Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The cellar beneath the tavern reeked of sweat, cigars, and blood. Nicholas dragged a rough cloth across his forehead as the crowd surged and bellowed for more, and turned back to his opponent.
The man was built along the lines of a bull—all shoulders and bulging muscle, and every punch of his hurt.
Nicholas ordinarily kept his face clear of damage for Sophia’s sake, but a bruise was already swelling under his left eye, and his split lip opened afresh whenever he moved his mouth, sharp and coppery.
It ought to have satisfied him. Here was violence without consequence, somewhere to spend the bitterness where no one who mattered would know.
Well, no one but Oliver, who today was courting Nicholas’s sister rather than bleeding out in a cellar. Oliver, who had a chance to marry for love and trust the woman he chose.
Nicholas envied him that. He wanted the same, and knew that but for his own stubbornness he might have it.
The bell tolled him back, and he pushed to the middle of the ring.
The crowd hooted as both men faced each other. The roar felt as though it sank into Nicholas’s soul. The skin on his knuckles cracked as he curled his fingers into fists.
His opponent grinned, blood on his teeth. “Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Nicholas dived forward. His world narrowed to his fists, his feet, the pain of breathing. The man caught him across the shoulder, then the ribs. Agony flared.
You can give more, if you choose to. But you don’t. If anything, you choose not to. And that is where the problem lies. Isadora’s voice sang in his head.
“I’m giving everything I can,” he panted, but he knew it was not the truth—not with her, and not in this ring.
His opponent frowned in confusion, then spat a bloody wad of saliva at the ground. “Cry home to ya mam,” he jeered.
Nicholas gritted his teeth, but just before he could pull himself together to return to the fight as he should, giving it his all, his opponent’s fist collided with his jaw. He reeled. His teeth snapped together.
I ought to go home.
The thought flashed in his head, so loud he could barely hear the roar of the crowd over it. “Will, Will, Will,” they chanted, but he was going to lose this fight. He wanted to lose this fight. I want to go home, he thought as he staggered back. No, I want Isadora.
What a fool he’d been for not realizing it until now. He fell to his knees.
“Get up!” a rotund fellow from the crowd yelled at him. “Get up and fight like a man!”
Nicholas turned his face up to his opponent, no longer caring how the fight ended. “Finish it,” he said calmly.
For a second, the other man hesitated. But Nicholas was done fighting—he would take his punishment and go.
Nicholas spread his arms. “I’m waiting.”
The final blow crashed against his face, and he tasted blood as he toppled. The agony was exquisite.
In his mind, Isadora leaned over him. There was too much hurt between them for an easy peace, but for a few desperate, euphoric moments he let himself imagine one.
"Well then," she purred, touching his cheek. "What mess have you gotten into now?"
"I promise," he told her, perhaps in his mind, perhaps aloud, "never to come back to this place, so long as you promise to be mine and only mine."
She cupped his jaw, smiling a little. "I will never belong to any other man, Nicholas. You are my forevermore."
He smiled, bloody-lipped, prostrate on the ground. A whistle blew. He had lost the bout—and yet felt he'd won back some common sense. However he despised Grace for what she had done, he could not live the rest of his life fearing what Isadora might do to him.
Sophia was his, whatever Sherborne claimed, and Isadora belonged to no one else.
Until she proved otherwise, he would not doubt her.
He raised his eyes, vision fuzzy, and saw a man standing in the doorway, staring at him. A nondescript face, gray eyes, and a large greatcoat that swamped the man’s smaller body.
Sherborne…
Nicholas struggled to his feet, but the man disappeared.
Someone wrapped a towel around his shoulders. “What was that about?” he demanded. “You gave up halfway through!”
“I… I need to go.” Nicholas wiped away the worst of the blood with the towel. No broken bones—there was that, at least.
But men swarmed him, shaking their money bags at him. He’d lost plenty of men their money, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Finally, he shook himself free, and a pageboy handed him a piece of paper. “Sorry, sir. A gentleman left this for you.”
Hands trembling, Nicholas unfolded it to reveal five words. His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the paper, then scanned it again.
‘I will take what’s mine.’
“Send for a carriage!” Nicholas roared, not caring that he had spoken as though he were the duke and not Will.
It was time for this charade to end; he would never forgive himself if he lost Sophia because of his foolish, shortsighted vices.
The sun beat down on Isadora’s head as she walked through the rose garden—minus the blooms she had harvested for Grace’s grave. The world was still, and by her side, Sophia chattered inconsequentially about the new countries and facts she had discovered in her Atlas.
The world could still be a good place for her to be. She could still feel as though she belonged. This moment was one that gave her a sense of peace and rightness.
“Oh look!” Sophia exclaimed, pointing straight ahead.
There was the cat, followed by her stumbling little brood of kittens.
They were a few weeks old now, and had more or less learned where their legs and paws were, although they did sometimes get surprised by their own tails.
Isadora had poked her head into the closet every so often to check on them, but this was the first time she had seen them out and about.
Sophia rushed to Molly’s side, sinking to her knees as the cat circled about her, meowing pointedly.
“I think,” Isadora said, coming to sit beside Sophia, “she wants us to look after her kittens for a while.”
The cat watched her with intelligent green eyes, then picked up one of the kittens by the scruff of its neck and placed it very firmly on Isadora’s lap. Sophia got the other two, and then the mother cat stalked away, no doubt in search of prey or perhaps even just an opportunity to be alone.
Isadora’s fingers trailed the delicate fur at the top of her kitten’s head. It moved its paws jerkily, raising its head and meowing weakly.
“Do you think they’re hungry?” Sophia asked anxiously.
“I doubt it. I expect they’ll have recently fed. But they won’t be used to being without their mother.” Isadora hesitated. “…Do you ever miss your mother?”
Sophia pressed a kiss to the heads of the two kittens she held.
“No,” she said, perfectly cheerfully. “I don’t remember her much.
Maybe if I were older when she died, I might miss her, but how do you miss someone you don’t know well?
” She nuzzled a pale gray kitten. “Don’t worry,” she told it, her voice gentle.
“I will look after you. Just like Izzie looks after me. You won’t miss your mother then. ”
A warm feeling ignited in Isadora’s chest. “You know,” she said, plucking a few blades of grass and scattering them to the wind, “I will always be here for you if you ever need something. No matter what.”
Sophia smiled. “I know. You and Papa will always be here for me. You’ve told me that before, and I believe you.”
The kitty in Isadora’s lap squirmed, its mewling a little louder this time. “This one misses its mother still,” she murmured. “But she’ll be all right.”
“That’s because she has you.” Sophia tilted her face to the sky with childish, innocent certainty. “Just like Papa and I have you. We’ll all be all right so long as we’re together.”
An unnatural movement caught Isadora’s eye, and she turned to find a strange man approaching them from the tree line. He walked cautiously, glancing at the empty windows of the house as though he feared discovery, and a strange, unsettled feeling built in Isadora’s stomach.
“Quickly,” she said, rising and standing protectively before Sophia. Her heart fluttered in her throat. Something about the way the man moved—with purpose—and the fact she did not recognize him and he should not have been approaching them, sent icy fear rattling through her bones.
Sophia looked up at her, confusion written across her face. “What is it?”
“Collect the kittens.” She tugged Sophia to her feet. The man was closer now, his eyes never leaving them. There was nothing of note about his features, but that very fact sparked a memory within her.
Nicholas talking to a man who looked just as nondescript at the park. The muted anger in Nicholas’s actions and the sly smile on the man’s face.
He wore that same sly smile now, as though he knew exactly what he was doing, and that they wouldn’t like it.
Isadora half-turned toward the house, but they had strayed too far from it. If they were to run for it now, and he gave chase, he would likely catch them. Of all the times for her to be alone, no gardeners in sight.
“Who is he?” Sophia asked, looking at the man as well.
“I don’t know, but I don’t think he should be here. I need you to run, all right. Go back to the house. I’ll speak with him.” She placed the other kitten in Sophia’s arms and gave her a little push. “Go now.”
“Where’s Papa?”
“He’s gone out. We can’t look for him.” She stood between Sophia and the man, whose gaze was locked on the girl. “Now, Sophia. Run.”
Sophia ran, sprinting back toward the house. Isadora turned to face the approaching man, who showed no signs of stopping. “Excuse me, sir,” she called. “This is private property. Please leave before I call someone.”
His smirk widened into a grin. “Call someone? And who are you going to call, Your Grace?”
“There are plenty of servants around.”
“On the contrary. There is a fire at the stables, and all hands have been called to help. I doubt you’ve noticed, sitting back here—any moment now, I expect you’ll see the smoke.”
The stables were quite at the other end of the house, and when Isadora turned, she did glimpse a tiny plume of gray rising into the sky. No smell of smoke yet, but the wind was not in her favor.
“Why are you here? Why are you doing this?”
“I’ve come for my daughter.”
Isadora glanced to where Sophia had almost reached the house. But the library door was locked. She would have to run around the side of the house, and she had the kittens in her arms, moving far too slowly.
“Your daughter?” she asked, turning back to him. “Sophia is not—”
The man started past her, moving in such a predatory way that Isadora’s heart clenched. Although he wasn’t running, he was moving fast enough—and if he reached her—
Ahead, Sophia tried the outer library door, not knowing it was shut. Not knowing where she could go. She turned, her small face paling when she saw the man bearing down on her, the kittens still clasped firmly in her arms.
Isadora could not let that happen. She launched herself after the man, grabbing his arm and hauling him back around to face her.
“You will not touch her!” she hissed, positioning herself once more in between the man and Sophia.
“Run, Soph!” she yelled. “Around to the front of the house. Go to the stables!”
“Not far enough, little mouse.” The man freed his arm from Isadora’s hold and snatched a handful of her hair, dragging her face close to his.
Like this, he no longer appeared nondescript, but instead terrible, as though he were a demon who had clawed his way from the bowels of hell, and would think nothing of destroying her on his way to fulfill his aims. He yanked on her hair so hard it stung, then tossed her aside.
Isadora landed hard, smacking her head against the rocky edge of the path. Pain smashed through her world, and she blinked away tears as she struggled to her feet. Already, she could feel dampness soaking through her hair, dribbling warm down to her collar. She staggered as she rose.
The man advanced toward Sophia, who was now fleeing. Isadora needed to stop it, but she felt as though she were moving through treacle. Too slow—she was too slow, and if she didn’t move faster, she was going to risk losing Sophia.
No. She couldn’t.
Not after everything she had been through. Sophia was the family she had found, the one who had adopted her when she thought she would never have a family of her own, and she would not let anything happen to the girl.
She forced her limbs into movement. Her legs were shaky, but she put them one before the other… Faster, faster…
The man had broken into a run. Isadora watched, anger boiling in her chest, as he whisked Sophia off her feet, tucking her under his arm as though she were nothing more than a bag of flour. Sophia screamed, struggling, and Isadora screamed, too, so frustrated at her own ineptitude.
All she had to do was run a little faster.
The man disappeared around the side of the house, Sophia in tow.
Isadora forced herself to move more quickly despite the pain. In the scuffle, she had lost one of her shoes, and the gravel bit at her stockinged foot. Her hair felt damp and sticky, and her head throbbed like no tomorrow. It was all she could do to stay on her feet.
A chest materialized before her, and she couldn’t stop herself in time before slamming into it. A familiar curse sounded in her ear, then a hand was curling protectively around her elbow.
“Dora?” Nicholas said, his voice twisted with an emotion she couldn’t name. His face came into focus before her, oddly bruised and smeared with blood. “What happened?”
“He has Sophia! You must get her back!” The words slurred on her tongue. Isadora wasn’t even certain she had said them right. But he must go, he must.
Nicholas took hold of her shoulders and eased her to the ground. “Stay with me,” was his gruff, almost pained command, and then he was off, running around the side of the house as though his life depended on it.
Isadora closed her eyes.