Chapter 38
Charlotte was fast—much faster than Jasper could have expected.
Had this been the foot race of their wager, Jasper might have admired her form.
Under those circumstances, he might have called out some provoking remark about unfair starts and unmarked courses, and the disgraceful absence of a finish line.
Under the present circumstances, he could barely breathe. “Charlotte!”
She did not stop.
He watched as a branch caught her sleeve. She wrenched free. Another struck her cheek. She stumbled, recovered, and ran harder.
The path dipped towards the stream.
Jasper saw it before she did: the slick bank, the exposed roots, the treacherous slope where spring rain had softened the ground to black paste. “Charlotte, stop!”
“Leave me be!”
“You are going to fall.”
“Then let me!”
It was perhaps the most Charlotte Tolliver answer imaginable, and it frightened him more than the scream had done.
He caught her at last at the top of the bank, grabbing her about the waist. With little elegance, he dragged her backwards just as one boot slid from beneath her.
They went down hard together. There was mud, and grass, a flash of sky, her elbow in his rib.
“Let me go!” she cried, twisting hard.
“I shall, when you stop trying to pitch yourself into the stream.”
She made a sound between a sob and a growl, and shoved at his chest. Jasper caught her wrists by instinct, then loosed them at once, horrified by himself.
She froze at once, and so did he.
Jasper rolled away from her, palms lifted. “There,” he said, rough-voiced. “I am not holding you.”
Lottie scrambled to sit, breathing hard. Her hair had fallen entirely loose now. There was mud across one sleeve and a bright scratch along her cheek. She was holding papers, crushed in her fist.
“I hit him,” she said again. “But I did not kill him.”
“Whatever happened, Charlotte—”
“I did not kill him.”
“I know.” His voice broke, just a little, upon the word. “You need not convince me of anything.”
She stared at him, wild-eyed and pale. “You weren’t there, Jasper.”
“No,” he said. “I was not.”
“Then how can you know?”
“Because I know you.” Jasper swallowed, and the next words came lower, rougher, dragged from some place in him no wit could soften.
“Tell me nothing, and I shall stand beside you. Tell me a lie, and I shall not contradict it. Tell me the whole truth, and I shall not flinch. But do not, for God’s sake, stand there and plead with me as though I am another man waiting to decide whether you are worth believing. ”
Her face crumpled for half a heartbeat before pride dragged it back into shape. “I wanted to hurt him,” she whispered. “I wanted him afraid. That’s a wicked thing to say, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jasper said. “It is. And still, I hope the man rots in hell.”
Charlotte looked at him with those wide, furious, devastated eyes, and the last of her composure gave way.
She began to cry, not prettily or tragically, but as though she hated every tear and could not stop a single one.
Jasper did not touch her.
He wanted to. God, he wanted to gather her up, hold her, kiss her hair and put himself between her and every horror, but there was a difference between comfort and capture, and he was learning it late, but he was learning.
He remained where he was, seated in the mud like a fool, hands open upon his knees.
After a moment, Charlotte gave a choked, miserable laugh. “You look ridiculous.”
He offered a smile. “How so?”
She wiped her eyes, smearing mud across her face. “You are sitting in a puddle.”
“Am I? I suppose I had noticed a certain dampness.”
Another laugh broke from her, and then another sob followed it so closely that the sound became something else entirely.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, pressing the back of her muddy glove to her mouth. “Oh, God. He is dead.”
“Yes, I think he is.”
They sat in silence for a time, with Charlotte staring at the stream, as though the water might arrange events into some sensible order if she watched it long enough.
“Well,” she said at long last. “I shall tell you the truth. He forged these letters in my hand, and though I cannot bring myself to read them, I can only imagine what wicked things he has written. He meant to sell them to the scandal sheets. Or threaten to—I’m not sure which. I—” She stumbled over her words.
“Charlotte—”
“No. Let me finish.” Her voice shook, but she lifted one hand, as though commanding silence at Almack’s rather than sitting tear-streaked beside a stream. “If I stop now, I shall never say it.”
He bowed his head.
Charlotte breathed deeply. “He held the letters out, though not near enough for me to take them. He was enjoying it. He was enjoying every second, because he knew I was afraid and wanted to see whether I should beg. I think he wanted that most of all. Not the money, nor even the scandal. He wanted me begging.”
Jasper’s jaw worked, but he did not speak.
“But I did not beg.” A terrible little smile passed over her face and vanished. “I moved my horse closer, as though I meant to look at them. He laughed and called me a clever girl. And then I snatched the letters.”
“Good,” Jasper said, very softly.
Lottie’s fingers tightened around her skirt. “He grabbed my reins.”
Her voice thinned, and Jasper saw, horribly, that she was no longer quite beside the stream with him. She was in the clearing again.
“He caught them here.” She lifted both hands, showing where the leather had pulled. “He jerked my mare towards his horse, hard enough that she nearly slipped. I told him to let go, but he would not. He said I had always liked a struggle.”
Jasper closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was watching him.
“I hit him,” she said.
“With your crop?”
“Yes. Across the wrist. He swore and let go, but then he came at me. Not—” She stopped, swallowed, and began again.
“Not quite at me. At the letters. At my hand. I think he meant to tear them away, or knock me down, or perhaps only frighten me into dropping them. I do not know. Everything happened very quickly. His horse was already wild. He had ridden the poor creature too hard, and he was jerking at its mouth. When I struck him again, the grey reared.” Her breath hitched.
“In the confusion, I dropped one of the letters. I could not let him have them again, so I dismounted. My mare was frightened half out of her senses. She bolted the moment my feet touched the ground.”
Her voice shook, but she continued. “Marchmont dismounted too, and came after me, trying to snatch the letters back. I had them in my hand, and he caught at my sleeve. I hit him, right in the nose with my fist. He slipped.” She swallowed. “He was very near the edge.
“I could have tried to help him, I think. But I was holding the letters, and I thought—” She pressed her lips together.
“I thought, no. Save yourself. The bramble broke, and as he went down, he screamed. High and dreadful, like a woman. So you see, I did not kill him. But I did not save him either.”
Jasper was silent, before he reached, slowly enough that she might draw away, and laid his hand open upon the ground between them. “You saved yourself. That is no sin.”
Lottie looked at his hand for a long moment, until she placed her muddied fingers in his. “Come,” she said, rising without grace. “We had better go back before His Grace decides to arrest the entire county.”
Jasper stood with her. “A wise precaution.”
They had taken only three steps back towards the clearing when she stopped.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Our wager.”
Jasper only stared at her.
“The foot race,” she said, sniffing with as much dignity as any woman could manage while covered in mud beside a stream after witnessing a death. “You won.”
“Charlotte.”
“Oh, damnation.” She wiped her cheek again, leaving another streak of mud behind. “And you won the wrestle, as well.”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“No. The game is over. No more wagers, Charlotte. No more forfeits or clever little bargains by which we pretend not to want what we want or feel what we feel.” His voice roughened. “Not after this.”
For once, she had no answer, and he took her muddied hand in his.
“If I ask anything of you again, Miss Charlotte Tolliver, it shall not be because I have won the right. And if I give you anything, it shall not be because I have lost.”
She tightened her hand around his. “Very well. But in that case, I shall maintain that I am the superior runner.”
Jasper looked at her, mud-streaked, tearful, stubborn beyond all reason, and felt something in him break so cleanly it might have been relief. “My dear Lottie,” he said, “I would not dream of disputing it.”