The yacht sliced through the water, with Eve of all people at the helm. Some scrawny lad stood slightly behind her and guided her. Her smile was so bright as to be blinding. Her laughter was carried by the breeze, and sitting at the end of the boat, Rafe fought not to growl. He also fought to keep his stomach from heaving.
While they had missed the planned christening of the yacht, he had sent word to Tristan that the next time he took it out, Eve would like to join them. He had thought it would be weeks before he was forced to go sailing, but Tristan had promptly shown up at his club with a devilish smile. “Tomorrow. I’m not going to give you a chance to change your mind.”
So here he was, impressed with the beautiful woodwork and craftsmanship. Tristan had taken them on a tour when they’d first arrived. Below deck, he had shown them a library, a sitting room, three bedchambers, and Rafe had known that one was for him, that Tristan had designed the yacht hoping that all three brothers would take a long sojourn together. The thing was large enough that a man would be comfortable sailing the world in it.
Tristan sat on the bench beside him, placed his elbows on the railing, and stretched out his legs. “If you harm Mouse, you will have to deal with me.”
“Thought you introduced him as Martin.” He didn’t see any point in pretending he wasn’t contemplating taking his fist to the lad.
Tristan shrugged. “While he served under me on my ship, he was Mouse. Hard habit to break. He’s only become Martin as he’s become interested in the fairer sex. He thinks it’s a disadvantage to be named after a creature that makes women scream and leap onto furniture. Suppose he has a point there. But he’s a good lad, which is why I don’t want to see him hurt. He’s enjoying Eve’s company, but he won’t pursue her, so you’ve no worries there.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Ah, you just glower for the hell of it then.”
Rafe scowled. Tristan could irritate the devil out of him in short order.
“How’s your stomach holding up?” Tristan asked. “You seemed a bit green when we started out.”
“Nothing wrong with my stomach.”
“I spent the first six weeks hanging over the side of the ship.”
“Why didn’t you get off?”
“Have you not studied your globes adequately? When you’re on the water, land isn’t always within easy reach. So you suffer in silence, and hope you survive until you see land again. Eventually you get used to the roiling, but when you’re onshore, you find it odd not to have the constant movement beneath you.”
“Do you miss being out on the sea?”
Tristan smiled at his wife, who was standing near Mary. “Not really. The choice was the sea or Anne, which meant there was really no choice at all. I like Evelyn.”
Rafe scoffed. “As though I care what you like.”
Looking over at him, Tristan grinned. “Come on, Rafe. You know you care. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Before Rafe could come up with an appropriate comeback, Sebastian wandered over and leaned his hip against the railing. “Much nicer vessel than the one I took to the Crimea.”
“Or back to England,” Tristan added.
Rafe had given little thought to how his brother had traveled to war.
“I barely remember the journey back. Sick most of the time.”
“You were recovering from your wounds,” Tristan reminded him.
“I suppose.” He looked at Rafe. “You have to admit it’s rather fine out here. Better than London anyway.”
“You don’t like London?”
“Despise it. I’d remain at Pembrook if Mary didn’t insist otherwise.”
“Plus there’s the little matter of the House of Lords,” Tristan muttered. “Don’t know why Uncle wanted that responsibility.”
Sebastian sighed. “Hard to believe it’s been fifteen years since he tried to do us in.”
“Fifteen?”
Rafe was surprised to see Eve standing there, her expression one of absolute astonishment.
“Since you all became . . . lost?” she added.
“Since we first left Pembrook, yes,” Sebastian confirmed. “Fifteen. Give or take a few months. It was winter.”
She shifted her gaze over to Rafe. “You told me you were ten.”
He shrugged. “I was.”
“You’re only twenty-five?”
“How old did you think I was?”
“A good deal older than that.”
He felt older than that. Sometimes he felt as though he were a thousand, weighted down with years.
“It is difficult to believe how truly young we all are,” Sebastian said.
“Age is measured by how the years are lived, not by the time in which they pass,” Tristan mused.
“Ah, is my husband spouting philosophy again?” Lady Anne asked as she sat down beside him. His arm immediately went around her shoulder, bringing her in close.
“You like my philosophies.”
She smiled softly. “Indeed I do. They are part of the reason that I love you.”
Rafe felt as though his clothes were beginning to restrict his breathing, even though all he wore was a shirt and britches. Tristan had insisted they dispense with proper attire when on board. Maybe it was that the bench had suddenly become so crowded. Rafe shot off it, nearly lost his balance, regained it, and covered the short distance to stand by Eve.
Mary joined Sebastian, and he held her near.
Rafe suddenly felt self-conscious not placing his arm around Eve, but she wasn’t his wife or the love of his life. He didn’t want her to misinterpret her place. “You seemed to like steering the ship.”
“Martin did most of the steering,” she said, and he heard no laughter brimming in her voice, when only moments before she’d been overflowing with the joyous sound.
How could that scrap of lad bring her such joy with so little effort?
“Land-ho!” the boy yelled.
“Thought we’d picnic on an island,” Tristan said, getting to his feet.
“Which island?” Eve asked. “I see several.”
“As you’re our guest, you get to pick.”
Eve was smiling so brightly that Rafe wished the gift of the choice had come from him.
The blankets were spread out with each couple having their own upon which to sit, and wicker baskets filled to the brim with food and bottles of wine. The couples were all near enough to each other that they could carry on a conversation if they wanted, but it seemed most were wont to murmur among themselves.
At least the other two couples were murmuring. Evelyn and Rafe seemed to have fallen into an awkward silence. She enjoyed the company of the others, but being in their presence reminded her of what she wasn’t: loved.
Married.
With the prospect of children.
She was grateful that they didn’t shun her, make her feel less, but a small part of her wished she’d stayed on the yacht with Martin.
“You’re quiet,” Rafe said, his voice low, as though he had no more desire to disturb the other couples than she. He was stretched out on his side, wineglass in hand. “You were laughing earlier with that Martin fellow.”
She smiled in remembrance. “He was sharing some of his adventures with me.” Stammering while he did it until he came to realize how much she was enjoying the tales. Then he had begun to relax. A shy lad, but she suspected he’d win over many a heart. “I can’t imagine seeing as much of the world as he’s seen.”
“Yet you’re sad now. Is it because you must stay in London?”
It was because she was a mistress and not a wife, but now wasn’t the time to get into a discussion on that matter. “I was surprised you’re so young.”
“That’s the reason behind your melancholy?”
She wanted to reach out and press flat the furrows between his brows, but they’d not touched since they boarded the Princess. The lack of bonding signified a difference between the couples, and as much as she wished it didn’t, it caused an ache in her chest.
Perhaps if she’d known what Geoffrey had planned for her, if she’d had some forewarning, she might have found another way. In the past few weeks she’d lost all her innocence, felt as though she’d aged beyond her years. At the time her decision had seemed the only way to go. She’d been frightened, disoriented, taken unawares by the path that Geoffrey had flung her on. Her father had done her no great service with his shielding of her. With Rafe, she’d become stronger, more confident.
Now, she knew not only what she wanted, but what she deserved.
“Life forced you to grow up very quickly. Early on, you learned what you wanted and what you didn’t. You didn’t let people take advantage of you. I can’t say I’ve done the same.”
For a moment there she thought he might have ceased to breathe. “You think I took advantage?”
Dear God help her, but she believed he had, that he was the sort of man who would. Was he really the sort of man worthy of her love? “I believe I’m going to take a walk.”
“I don’t wish to walk.”
“That works out perfectly then, as I prefer to go alone.” He didn’t try to stop her, for which she was immensely grateful, as she pushed herself to her feet and walked to the edge of the beach where the water lapped at the shore. She had removed her shoes earlier so they wouldn’t become filled with sand, and now she waded out until the water swirled about her ankles. She didn’t care if her hem got wet. It would dry.
She understood Rafe, knew much of what had shaped him, what had caused him to build a wall around his heart. She was slowly chipping away at it, but even if she did find it, he was a lord and she was the illegitimate daughter of an earl. She was a fallen woman, a mistress.
“It’s lovely out here, isn’t it?” Lady Anne asked.
Evelyn turned and smiled at her. “It’s peaceful.”
“The breeze sounds different here; the water has its own song. Tristan and I often picnic on various islands. He needs the sea.”
“But he gave it up for you.”
Lady Anne laughed lightly. “I was going to give up the land for him. In the end, I think we compromised. Neither of us feels as though we gave up anything at all.”
“You’ve been very kind to me.”
“It’s not easy to love any of these Pembrook lords. They’ve all led harsh lives. They all became misguided as to what should be held dear. Keswick, as I understand it, thought that only Pembrook was significant. For Tristan, the sea was his mistress and she was the only thing of importance. I don’t know Rafe well enough to know what he believes matters.”
He believed that nothing mattered. Or at least it was important to him that nothing—no one—mattered.
It was nightfall by the time they returned to their residence.
Evelyn wasn’t surprised that they immediately retired to her room, and that Rafe had discarded his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt within minutes. It had been a week since she’d discovered his aversion to clothing, a week during which time his side had begun to heal nicely.
She was a bit slower at loosening her buttons. She was more interested in studying the man she thought she was coming to know. She’d thought he was well past the age of thirty. Instead he was merely three years older than she.
She’d known he’d had a difficult life, but it had never occurred to her how hard he would have had to have worked to acquire everything he now possessed in such a short span of time.
“Would you rather be with him?” Rafe asked gruffly.
She was taken aback by the question. “With whom?”
“The lad. Martin. Mouse. Whatever the deuce his name is. Were you thinking of him when you went to the water’s edge?”
“I was thinking of you,” she admitted.
That brought him up short.
“I was thinking of us. We’re very different from the other couples.”
Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on his thighs, narrowed his eyes on some point on the far wall, the window maybe. “I never lied to you. I was always honest about what would exist between us.”
“But we’ve shared so much, I began to convince myself that things might change. I saw potential for what might be. I dared to want what I never thought to hold.”
He shifted his gaze over to her.
“I still dream of being a wife.” Of being your wife. She wasn’t certain when she’d begun to entertain that thought. She held his gaze for a moment, trying to read something there, to see if he was appalled by the notion or perhaps receptive to it, but his emotions were shuttered. The night he’d been wounded he’d lowered the wall, but during the nights that followed he’d put it carefully back into place. Although he continued to allow her to touch him, and he held her while she slept, still something was missing, the loneliness hadn’t dissipated completely. He never told her that he loved her—or that he even liked her for that matter. She didn’t know quite how to broach the subject. “Your brothers and their wives have been very kind to me, but it’s only because they don’t wish to create more distance between you. I’m still a scandalous woman. I doubt they’d welcome me into their home if you weren’t about.”
“They know a bit about scandal. They had their own.”
“But it’s forgiven when love is involved. Then it becomes romantic, the stuff of books, something to be sighed over by young girls who don’t yet realize that not all scandal ends well.”
“Yours will end well. You’ll become a woman of independent means.”
Eve stared at this man tugging off his boots. Her stomach tightened, she felt a small tremor cascade through her. “Do you care for me?”
He slowly set aside his second boot. “I give you jewelry, do I not? I took you on the blasted boat, didn’t I?”
“But you didn’t hold me.” She slapped her hand over her mouth, fighting away the tears that stung the back of her eyes. “The entire day, distance existed between us. We might as well have been strangers. Martin paid me more attention than you did.”
“Perhaps you think you’d be happier with him.”
“Of course not. I know only that I’m not completely happy with you.”
He shot to his feet. “What do you want of me, Eve? I’ve given you everything.”
Her heart sank to the bottom of her soles. Slowly, she shook her head. “No, you’ve only given me what can be purchased.”
Wearing naught but his trousers, he strode over to her. “Surely you didn’t think there would be more between us. I explained that the first night. It is better without sentiment.”
“Is it? Truly. You said it wasn’t so lonely when I touched your skin. Do you not think it would be remarkable to have your heart touched?”
He began the task of undoing her buttons. “I have no heart to touch. I haven’t for a good long while. And I’ll not feel guilty about it.”
He removed her dress and petticoats, discarding them on the floor. Her shoes, her stockings. Her limbs seemed to be moving of their own accord; she had no control over them. “So this is all that will ever be between us?”
He stilled, studied her, held her gaze. “Those were the terms of the arrangement between us.”
“And if I don’t like them anymore?”
“Then I shall have to work harder to convince you that the terms are to your liking.”
His mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry. Tears pricked her eyes. She was vaguely aware of his carrying her down to the bed, his hands and mouth trailing over her. She felt like the porcelain dolls her father had given her, easily broken.
“Touch me, Eve,” he rasped. “Touch me.”
Only she couldn’t, not when she had no hope of reaching his heart. She realized with astounding clarity that from the beginning she had hoped for more between them, had thought that perhaps he would fall in love with her. That she would acquire the happy ending that her mother had never known.
He rose up over her. She could feel his hardness nudging, intimately, seeking entrance. “Respond to me, Eve.”
For the first time in her life, nothing mattered. “What is the purpose in life if there is no hope for love?”
He cursed harshly, nuzzled her neck, kissed her breasts, taunted and teased her nipples. “There is purpose in this. Respond to me.”
She stared at the canopy and imagined the roiling of the yacht as it glided through the water. It could carry her away from here. She would let it take her someplace far, far away. That first night, she had wondered if she would possess the wherewithal to distance her mind from her body. She was discovering that it was quite easy to accomplish when one’s heart was little more than shattered remains.
With a feral growl, Rafe came off of her, off the bed, and glared at her. “You knew what the arrangement was. It’s too late to have regrets.”
“Unfortunately, I fear it’s never too late.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“I deserve more.”
“You damned well won’t find it out there,” he said, pointing toward the window, before storming into his bedchamber, slamming the door in his wake.
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, let the warm tears wash down her cheeks, but they couldn’t wash away the ache in her heart.
Rafe pressed his back to the vibrating door. He’d not needed his key because it was no longer kept locked. He should have been familiar with the room by now but it still took him off guard. All his clothing was gone. Every torn shirt, waistcoat, jacket. Every pair of trousers. Every scrap of remaining neckcloth. Every discarded bit of attire that had once offended him, threatened to suffocate him. Gone.
Eve had gathered them up and taken them to the poor.
The bare mattress upon which he’d once slept when the thought of sheets or blankets would make him break out in a sweat was no longer visible. It was covered by violet velveteen. The recently hung draperies were drawn aside to let in the night. Not a speck of dust was to be seen. The wooden floor was polished to a fine sheen.
The room smelled of beeswax and polish. The room smelled of her.
She had done this. She had chased back the demons. She had returned to him the magic of touch. She had helped him conquer the madness.
He strode over to the window and gazed out, when everything inside him told him to return to her room, to apologize, to make her smile. More to make her laugh. That was what had upset him today, seeing that a lad had the ability to bring forth her laughter with such ease when he couldn’t recall a single moment when he had managed to accomplish such a remarkable feat.
He braced his hands on either side of the windowsill.
“Do you care about me?” she’d asked.
With every breath I take.
For a heartbeat, he had been that small boy standing beside his father’s coffin, the one who had watched his brothers ride away, the scruffy lad who had been terrified and alone in the dark.
She would leave him. If he gave her power over him, she would leave.
There wasn’t enough goodness in him to make her stay, and she knew his secrets.
He wasn’t supposed to care about her. She wasn’t supposed to matter.
But she did.
Reaching into his trousers pocket, he rubbed the coin. She would tell him to flip it, but he didn’t need to in order to know his own mind.
He’d never needed anyone or anything. Not since that night when their uncle had tried to kill them. He didn’t need her, but it didn’t stop him from wanting her.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, rubbing the coin, recounting every moment he’d spent with her. He considered lying down on his bed, the one that now looked as though it belonged to a sane man, but he didn’t want to sleep alone.
Turning from the window, he strode back toward the door.
She was his mistress. He made the rules. He would sleep with her when he damned well wanted to, and he wanted to at that moment. He wouldn’t make love to her—
The thought staggered and stumbled through his mind. When had he begun to think of what happened between them as making love? When had it ceased to be merely bedding? When had it become more with her than it had ever been with any other woman?
He pressed his forehead to the door. All he could hear was the silence on the other side. Was she asleep by now? Had she wept? He hated the thought that he might have caused her to cry. She deserved so much better than him. He should walk away, leave, announce the terms met. The residence was already in her name. He’d seen to that before he’d left to retrieve the horse. In truth, she was within her right to toss him out on his ear.
She was a woman who wanted more than he could give her. He could purchase her anything she desired. The problem was what she truly yearned for could not be bought, and well he knew it. He also knew that he hadn’t the means to give it to her.
He wanted to crawl into the bed, have her scoot over, and scrunch up against him. He wanted to feel her pressed against his side, her head nestled on his shoulder, her hand curled on his chest. Once more, just once more, then perhaps he would set her free.
So as not to disturb her, he quietly opened the door and stepped into her bedchamber. Immediately he felt her absence. It was as though all the life, breath, joy had been sucked from the room. He didn’t have to look to know she wasn’t in the bed. He didn’t have to look to know she wasn’t in the residence.
But still he stormed across to the armoire and nearly tore the door off its hinges as he opened it. All the gowns were there: the red, the violet, the yellow. Every dress, every wrap.
All except the hideous black dress and the matching black cloak in which she’d arrived.
“No.”
It was a strangled sound, the cry of disbelief. He hurried over to her vanity, to the jewelry box. Every piece he’d given her was nestled on velvet, winking up at him mockingly. Only the two pieces that her father had given to her were missing.
He felt as though something inside of him was ripping and being torn asunder. She wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t allow it.
He tore out of the room and down the stairs. “Laurence! Laurence!”
Somewhere a clock was chiming—once, twice, thrice. It was the bloody middle of the night. Where could she go?
His hair untidy, his jacket askew, Laurence appeared in the entryway just as Rafe reached it.
“Did Eve have a carriage brought round?”
“Miss Chambers, sir? No.”
Then she was on foot. Where was she going?
He rushed out the door and down the steps. He couldn’t see her on the drive. He couldn’t see her in the shadows of the night. He almost screamed her name, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to do it, to let all of London know that once again, he’d been left behind.