Chapter 22 #2
He had been alone most of his life, in the beginning due to circumstance and later, by design.
He assembled his staff for competence and minimal discourse.
He conversed with Rowe on matters pertaining to the estate and little else.
He corresponded with a handful of men when matters of business required it, two of whom shared his interest in astronomy and so he corresponded with them more frequently and even saw them in person on occasion.
Since Catherine’s death there had been no one he truly named friend.
This afternoon, he had let someone through.
No. That was not the truth of it. He had been letting Minerva settle inside him since the day he had first seen her. And he could summon no regret.
When they came to the gate, he dismounted and reached up for her.
She slid down into his hands and for a moment they stood separated by mere inches, his hands on her waist, her face tipped to his.
His gaze slid to her throat, to the marks that were already darkening and would continue to do so until they finally began to fade.
But the image of Teague with his hands on her would never fade, the fear he had felt, the rage, the hate.
She lifted her hand to his cheek and murmured, “Do not think of him.”
He caught her hand and turned it to press a kiss to her palm. She studied him with those glass-green eyes that missed nothing.
“I will see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Such a pretty invitation,” she said.
He shook his head and stepped back to allow enough space for him to sketch a formal bow. “Will you do me the honour of walking with me on the morrow, Miss Ashworth?”
“I will,” she said and then turned to unlatch the gate.
He watched until the door closed behind her and then he turned away and stood for a moment with his hand on Cato’s bridle wondering how his life had become both immeasurably better and far more complicated. Then he mounted and turned Cato toward Carrek, toward home.
Pascoe was waiting in the yard when he rode in. The groom took Cato’s reins and said, “The stable, sir. Rowe is with him.”
Teague was on the ground in the far stall, his wrists bound behind him.
His face was a mottled map of the morning’s work, his nose swollen and crooked, both eyes darkened, his lip split, dried blood along his jaw.
Rowe stood to one side, hands clasped at the base of his spine, his expression neutral as always.
Dashiell stood looking at Teague, who looked back at him through swollen eyes. He let the silence gather and thicken.
Finally, Teague rasped, “What are you going to do to me?”
He smiled, baring his teeth. Teague recoiled.
“I will offer you a choice,” Dashiell said, his voice even.
“The first option is that I speak to the magistrate. I give him my account of this morning and the account of the groom who pulled you off the path. Miss Ashworth’s account will be taken as well, though I would prefer to spare her that.
” He paused. “You will be charged. You will be convicted.” Again, he paused, longer this time.
“I will ensure that you are convicted. And you will hang.”
Teague opened his mouth.
“I have not finished,” Dashiell said.
Teague closed his mouth.
“The second option, and I offer it only because I wish to spare Miss Ashworth from providing testimony, is that you are placed on a transport to Australia. You will go with what you have on your person at this moment and nothing more. You will never set foot in England again. If you do, the first option becomes available to me at any time, and I will use it.”
Teague’s jaw worked and his eyes darted to the side as if he were searching for an escape or a third, less odious option, a way out that did not require surrender.
Dashiell grabbed a three-legged stool from the corner and dragged it over. He settled on it, so he was almost eye-to-eye with Teague.
“There is a third option,” he said softly. Teague nodded. Dashiell leaned closer, his voice whisper soft. “I close my hands around your throat and strangle you. Then I drop your body in the ocean.”
With a gasp, Teague recoiled.
“Choose,” Dashiell said. “Now.”
Teague surged forward, his jaw set. “You bastard—”
“No,” Dashiell said, his voice flat. “Not a bastard. My parents were legally married.” He leaned in so his face was inches from Teague’s. “My patience wears thin.”
Seconds crawled past. Teague’s gaze darted to his bound wrists, then to Rowe, then back to Dashiell.
“The ship,” he said.
Dashiell rose and set the stool back in the corner. Then he turned to Rowe.
“Plymouth. Escort him yourself,” he said. “Contact Whitmore. Tell him I am calling in the favor he owes me. I want Teague on the first ship out.”
Rowe’s expression did not change. “Yes, sir.”
“And Rowe.” Dashiell paused. “He is not to be left until the gangplank is up.”
“Understood,” Rowe said.
Dashiell spun then and grabbed a fistful of Teague’s hair, yanking his head until he could look in his eyes.
“Return to these shores and you are a dead man,” he said softly, then he shoved Teague away and spun on his heel.
In the yard, Dashiell paused, letting his fists unclench.
He had beaten Teague with precise and methodical efficiency and felt, in the doing of it, almost nothing.
Not guilt. Not satisfaction. Only the cold acceptance of a task completed.
Teague had been hurting her. Teague needed to stop.
The calculation had been simple, the execution followed without hesitation.
This is what eighteen years of believing himself capable of murder had produced.
He had always known he could be violent; his father had ensured he understood that and his own actions over the years had confirmed it.
To him, violence had become simply efficient.
He had kept himself apart, maintaining a careful distance from others because he believed the darkness in him required containment.
The containment had not diminished the darkness. It had only made him colder.
Tipping his face to the sky, he found Orion, his eyes going automatically to the three stars in the belt, west to east, the line of them slightly curved.
His gaze went to the Pleiades. He took his time with the Seven Sisters, cataloguing each in turn. He thought of Minerva, the sound of her voice as she asked, “How many do you see?”
Seven. He saw seven as he always did, and when he showed her the night sky, she would see them too.