her vision, her only thought that she needed to leave.

"Savannah!"

Tristan's shout, the cold fear in it, made her whirl back toward him. She instinctively reached for her dagger, her heart pounding in fear.

She didn't see what happened. One minute, tears blurred her vision and her throat ached with too many emotions to properly sort through. The next, Tristan's face filled her view, his eyes wide with fear and anger and something else.

Then he tackled her off her feet, and the world spun.