Chapter 11 #2
It was Simon who addressed the faint accusation in the air, his voice deadly quiet. “Are you saying you believe her father was a traitor to the Crown?”
“I do not know.” Sir Williamson’s manner, however, said, yes, he did in fact believe her father had been a traitor.
Caillen put down her teacup. “How dare you? My father was no traitor.”
Sir Williamson leaned forward, his tone low, his pale eyes deadly. “There are many things I would dare for my country.”
Astley’s anger flared to life and his body language mimicked the spy’s. “I would not have traveled to America if I had known you believed such a ridiculous notion. To brand a man a traitor after being dead for over a decade is preposterous.”
“Aren’t you interested in sharing this?” Sir Williamson tapped the book on the table, drawing their attention to the worn, leather-bound tome that appeared to be decades, if not centuries, old.
“It’s the book Simon retrieved from America.
” He turned to her. “The same book that disappeared the night your father was killed.”
She looked between the two men. “I don’t understand.”
Simon reached for the book, but Sir Williamson large hand slapped down on it first.
The tension in the air was thick and palpable, and she wondered how these two had ever been on friendly terms. It also seemed rather bold of a mere sir, no matter what his position, to speak to an earl in the same bold manner Sir Williamson spoke to Simon.
She reached for Simon, touched his sleeve, but the two remained in a staring contest. Only when she slipped her hand in his and held him, palm to palm, did his eyes slowly travel to where they were joined. His deep fathomless eyes met hers.
“Please, Simon. Let us finish hearing what he has to say.”
“He will destroy your family name, when he has the means to restore it in his hand.”
She looked down at the book Sir Williamson’s large hand prevented Simon from grabbing. “Please,” she begged because as much as she wanted her family name cleared, she needed the truth more.
Simon gave her hand a squeeze then released it.
Sir Williamson eyed the two of them before continuing.
“We received information that a church registry was stolen the night your father died. It was the church registry from the Holy Trinity Church in Carlisle, the same church where your parents were married. A certain high-ranking member of society paid to have the registry burned. The brother of the vicar he paid to destroy the book, however, had a change of heart. His conscience got the better of him and he couldn’t do it.
Afraid he would be killed for not completing the job, he sailed to America with the registry.
At the time, I was a mere agent and couldn’t direct anyone to sail to America to look for a book on the off chance the story was true.
By the time I was able to do something, we had more pressing issues to address.
Then Astley volunteered for the assignment last year. ”
“Why would you do that?” she asked. “What did you have to gain?”
“I hoped it would give you a reason to live.”
That was the last thing she wanted to hear. “But a war was brewing with America, are you daft? I should have never taken you for idleness itself.”
His lips turned up in the tiniest hint of a smile. “You cannot paraphrase Shakespeare and turn it into a compliment. That’s breaking all our rules.”
“Simon, why would you do that?” She implored.
Any other time Simon would have continued to make light of the terrible fate that had befallen him, in this however, he became serious.
“My brother brushed against you while rising from my dinner table and it nearly destroyed you. I couldn’t stand by and watch you fall apart when I wasn’t able to help you. ”
“But you saved me,” she insisted.
“You screamed when I touched you. The only person who could even get close to you that day was my mother. My mother, whom you had never met before I took you to Langley Castle. It took hours of her singing a Hindi Lori that she had sung to all her children in our time of discomfort, until you finally stopped screaming. Watching you nearly broke me in a way the French couldn’t. I had to leave.
“I couldn’t watch what he had done to you anymore. Day after day you rocked in a corner or stared through me as if I didn’t exist. Night after night you woke up screaming but wouldn’t let anyone near you to comfort you. I had to do something for you, because watching you was breaking me.”
How had she missed it—the signs of the vulnerable, kind heart behind his roguish reputation?
There was no doubt, he had deserved his notoriety for his reputation with women, but he also made no excuses.
He never denied the outlandish stories of his escapades in The Whispers of the Ton, but she’d never witnessed him be anything but respectful to her sisters, the dowager duchess or any servants. She had judged him wrongly.
Simon continued. “When I woke up to find you acting as my caretaker, I was thankful for every moment I had spent in that French hole, because I knew that during that time, you had been escaping your own prison.”
She swallowed the lump threatening to choke back her words. “Don’t say that. I was in a prison of my own making.”
He shook his head, and reached for her hand, gently taking it in his as he went down on his good knee in front of her. He covered the top of her hand with his other and stared into her eyes, as tears rolled down her cheeks for everything this man had suffered in her name.
Suddenly, she realized his hold didn’t make her anxious, or fearful, or disquieted in any manner. Nor did she feel trapped, like she needed him to release her. Something had changed in her, in them. She was not repelled by his touch. She welcomed it.
Even when he had pulled her into his bath, she had been hyper-aware of their contact, and not just because of his nudity, but because her fear had never taken over.
He had tested her, and she had forced herself to endure, while taking a leap of faith that wasn’t as big a gamble as it would have been with anyone else.
She hadn’t been restless or afraid in his arms.
And now as he held her hand in his, his touch was more intimate and more loving than anything they had ever shared, and she savored the manner in which his thumb stroked her wrist, in a gesture of comfort he was unaware of giving. It was in his blood to nurture, and he did it very well.
“You don’t hold any blame in what happened to you,” he insisted, dipping his head to look into her eyes as she tried to escape the intensity of his denial. “Your prison was built and fortified by a man who abused you in a fashion that was unimaginable. Your escape was of your own making.”
He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her tears before nodding to Williamson, who was at the opposite end of the drawing room, looking at the sheet music left on the pianoforte by Ailsa. “Our ploy worked,” he whispered. “He left the book.”
She looked down at the registry on the table.
“He has ‘such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness,’” Simon said loud enough for Sir Williamson to hear.
She smiled. She couldn’t help herself. Simon quoting Shakespeare at Sir Williamson’s expense was adorable. His mischievous wink before he pulled himself back into his chair with a barely perceptible wince, seemed to hint at how they could quote Shakespeare in the future.
“Are you quite finished with your tedious insults?” Sir Williamson asked as he stalked back toward them.
“‘A pox damn you, muddy rascal.’ Muddy rascal!” Charlotte chirped from her perch as she began flapping her wings.