CHAPTER 3
Edmund
“I do not believe you, Edmund Hawkins.”
Edmund paused—about to stuff a tart into his mouth. He was ensconced in a dark corner of the castle’s kitchen, tankard in one hand, pastry in the other. Sensing his wife’s displeasure, he crammed the tart into his mouth then downed the wine before looking over his shoulder.
Amy was stunning: piqued, arms akimbo. Her long fair hair was rolled and twisted in a delicate crown on her head, while her flushed cheeks hinted at the fire in her soul. Her piercing green eyes burrowed into him but he never minded their striking stare. She always peered inside him, not at him, and he shuddered at the intimacy of her gaze—however vexed.
“You look lovely, Amy.”
“Bullocks.” She waved aside the compliment, her bejeweled slipper tapping. “You’re not dressed for dinner.”
He glanced at his dusty travel clothes. Since arriving at the castle, he had paused to peck his sister on the cheek before making his way straight toward the kitchen. “I was hungry.”
She huffed then joined him at the small table. “You are always hungry. But we’re not heathens.”
“I couldn’t wait for dinner,” was his grumbled excuse.
His wife’s features sharpened even more. “And who is to blame for your empty stomach? If you hadn’t spent the entire morning at Bow Street, you could have joined me for luncheon before we’d headed for the castle.”
Edmund fell silent at the mention of the Bow Street Magistrates Office, his place of employment as an investigator. His quiet only ruffled his wife’s temperament, and she demanded, “What is it?”
But he wouldn’t ruin her evening and shrugged. “Nothing a‘tall.”
“What happened at Bow Street?” She grabbed his hand from across the table. “Tell me.”
As her fingernails penetrated his skin, it was clear her night was already ruined, her anxiety roused, and he had no choice but to put her mind at ease, however difficult the task.
Slowly he covered her hand. “I received word, Amy.”
She paled. “Gravenhurst?”
A year ago, Lord Gravenhurst had almost murdered Amy. It’d been an act of revenge against her father, a duke, for sins committed when she was an innocent babe.
The memory still haunted Edmund. In vivid detail, he reflected on the moment he’d stormed the bedroom, witnessed the gut-churning sight of Amy’s throat between the fiend’s crushing hands.
He shuddered again—but with unshakeable fury. He had thrashed the son-of-a-bitch to within an inch of his life, rescued Amy, but the swine had escaped, disappeared.
Edmund and his fellow Bow Street Runners had hounded the elusive bastard for months, and now, finally, their search was at an end.
“He’s dead, Amy.”
She squeezed his hand ever tighter. “Are you sure?”
“A body was discovered at the base of a cliff.” He refrained from the grisly details, like the broken limbs dashed against the rocks, the bloated flesh. “He committed suicide.”
“And you’re sure it’s him?”
“Aye,” he returned, caressing her quivering hand. “The body had laid on the beach for a few days, its features unrecognizable.”
“Then—”
“No,” he stopped her frantic thought. “His height, his clothes, his signet ring, even the papers in his coat pocket—all prove his identity. Gravenhurst is dead, I swear.”
Her trembling fingers stilled. She sighed. A tear appeared in her eye, then another.
“It’s over, Amy.”
“I believe you. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
She slipped her hand away, dabbed at her eyes. “He had such hate for Papa. He lived an angry, lonely life. He hurt me. And you. And for what?”
“I don’t understand.” He frowned. “Do you feel charitable toward the devil?”
“I feel sad,” she said at last. “Such waste, Edmund. And for nothing. Nothing a‘tall. In the end, Death.”
Edmund lifted from his seat and kneeled beside her. “It was his choice, Amy.”
“I know.” Her gaze lighted on him, sparkled with an effervescence that took his breath away. “I just have so much love in my life. And I wish . . . I wish every lost soul could find it, too.”
His heart seized at her unexpected confession. For so long, he had hunted the monster, surrounded his wife with trusted guards when he wasn’t there to protect her himself. How many sleepless nights had he paced their bedroom, peering through the curtains, searching for a shadowy figure in the street? And now the monster was dead. And rather than rejoice with him, Amy pitied the bastard. She pitied him because he hadn’t love . . . like her.
A finger brushed his cheek. “Is that a tear, Edmund?”
“Rubbish.” He stuffed the sentiment into the bowel of his soul, but she never failed to inspire him with hope, to broaden his dreams and stretch his unending love for her.
He rasped, “I love you, Amy.”
“And I you, Edmund.”
A weight lifted from his shoulders. Fear regressed. And a lightness entered his body. She was safe. At last.
“We’ll tell the others at dinner,” he said, clearing his throat, gathering his wits. “They’ve been worried about us for such a long time.”
“I don’t want to spoil anyone’s appetite. We’ll share the news after dinner, I think.” She then slipped her hand through his arm. “Let’s get you dressed. I’m looking forward to a festive meal with my family.”
He walked with her through the kitchen. “And, ah, not a word to my siblings about any rot, like tears.”
“Oh?”
“I mean it, Amy,” he growled.
She snuggled into his arm. “I will keep your secret, I promise. Can you imagine the shock should anyone discover you’re not a notorious scoundrel but a good man with feeling?”
“Perish the thought, indeed.”