Chapter Six
Calliope glanced up when the door opened and three women spilled into her shop. She smiled when she spotted the girl she’d met last time. Holly. The day had passed rather uneventfully so far, though that, to her, was indeed the most perfect day. Her dreams of last night, however . . .
She dared to dwell on those! They were too . . . too confusing. Too full of heat. Too much of him.
But none of that now.
“Welcome,” she murmured to the women.
“Calliope! I brought my friends to introduce to you and your shop.” Holly was already crossing the threshold with familiar ease, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
She gestured to each of the other women.
“This is Pippa Avery, the Countess of Chatteris, and Violet Sharpe, the owner of The Bloom Room I mentioned.”
A countess?
Instant wariness filled her whole body. Duvessa was a countess.
That doesn’t mean anything.
“I told you not to introduce me as a countess!” The Countess of Chatteris turned to Holly, exasperated. “You are forever scolding me when I introduce you as the Marchioness of Warton!”
A marchioness, too?
Calliope’s throat constricted.
What were the chances they knew Duvessa?
“I forgot, all right?” Holly sent a sheepish look toward Calliope. “Forgive us. It’s not that we mean to hide our designations, we’d simply rather not be defined by them. More so outside of London.”
Calliope understood and managed a small nod, but her discomfort did not quite settle.
She had spent the better part of three months avoiding anyone titled only to find herself in the company of two titled women at once.
Of course, she couldn’t choose her customers.
The fashionable still visited Brighton. Simply not her stepmother.
She would have to reconcile herself to it, sooner or later. Denial, after all, was a temporary shelter at best.
The women wandered farther inside, chatting amongst themselves. The countess paused to examine a display of honey balm, while Holly pulled Miss Sharpe toward the shelf near the window where Calliope kept her wilder blends.
Miss Sharpe sniffed at a bundle of candles, her expression bright with interest. “It smells like something I once dreamed of. Is that absurd?”
Calliope found her voice. “Not at all.” This whole shop, all her candles, after all, was the result of a dream.
“I adore this,” Miss Sharpe said, running her fingers over the elegant glass label. “I’m just about to open a flower shop not far from here, and I’m considering creating scent pairings to complement my bouquets. Would you ever consider collaborating?”
Surprised, Calliope’s eyes flew wide. Collaborate? A wave of warmth unfurled in the deepest part of her. “I might,” she said carefully, cautious to commit too fast. She couldn’t quite relax, but her lingering discomfort softened a little bit. “It all depends on the flowers.”
“Fabulous! Then we shall talk once I’ve settled in.”
Calliope didn’t mean to stare, but something about Miss Sharpe’s sincerity, the dreaminess in her voice as she spoke, stirred something in her that reminded her of that dream, which had stirred a host of other things!
What a lost cause you are, Calliope!
“You’re not from Brighton originally, are you?” Miss Sharpe asked, her tone curious but not prying. “Your accent is polished. London?”
The growing warmth waned slightly. Her accent? One could tell with these sorts of things? “I’m not from Brighton, no, but I’ve decided to settle here.” For now. Where she might end up after her lease of six months only time could tell.
She could feel Holly’s gaze shift toward her and pretended she didn’t notice. The fewer questions, the better. The fact that she hadn’t confirmed or denied or answered where she hailed from was probably telling in itself.
Dreams . . . they were strange, elusive things, all the more when they were finally in reach. As though they shifted the moment you believed them secure. Like her dream of opening this shop and living peacefully hidden away from Duvessa.
And the dream she’d had of a certain landlord last night. But then, she hadn’t just dreamed of Maxen Fury, had she?
She’d dreamed of touch.
Of fingers trailing over her collarbone.
Of dark eyes watching her from the shadows, daring her to run.
Of greed, not for coin or power—but for her.
His hands, his mouth, his voice. It wasn’t the sort of dream a sensible woman allowed to linger past dawn.
And certainly not one she let bloom while surrounded by marchionesses and countesses!
But even now, the memory pressed deep against her skin.
For the love of wax . . .
If she was going to dream about a man, why him?
Why not someone safe, distant, and utterly uninvolved with landlords and missing merchants and an unfortunate urge to see him again?
Because Maxen Fury—no matter how dangerous, no matter how maddening—had cracked something in her the moment he’d stepped into her shop.
She’d felt it, damn him. As if the air had changed texture.
As if her body recognized something before her mind could put words to it. Still couldn’t put words to it.
She didn’t need that kind of peril in her life.
Not again.
This little shop, wherever it may be located, here or in Wales or anywhere else, was her sanctuary because it was first carved in her heart. Every candle she molded was a small declaration: I am here. I have survived. You cannot find me. You cannot strip me of this life.
“Well, no matter,” Holly piped up. “It doesn’t matter where you are from, only where you go from here.”
“Exactly!” The countess grinned.
“Agreed,” Miss Sharpe said softly, as if sensing Calliope’s sudden storm. “And I do hope you’ll consider the idea of working together. But you must feel no pressure to do so. I know what it’s like to build something new from the bones of a former life.”
A lump rose in Calliope’s throat. These weren’t empty niceties. Miss Sharpe meant every word. Holly and the countess nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you.”
The women beamed at her and were soon debating whether mint made for a better morning or evening scent.
Calliope watched them, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. For all her moments of cynicism, for all the shadows she’d left behind, she still wanted connection.
Still wanted to trust.
But this was also what petrified her. If her dreams were any indication .
. . her instincts couldn’t be trusted. Not when they’d already wrapped themselves around Maxen Fury like roots seeking life in barren earth.
Which was precisely why she needed to cut them out before they grew any deeper.
For if they took root in him, she feared they’d be the death of her.
*
Maxen stepped into their dungeon, his gaze falling on Rollings, dirty, bedraggled, and tied to a chair in the center of the room. There was nothing spectacular about the man. Nor anything diabolical. But then, those were the kind that a man had to be most cautious of.
They were the kind most prone to betray.
Many overlooked them. Many dismissed them. And those men? The men like Rollings? They listened. They observed. They made calculated moves.
And he’d slipped past Maxen’s notice.
Another failure.
Drake, who’d finally showed face again, stepped up beside him. Silent.
Rollings lifted his head sluggishly. His right eye was swollen shut, and a trail of blood had dripped off the side of his face and spread along the edge of his collar. Maxen didn’t speak immediately, simply crossed the room to a table with water and two cups.
“I didn’t betray you,” Rollings croaked.
Maxen poured a measure of water into a cup, the whisper of leather stretching across his hands with the movements, placed it on the table, then leaned against it, arms crossed.
The older man swallowed, eyes flicking toward the cup before back at Maxen, and expressed again, “I did not betray you.”
“No? Then you simply lost the shipping ledger that would expose our routes, and several of our warehouses, by accident?”
The man’s eyes flew wide. “How did you—”
“Reliable sources, Rollings. Much more reliable than you. Why didn’t you inform us of the missing ledger?”
“I . . . I was . . . I—”
“You were afraid. I can understand. It’s not a tolerable excuse, however.”
“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Fury. I didn’t know how to tell you. I planned to, I really did, I just . . . I told you everything else.”
“You didn’t tell us about Calliope Turner and her little candle shop, The Whispering Wick.”
The man’s eyes rounded even more.
So, he did know her. The confirmation brought him nothing but coldness.
Drake cursed.
“She has nothing to do with this,” Rollings hurried to say. “You must believe me!”
“And what exactly is this?”
“I am her supplier. I brought her products from France.”
Is that so? “On my ship?”
“It’s not much. Barely takes up any space.”
So bloody dishonest. Using his route, his ship, to bring over products for others. Do it for one, do it for many.
“She doesn’t know anything about what I do other than supply her with her oils.”
“Methinks the man doth protest too much,” Drake said darkly.
“It’s true! Our initial arrangement came through another party!”
Maxen arched a brow. “Oh? And who is that party? Who else did you do these secret shipments for?”
The man’s mouth clamped shut.
Heh.
Maxen pushed off the table. “Let me explain something, Rollings. The last man who lied to me left this room breathing, just not walking. And he doesn’t live on this godforsaken island anymore.”
Rollings paled.
“And you’re about to tell me,” Maxen added, voice like ice, “or you’re about to face a monster you’ve only heard whispers about.”
Beads of sweat gathered on the man’s brow. “An acquaintance of mine approached me in regard to the oils and introduced me to Miss Turner. But—but, he is of no consequence. And I only shipped for one other client, but I do not know his identity.”
“Not good enough.”
“That client . . . he worked through another man. Hair shaved. Brute looking. He gave me the request and payment, and that was that.”
That could be hundreds of men.
“And what was this request?”
“I—I only had to send a letter over to France. That was all.”
Maxen’s blood turned to ice. “So, not only do you lose an important ledger and not inform us, but you also did side jobs on our time, using our ships.” Maxen pressed the heel of his palm against the bridge of his nose before looking at the man again.
“Who is the man who introduced you to Calliope Turner?”
The man came up short, spluttering. “I-I-I—”
“Do you want to walk out here,” Maxen snapped, “or crawl?”
“Fitz,” the man rasped. “John Fitz.”
“The solicitor Dagger brokered the rental deal through,” Drake spoke up.
Maxen nodded and jutted a chin to the water. His brother stepped up to free one of the Rollings arms, handing him the cup. Rollings gulped the contents down in one go.
“And how do you know John Fitz?” Drake asked.
Rollings inhaled a sharp breath. “Known him for years. Met through a mutual acquaintance.”
“So many acquaintances,” Maxen murmured. “Who is the mutual one?”
“Passed away last year.”
Maxen sneered. “And how does Calliope Turner know John Fitz?” What woman had a solicitor in London? Not his kind. Not unless she belonged to a world he despised.
“You’ll have to ask Fitz that.”
Maxen sneered. “Or Miss Turner, correct?”
The man pursed his lips.
Maxen’s fists clenched, and he stalked a slow circle around the chair. “If I discover you are lying . . .”
“I’m not! I vow I’m not!”
Drake made a sound like a half-scoff, half-snort.
Maxen stopped behind Rollings, fingers flexing. “What else?” he asked. “What else do you know about her?”
“N-nothing,” Rollings stammered. “Nothing, I swear.”
“Are you sure?” Maxen watched the man’s spine from behind.
“I’m sure, I swear!”
The man wasn’t lying. Even so, it wasn’t enough.
Not when Maxen could still see her green eyes narrowing on him like a ruffled little mouse ready to scatter if he made one wrong move.
The deliberate way she chose to answer questions, not to flinch, not to give anything away.
Not when he kept recalling how she looked at him like she was the one observing him and not the other way around.
“She doesn’t belong in this world,” Rollings said in a rush, as though reading Maxen’s mind. “Too decent. Too . . .”
“Too what?” Maxen asked in a low voice.
“Good.”
Maxen’s jaw ticked. That was what bothered him too. Not what she did. But what she didn’t.
“I warned her,” the man babbled on. “I warned her about you—”
Maxen stiffened.
“—warned her about the beasts that rule Brighton. But,” he hastily added. “I didn’t give your names. Only warned her to be careful.”
Fury exploded. Maxen wanted to throttle the damn man.
“Maxen,” Drake warned. “Don’t.”
Damnation! The only reason he managed to restrain every urge to beat Rollings into the floor was due to that last part. He hadn’t given their names.
“So she’s just an ordinary woman?” Drake asked.
“Yes,” Rollings said, nodding fiercely. “Ordinary.”
How bloody laughable. Calliope Turner ordinary? There was nothing ordinary about her. “When you’ve met Miss Turner,” he balled and unballed his fists, “what did you talk about?”
“She thanked me for the delivery. Paid in full. Politely asked after my journey.”
Drake crossed his arms, but Maxen paid him no mind. He didn’t need to look at his brother to know both brows were raised.
“That’s all?” he pressed.
“It’s always the same.” Rollings hesitated. “She’s only ever asked once if I miss home when I travel a lot, that’s all. Nothing more.”
That was all?
Perhaps to a man like Rollings it didn’t mean anything, but to Maxen? That simple question slithered into a knot in his gut, like a snake. She missed something too. Or someone. Or some time before she’d landed here in Brighton.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “If she is everything you claim she is, then you pushed her into the middle of a bloody storm without her knowing it.”
Rollings shuddered.
Good.
“Pray she’s as ordinary as you say, because if she’s not . . . this storm won’t spare her.”
He turned and strode for the stairs, Drake falling into step behind him.