Rafe was standing at the window of his apartments at the club, watching the people coming and going, trying not to remember how much they had fascinated Eve. To not think of her was proving a fruitless endeavor. Everything reminded him of her.
When he walked through his residence, he inhaled her fragrance. He could no longer tolerate being there, not even for a moment. Every room held a memory of her.
It was equally as difficult being here, at his club.
When he boxed with Mick, he thought of Evie enduring his lessons in the ring.
When he looked out over the gaming floor, he saw it through her eyes.
When he went to his office, he regretted that he’d not shown her the globe that Tristan had carved for him, that he’d not told her that he was afraid to be grateful for it. If he truly cared for something, it would be stripped away. The best recourse was not to care.
Then he was immune to hurt.
So why was he now in so much blasted pain?
Because he adored her, dammit. That was the reason he was in such agony now, why he wasn’t seeing after his club, why he didn’t care how much money was being raked in, why he didn’t care that some men owed him more than they’d be able to repay in ten lifetimes.
She’d had no one, nowhere to go. Yet she had managed to disappear like smoke caught on a wayward breeze. If he didn’t know better, he’d consider that she might be a figment of his demented imagination.
He should leave her be, stop worrying about her. She had made her decision. She had left.
But she had done so without knowing how he truly felt. She had departed believing that he didn’t care.
What a jackass he was.
Would it have killed him to tell her that she mattered?
He removed the coin from his pocket, studied it, remembered how warm it had been when his father had placed it on his palm. He didn’t believe in fate, luck, or good fortune. He believed that a man created all three, sometimes from nothing.
He turned the coin over, once, twice, thrice. He wouldn’t play her silly game. But he would flip it. Heads he would let her go. Tails he would search for her.
Tossing it up, he watched as it reached its apex, turning end over end, before beginning its descent. He was halfway to the door when it clattered on the floor. He realized with everything deep inside him that it didn’t matter how the coin had landed.
He would search for her until he found her or drew his last breath.
He hurried down the stairs and toward the back door. He wasn’t quite certain where he would start. The rookeries he supposed. She certainly would not have returned to Wortham, and if she’d had anyplace else to seek sanctuary, she’d have not stayed with him that first night.
He’d told her where to sell her jewelry. He’d shown her where to seek shelter. Yes, the rookeries. That was where she would go.
Stepping outside, he locked the door behind him and headed down the mews. He’d sent his carriage home, because he’d had no plans to return there. It was a miserable place without her. The small things about her brought him such delight. No one had ever fascinated him as she did.
He turned into an alleyway, intending to make his way to the nearest street to hire a hackney, but six hulking men closed in around him. He had neither the time nor the patience for this nonsense. “If you know what’s good for you, gents, you’ll back off and let me be on my way.”
“And if ye know what’s good for ye, ye’ll sign me club back over to me.”
Rafe watched as the group parted and Dimmick stepped through, and while the light was dim, it was clear that he was as ugly as ever. “Ah, Dimmick, I’d heard that you were dead.”
“Best way to lay low for a bit. Found a bloke around my size, bashed in his face, dressed him in my clothes, and let the fish nibble at him for a bit. Then paid a fine fellow to say, ‘By God, that’s Dimmick.’ Bobbies don’t look too hard at our sorts. But now I’ve risen from the dead and I want me club back. And yer fancy residence. That’ll cover the interest.”
Rafe’s stomach tightened with the thought of Dimmick walking into the residence that belonged to Eve. Lord help the servants if Dimmick recognized any of them. Some had owed him money, and Rafe was to have dispensed with them. Instead, he’d given them new names and a place to live where they were unlikely to cross paths with the man who wished them harm. “Afraid I like both a bit too much to part with either easily. And as I am familiar with how you operate, you should know that upon my death, the club goes to Mick. All nice and legal. My solicitor has my will and the deed to the property, all properly signed.”
“Sorry to hear that. All right, fellas, you know what to do.”
They rushed in, fists flailing. Rafe fought them off as long as he could. At least one, maybe two, went down, but they were a skilled lot, and he soon found himself trussed up and laying on the ground.
Dimmick crouched low. “You’ll give me what I want, one way or another.”
As Rafe was hefted to his feet, he thought, No, I won’t. Not if it means there is any chance in hell that you’ll ever learn about Eve.
He found himself in an empty room in a large building. A warehouse perhaps. Every movement—shuffling of feet, grunts, breathing, scurrying rats—echoed. Rafe was tied to a chair, the rope wound tightly around his upper torso, arms, and legs. His hands were free, resting on a low table. On it were a pen, an inkwell, and a sheaf of paper.
“Now,” Dimmick began, “you’re going to write a new will, leaving your establishment to me. In exchange for which, I’ll give you a quick death. You’re well aware that I can give you a slow painful one.”
Rafe glanced around, taking in his situation. Half a dozen men surrounded him. One was holding a large hammer. He knew what that was for. If he could break free of his bonds, he could probably get to two of them, but all six was going to be a trick. He almost laughed. When had he become an optimist to think anything good was going to come of this? Optimism was Eve’s domain. He regretted immensely that he’d never see her again. Just once more. To gaze into her eyes, to see her smile, to tell her . . . Sweet Christ, it was an unfortunate time to realize that he loved her.
And had for some time. For much of his life he had worked hard to ensure that nothing mattered. She mattered. She was all that mattered.
When she left he had lost a part of himself, perhaps the last bit of himself that was of any worth.
He lifted his right hand, wiggled his fingers, as much as he was able with the ropes digging into him. Dimmick moved the pen closer. Rafe picked it up, dipped it in the inkwell, and set the tip on the paper, watching as the ink slowly spread over the parchment. Looking up, he winked at Dimmick. “Don’t think I will.”
“Right. Charlie, smash his left hand.”
“But you always have me smash their important hand, their writing hand.”
“Use your head. He needs it to write.”
“Oh, I see. All right then.”
Two other men moved in. One wrapped his arm around Rafe’s neck and forced his chin up, while the other held his left wrist so his hand was splayed on the table. Rafe remembered the first time that Dimmick had told him to break someone’s hand.
“Break his hand or I’ll break your arm.”
Rafe had broken the man’s hand. He’d never forget the sound of cracking bone and the man’s painful wail. His hand had never healed properly, which made him one of the most ineffectual valets in all of London.
Rafe kept his gaze on Dimmick. If he managed to get out of this, he was going to see Dimmick hanged. Nice and legal. He wouldn’t be coming back from a hanging.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hammer going up. He braced—
The immeasurable pain shot through him. He wanted to be stoic, but he couldn’t hold back the guttural cry. Both men released him. Breathing heavily, he glared at Dimmick, who was smiling with satisfaction.
“Now, write the will or I’ll have him hit your hand again until the bone is naught but tiny bits.”
“Gonna be . . . a bit difficult. I’m left-handed, you see.”
He heard Dimmick’s roar, saw the hammer was now in his meaty hand, swinging down—
The pain carried him into the depths of darkness.
Evelyn thought that she should be hungry, especially as the dinner set before her was one of the finest she’d ever seen, but everything tasted of nothing. She ate tiny bites because it made things more palatable.
“Is it not to your liking?” Mary asked. “I can have Cook prepare something else.”
Evelyn smiled at her. “I have no appetite. That’s all. You’ve been so kind.” They’d taken her in the night she’d walked out on Rafe. She hadn’t known where else to go, but she’d learned early on that the duchess was an extremely compassionate sort. She’d held Evelyn while she wept and blubbered. She’d passed no judgments on Rafe except to say that Evelyn had been right to leave him.
But if that were the case, why did she hurt so badly? Why did she sit in her bedchamber and stare out the window at the residence across the way, hoping for a glimpse of Rafe? Was he well? Did he miss her at all?
Sometimes she considered returning to him, but she wanted so much more than he could give her. She yearned for the essentials that couldn’t be purchased: love, family, happiness.
She’d moped about long enough. It was time to move on.
“I can’t continue to take advantage. I thought tomorrow to start searching for employment.” How long had she been here now? Even the passing of days, nights held no meaning.
“We’ll help you find something. What are your skills?”
Before she could begin to list her limited talents, the door to the dining room burst open as though by a tempest and Tristan Easton strode in and, without preamble, announced, “I suspect Rafe might be in trouble.”
The duke was on his feet so fast, with such force, that the table shook. “Why do you think that?”
“He hasn’t been to his club or his residence in three days. No one knows of his whereabouts.”
A sense of dread and foreboding tore through Eve. “It’s not like him, to stay away from his club.”
“Have you a notion as to where he might be?”
She shook her head. “His club is the only thing about which he cares.”
“I very much doubt that,” the duke said, and the look in his gaze told her that he thought she was important to Rafe. She wasn’t going to argue the point. “Do you think he might have gone to Pembrook?”
“It seems unlikely to me,” she told him, “but then I don’t believe that I truly knew him very well.”
“I went there,” Tristan said. “When Anne and I had our parting of ways. It helped me to overcome the past but I’m not sure Rafe’s demons reside in Pembrook.”
“If they live anywhere at all, they live in the workhouse or in St. Giles,” Evelyn said. “Laurence might know. He tried to kill him once.”
“His butler tried to kill him?” the duke asked. “What the devil was he thinking to hire the man to run his household?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lord Tristan said. “I’ll have another chat with him.”
Evelyn came to her feet. “I’m going with you.”
As she walked with Tristan and the duke—who had insisted upon coming as well—to the house next door, she knew that Rafe wouldn’t fancy his brothers learning the truth about the life he’d led while they’d been away. But if he was in trouble they might be in a position to help him, and that was all that mattered now. Finding him, ensuring he was safe.
She didn’t know why she cared so much. Yes, she did. It was that little irritating fact that she loved him, in spite of his gruffness, his walls, and his distance. He was a better man than he gave himself credit for. She’d caught glimpses of that man.
She didn’t bother to knock when they arrived, but simply walked in as though the residence was hers. Laurence emerged from a doorway, stumbled to a stop, and smiled. “Miss Chambers, you’ve returned. The master will be relieved. I’ll send word round to the club.”
“He’s not there,” Tristan said. “He left his club three nights ago. When I was here earlier, you told me you hadn’t seen him in three days.”
“Yes, that’s correct. He’s not been here, but then for him that’s not unusual. Before Miss Chambers arrived here, he might go a month or two without popping by.”
“So if he isn’t at his club or here,” the duke began, “where might he be?”
Laurence shook his head. “There is nowhere else. Except for St. Giles. But he wouldn’t stay there for any length of time. He quite abhors the place.”
“Where should we begin looking?”
Laurence hesitated, no doubt from long association with a man who harbored secrets.
Evelyn gave him an encouraging smile. “Laurence, you should answer the duke. He and Lord Tristan are Mr. Easton’s brothers.”
“Ah, yes, I can see the similarities.”
“Tell him what you know.”
“He could be anywhere in St. Giles. I’ll send the servants out to see what they can uncover.”
“No need,” the duke said. “We’re off for there now.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, are you familiar with St. Giles?”
“I’ve been through there, yes.”
“We all have lived there. If something is amiss, we can ferret it out.”
“All of you are from St. Giles?” Evelyn asked, not surprised to discover that Rafe had taken them in.
“Indeed, miss. If I might so bold, I suggest that you also have a word with Mick at the club. He remains a bit closer to the unsavory element than I.”
“Thank you, Laurence, for your advice,” Evelyn said. “We’ll heed it.”
“Let’s head to his club,” the duke said, turning to the door.
Evelyn spun on her heel to follow him.
“Miss?”
She turned back to Laurence.
“He spent a good deal of his life surviving those streets. One doesn’t do that without making some enemies, but he’s not one to go down easily.”
“You agree with Lord Tristan, you think he’s in trouble?”
“If he’s not at the club, then I fear it is the case. But we’ll find him, one way or another.”
She didn’t want to consider that “another” meant finding him dead.
“Disappeared?”
Standing in the balcony with the duke and Lord Tristan, Evelyn watched as the manager of the Rakehell Club, Mick, crossed his arms over his chest and glared at them as though they were responsible for the disappearance.
Tristan explained what Laurence had told him. Mick swore harshly beneath his breath. “ ’Tis true that he never is long from this place. But of late he’s been spending more time away, so I thought nothing of it. You should make inquiries of Lord Wortham.”
“What might my brother have to do with any of this?” Evelyn asked.
“He stabbed him one night, right in the gaming area, in front of everyone.”
She stared at him. “What? No. Rafe told me—” She slammed her eyes closed, remembering the exact conversation.
“Say it wasn’t him.”
“It wasn’t him.”
She blurted a very unladylike invective, and opened her eyes to find the men staring at her as though they thought women were incapable of uttering obscenities. “He never referred to the man who stabbed him by name. Only referred to him as an idiot. I should have known. He has a very low opinion of Geoffrey.”
“One well deserved,” Mick said. “Although for the life of me I never understood where Wortham got the guts to do what he did. A more cowardly man I’d never met.”
“Maybe someone else is responsible for his sudden backbone,” Keswick said. “I’m of a mind to have a word and find out.”
As Evelyn followed Manson down the hallway, with Tristan and the duke behind her, she was amazed by how differently she viewed the residence. She had once considered it home but now she realized that it was her father who had made it home, not the walls or the portraits, the furniture or the decorative pieces—although there seemed to be far fewer of those. She wondered how many items Geoffrey had sold in order to relieve his debts.
When they walked into the library, Geoffrey shot out of his chair and hurried around his desk. “Your Grace, Lord Tristan, this is an expected surprise.”
She couldn’t fail to notice how he had ignored her.
“You know Miss Chambers, do you not?” the duke asked.
Geoffrey’s face turned a mottled red. “Yes, of course.”
“You would be remiss in not greeting her as well.”
He gave her a perfunctory nod. “Miss Chambers.”
“My lord. May I say that you’re not looking well?” He had lost weight, much as she had after the death of her father. His skin had an unhealthy pallor to it. Dark half-moons had taken up residence beneath his eyes.
“Your Grace, how might I be of service?” he asked, once again giving her a cut direct.
“It has recently come to my attention that you attacked Lord Rafe with a knife.”
If at all possible, Geoffrey looked even more ill. Sweat suddenly beaded his forehead. “He provoked me.”
“In such a way that killing him would have been acceptable?”
“It was—” He turned away, his hand shaking as he plowed it through his blond hair.
“It was?” Lord Tristan prodded.
“An unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Where is he?” the duke demanded to know.
Geoffrey spun around, his expression one of incredulity. “I haven’t a clue. Dimmick doesn’t confide in me.”
Evelyn felt a jolt of unease and took a step forward. “What do you know of Dimmick?”
“Who is he?” the duke asked her.
“He owned the club before Rafe,” she told him. “He’s supposed to be dead.”
“If he was, he rose from the grave,” Geoffrey said, his manner superior as though he relished the thought of knowing something she didn’t.
“What’s your association with him?” Lord Tristan asked, menace reverberating through his voice.
Geoffrey stepped back as though he were in danger. “I . . . I borrowed some money from him.”
“How much?”
“Too much. He threatened to kill me. You must understand . . . that’s why . . .”
“Why what, Geoffrey?” she asked, marching forward until she stood toe to toe with him. “Does he have anything to do with you hurting Rafe?”
“I was supposed to kill him. Then my debt would have been forgiven.”
“You were going to kill him because of money owed?”
“It was either him or me. This Dimmick fellow is a nasty bit of business.”
“You bastard!” Without thought or planning, the anger roaring through her, she bundled her hand into a fist the way Rafe had taught her, brought it back, and plowed it into Geoffrey’s face. He landed like a felled tree, blood spurting from his nose.
Lord Tristan knelt beside Geoffrey. “Looks like you broke it, sweetheart.”
“What do we do now? How do we find Rafe?”
“We’ll take him with us back to the Rakehell Club. He might be able to give us some clue that Mick will understand.”
“I don’t know where to find Dimmick, I don’t know how to get word to him. He just shows up out of the fog,” Geoffrey whined, sounding as though he were holding his nose. It was red and angry looking, and Evelyn could see his eyes were bruising. She thought she should have felt remorse. Instead she wanted to hit him again.
They were back at the club, in Rafe’s office. Geoffrey sat in a chair while Mick and Rafe’s two brothers glared at him.
“I’d heard rumors that Dimmick hadn’t died,” Mick said. “Didn’t want to believe they were true. He holds a grudge. Makes sense that he might be responsible for Rafe’s disappearance.”
“How are we going to find him?” Evelyn asked.
“Not to worry. Got the best ferreters in the world at my fingertips. This way, Miss Chambers, gentlemen.”
Leaving Geoffrey where he was, with a huge hulk of a man watching him from the doorway, Mick led them out of the office to the balcony where they’d been earlier. Reaching up, he jangled a bell. All activity below ceased. Everyone glanced up. “Gentlemen, I must ask you all to leave. We have a bit of cleaning up to do here. When we reopen you’ll find your accounts wiped clean of debt. But you must leave now, as quickly as possible.”
A bit of grumbling echoed over the floor, but soon the only ones standing about were those who worked for the club.
“All right, listen up,” Mick said. “Seems Mr. Easton has gone missing. Spread out through St. Giles, see what you can uncover. Let me know as soon as you hear any whisperings, especially if they involve a bloke named Dimmick. Many of you know him, some of you don’t. Be grateful you don’t. Let it be known that there is a five hundred pound reward to the man or woman who can tell us exactly where Mr. Easton might be found. Off with you now.”
Everyone began to scatter.
Mick turned back to them. “That should do it. I suspect we’ll have something before the night is done.”
“They’re all from St. Giles,” Evelyn said.
“Every last one of us. He always takes the hungriest, the filthiest, the worst off of the lot—gives us something better. Not a soul out there wouldn’t die for him.”
“You’ve known my brother for a long time,” the duke said, not really questioning, but affirming.
“Ever since I was a scrap of a lad, fighting to make my way about the streets. He had no patience for me, was constantly telling me to bugger off, to leave him be. But he was always there with a ready fist when the bullies began picking on me, taught me how to raise my own fists and deliver a good solid blow. When my belly was aching, he’d toss me something to eat, even if it was all he had. He has a heart surrounded by stone, your brother. But inside that stone is a far better man than even he knows he is. I’ll go down fighting for him, and if it is Dimmick who is responsible for you not being able to find him—God help your brother, then God help Dimmick once I get my hands on him.”
“You’ll have to stand in line,” the duke and Lord Tristan said at the same time.
They’d left him bound tightly in ropes. Without food, without water, without solace. He didn’t know for how long. Days, weeks. Time had no meaning. The only thing he was aware of was the constant agony in his hand.
They came for him, took him back to the almost empty room, placed him in the chair at the table, secured him to it. Only this time, Dimmick was sitting as well, scrawling on the paper.
“When I’m finished here, ye’ll just sign it as best ye can,” Dimmick said. “Then yer hell will be over.”
Rafe doubted it. He’d not gone mad with the binding. He simply pretended that they were Eve’s arms, wrapped around him, holding him close, as she whispered words of encouragement. All would be well, everything would turn out fine.
Lies. A man could survive on lies. So could a boy.
“Did you already forget that I write with my left hand?”
“I don’t forget nothing. I don’t forget how ye blackmailed me.” He lifted his gaze and stared pointedly at Rafe, with one eye closed and the other hard and accusing. “I don’t forget how you turned my own lads against me. Even those who owed me coin stopped fearing me, thought you’d watch over them.”
Rafe wouldn’t go so far as to say that he watched over anyone. He had no stomach for bullies, and Dimmick had been one of the worst. That Rafe worked to undermine the ruffian brought him a great deal of satisfaction. That was why he offered better things to those upon whom Dimmick depended. Not for what they received, but for what it brought him.
Everything was always about him. His world centered around him.
Until Eve. Then the center had shifted, and nearly toppled him.
Dimmick returned to his scribbling. “I, Rafe Easton, bein’ of sound mind and body, do hereby . . . how do you spell bequeathed?”
Dimmick looked at him again. Rafe simply looked back.
Dimmick sighed heavily. “You are a stubborn one. Charlie, the hammer.”
“B,” Rafe began, “e-q-e-t-h-e-d.”
“Thank you kindly.”
Rafe hoped that Mick or a solicitor would recognize with the misspelled word that Rafe had not in fact written the will. It might not make any difference, but perhaps—
“Bequeath to Angus Dimmick the Rakehell Club—”
Rafe was vaguely aware of a commotion, the sound of a door crashing open, the rush of feet. The air suddenly filled with shouts and yells. Dimmick was scrambling out of his chair, a blurred figure rushed by and grabbed him by the throat.
“You dare to harm my brother?”
Sebastian? What the bloody hell was he doing here? Had the pain caused Rafe to hallucinate? Was all this a dream?
Rafe watched as he took Dimmick to the floor and began pounding him as Rafe had longed to do ever since he’d found himself bound.
“Oh, my God. Help me get the bindings off him. Quickly. Quickly.”
Eve was suddenly kneeling beside him, touching his face. “My love, we’ll have them off in no time.”
“Eve,” he rasped.
“I’m here now.”
Mick and Laurence were cutting the binding, he felt it loosening, felt as though he could finally breathe again. When his good hand was free, he cradled her face. “I want to make you laugh, Evie.”
“I’m not quite certain you understand the concept. This isn’t the way to go about it. Oh, my Lord, your hand. It’s so terribly swollen and bruised. We must get you to a doctor.”
“Later. First, you must know that I love you, Evie. I want to marry you. I want to give you children and the family you so yearn for.”
“You’re in pain, Rafe. Your poor hand. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying. I wanted to tell you before. But I couldn’t find you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. Because her answer would be no or yes?
“Sebastian, stop now,” Tristan ordered, and Rafe glanced over to see him trying to move an unconscious Dimmick out of the path of his brother’s flailing fists. “You’re going to kill him.”
“Do you think I bloody care? Did you see what he did to Rafe?”
“He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”
Sebastian slumped down onto the floor. “It’s not all that matters. I’m supposed to watch out for him, for you and Rafe. I didn’t do it fifteen years ago. By God, I should be able to do it now.”
Rafe wanted nothing more than to take Evie into his arms, kiss her soundly, and then lead her someplace where they could be alone. But he’d been doing a lot of thinking the past few days, as he had nothing else to do except think. He stood on unsteady legs and walked over to where his brothers were hunkered near Dimmick.
Sebastian looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Rafe.”
“I don’t need you to watch out for me.”
“Rafe—”
“Hear me out. I don’t need you to watch out for me because I’m completely capable of watching out for myself. Even if he’d killed me, it would have been on my terms. You had no choice except to leave me all those years ago. I’ve always known that. Didn’t make it more palatable but there it was. Because you weren’t there to coddle me, I made something of myself—something I’m not always proud of—”
“You might want to rethink that,” Tristan said. “The being proud of what you are. How do you think we found you?”
Rafe hadn’t had time to give any thought to how they’d known he’d been taken, by whom, and to where. His brothers didn’t know the dark side of London, not as he did.
Tristan jerked his chin to the area behind Rafe. “You’ve got quite the loyal following.”
Rafe turned then, stunned by the sight that greeted him. His servants, his staff at the Rakehell Club—they were all there, down to every man and woman. And Evie, standing apart from them, and yet part of them. But more, so much more.
She smiled softly. “I knew they would help us to find you.”
He’d never felt so overwhelmed. Never felt as though something inside of him was crumbling. He’d not cried since the night he was left at the workhouse, but something thick and hot was clogging his throat.
Tristan slapped him on the back. “Seems you’re not as alone as you always thought.”
“God, Rafe, your hand,” Sebastian said.
“It’ll heal. You and Tristan have had worse.” And for the first time in his life, he recognized that perhaps they had.
Mick and Laurence wandered over.
“What do we do with the maggot?” Mick asked.
“Haul him down to Scotland Yard, hand him off to an Inspector Swindler. Tell him I’ll be down with some information in a day or so.” Rafe knew James Swindler because he, too, had grown up on the streets. He knew he could trust him with the journal he’d written that described Dimmick’s activities.
“Right. And his lads? Same as always?”
Rafe looked around at Dimmick’s pitiful followers. He knew what it was to fall in with the wrong sort. He nodded. “Give them their choice: service work or the club.”
As Mick and Laurence took over, issuing orders, having Dimmick carted out, Rafe turned his attention to Eve. She was still standing there, studying him.
Sebastian cleared his throat. “Tristan and I will be waiting outside for you.”
Just as he’d once been waiting for them. Two long years of wondering if they were dead. During the ten that had come before, it had never crossed his mind that he wouldn’t see them again. But the last two of waiting for them had been the longest of his life.
Finally, it was only he and Eve. “I meant what I said,” he told her. “I want to marry you.” He took a step toward her. “I know I don’t deserve you, and that I can never be the kind of man who does deserve—”
“I need to hold you,” she cut in.
He felt as though his chest might cave. “Dear God, Evie, I need you to hold me. But more than that, sweetheart, I need to hold you. Desperately.”
In the next breath, her arms were locked tightly around his neck and she was sobbing against his chest. It nearly broke his heart. When had he acquired one?
He folded his arms around her. “Oh, Evie, sweetheart, don’t cry.”
“I was so afraid you might be dead.”
“I’m too much of a bastard to die young, so if you do marry me it’ll be for a good long while.”
She leaned back slightly. “You do know that you’re only giving me the illusion of choice. How can I not marry you when I love you so much?”
He felt as though she’d picked up the hammer and slammed it into his chest. No woman had ever loved him. “Say it again.”
“I love you, and yes I’ll marry you.”
He covered her mouth with his. Soon, he thought. Very, very soon. Before she had a chance to change her mind.