Chapter 22
Dani knew she was alone in the bed before she opened her eyes. She was cold and unmoored. When she felt for the place where
Bannock had been, her hand stretched on and on. She held her breath and listened. Was she alone in the room? No. She heard
rustling. A drawer slid shut, footsteps, a coin scraped across a tabletop. He’d gone from the bed but not from the room. Not
yet.
She sat up and pushed the heavy fall of her hair from her face. Sunlight at the windows was dulled to lavender through a curtain
of rain. The candles were gutted but fire jumped brightly in the grate, throwing off heat. Bannock stood near the wardrobe,
fully dressed, dropping folded shirts into a case.
Her chemise, she saw, had also been folded. It sat in a puffy square at the foot of the bed. Dani had never slept naked before,
but last night, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Now she gathered the sheet and clutched it to her
breasts.
“Hello,” she said simply.
He paused in his packing and looked up. They locked eyes, but only for a second. His gaze dropped, taking in her dishevelment, and bare shoulders, and what was surely hope on her face. She couldn’t hide any of it, so she did not try.
Bannock returned to his packing.
“So, today . . .” she guessed.
“Nothing about this is ideal,” he said. His voice was flat. “The longer I remain, the worse for Welty and the worse for you.”
“I have not asked you to remain,” she said. In her head she added, But you could ask me to go.
His hands froze in the act of folding a cravat. He looked up. “No. You have not asked me to stay. Another reason to go.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she shot back. “It’s obvious that I hold you in affection, Bannock. God knows
why—”
“Yes, God knows why.”
“—and it’s unfair to suggest that I’ve tried to restrict or contain you. I have not.”
“Last night—”
“You were never sailing to France in the hours after the wedding, you said so yourself. It was my wedding night, forgive me
if I didn’t want to spend it alone.”
“I’m glad to have given you what you wanted.”
“That overstates things.”
She sounded petulant, she could hear it, but she felt petulant. His immediate departure was unnecessary. He could see this,
surely?
Yes—an old man was being held captive. And yes—Luke was tormented by guilt and nightmares, and he must reckon with all of it.
But they’d just been married, for God’s sake.
Under false pretenses. And she’d accepted it.
And now he was leaving her with—apparently—nothing more to say about it.
No promises, no assurances, no second look at his original plan to “dangle her.” And God forbid he make some proclamation of . . . of—
“I’m sorry,” he said, locking the case. He looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. A muscle worked in his jaw. He looked
miserable.
Ask me, she willed him, feeling miserable herself.
Ask me to help you. Use me to recover your friend.
He exhaled and dropped his head. He looked at her. “Tell your family that I’ve an urgent errand for the Admiralty, alright?
Little-known fact about being a war hero, you can blame almost anything on the war and you’re given leave to do whatever the
hell you want.”
“No more lies,” she said.
He sighed. “Or not. I’ve arranged for six men to call on you next week—three are potential stewards for the estate and three
are potential foremen for the farmland. Hire your favorites—or send them away if they’re unsuitable. I’ll arrange for new
candidates.”
“You’ve been planning this for weeks,” she realized. A hollowness had opened up in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t catch
her breath. She felt motion sick, and homesick, and heartsick.
She couldn’t remain perched in the bed, and she yanked at the bedsheet to wrap it around her. Her shimmy from the bed was
graceless but she shuffled to her feet.
Luke watched her, his eyes intense, but turned away. “When you’ve filled the positions of steward and foreman,” he continued,
“you may decide how little or how much they assist you. Each candidate is aware that you are in charge. If you need help,
Viscount Fernsby will be standing by; you need only ask.”
“You’re going to France entirely alone.” Another realization.
“Fernsby is more valuable to me here,” he continued. “He understands our situation, and I trust him to watch over you, which
is saying a lot. He is stronger and sturdier than he looks.”
Dani picked over his words for deeper meaning, searching for some promise from him. She began to back away. “I don’t need
to be watched over,” she told him.
“Danielle,” he said, eyeing her.
“I don’t. There are things that I need, but being watched over by Viscount Fernsby is not one of them.”
“Danielle, please.”
“Please what?” Ask me, she willed him. Ask me to help you.
He stared after her and she continued to retreat. She hated her pettiness, and his stubbornness; she hated everything about
this wretched “negotiation.” She’d been a fool, honestly, to think it was anything more than that.
There was parchment beside him on the dresser, and he held up the top sheet. “On my previous attempts to rescue Welty,” he
told her, “I’ve let a room in a neighboring village. A different one every time. This time, it’ll be a town called Lumbres.
This is the direction. There is a shop in town that collects mail for the villagers. You can write to me there. I’ll be staying
under an assumed name, so address the envelope to the name written here. I’ll respond and keep you informed of my progress.”
She paused. Write him? Again, her brain examined this for some deeper meaning.
He snagged his overcoat from a chair and shoved his arms in it. He picked up his case. “Goodbye, Danielle,” he said.
Dani shook her head. How unbelievable this all was: That he’d turn up in Ivy Hill, that he’d be .
. . him—thrilling, and handsome, and clever, and tortured—and that he would lie to her.
Then explain those lies. And finally, that he’d simply go.
Right this second—now. He would leave her with nothing more than steward interviews, and Lord Fernsby, and an assumed name.
He turned to the door.
“Wait,” she called out, her voice breaking.
He paused. He turned back.
“Have you nothing to ask me?” she demanded tearfully. “Nothing at all?”
He looked at the floor, he let out a breath. He swore.
For a reason she could not identify, this made her furious. She was angry at his reluctance, angry at her hopefulness, angry
at Vincent Surcouf, whomever the bloody hell he was. She was just about to tell him to get out, when he put down his traveling
case and began walking to her.
Dani closed her mouth. She eyed him. He kept coming, striding purposefully across the room to the very spot where she stood.
She straightened; she clutched the bedsheet. Her heart pounded. He didn’t stop until he was close enough to touch—close enough
to smell. With no warning, he snatched her around the waist and yanked her to him. Before she could yelp, he claimed her mouth
in a hard, desperate kiss.
Dani went rigid, frozen in shock and frustration. Now he kisses me? she thought. But resistance was futile. Her body sank into his, her lips opened, and her eyes fluttered shut. It was every
kiss they’d ever shared and also, possibly, their last. He broke the kiss to press his face into her neck, and inhaled, squeezing
her tightly.
“Write me?” he rasped into her ear. “I’m in no position to ask this, I know, but I’m asking anyway. Write to me.”
He kissed her again and pulled away, releasing her as quickly as he’d snatched her up. Dani gasped, staggering in the tangled column of the bedsheet.
And then he left her. She blinked after him, watching as he recovered his traveling case and collected his gloves from the
table at the foot of the bed. Without another word, he shoved his hat on his head and walked out.