The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband

Miss Finch turned her beady gaze from one to the other. Her lips pressed together, and her brows rose into two unattractive arches. “I’m going to get the captain,” she announced.

“Do,” Edward said, practically shoving her out the door.

Miss Finch shrieked as she stumbled into the hall, but if she had anything more to say, it was cut off when Edward slammed the door in her face.

And locked it.

Chapter 22

I am coming to find you.

—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas (letter never sent)

Edward was not in a good mood.

A man generally required more than three hours to uproot his life and decamp to another continent. As it was, he’d barely had time to pack his trunk and secure authorization to leave New York.

By the time he made it to the docks, the crew of the Rhiannon was preparing for departure. Edward had to practically leap across the water to board the ship, and he would have been forcibly removed had he not shoved the colonel’s hastily written order in the face of the captain’s second in command, securing himself a berth.

Or maybe just a spot on the deck. The captain’s man said he wasn’t even sure they had a spare hammock.

No matter. Edward didn’t need much room. All he had were the clothes on his back, a few pounds in his pockets . . .

And a big black hole where his patience used to be.

So when the door to Cecilia’s cabin opened . . .

One might have thought he’d have been relieved to see her. One might have thought, given the depth of his feelings, given the panic that had propelled him all afternoon, he would have sagged with relief at the sight of those beautiful seafoam eyes, staring up at him with astonishment.

But no.

It was all he could do not to throttle her.

“Why are you here?” she whispered, once he’d finally got the damnable Miss Finch out of the room.

For a moment he could only stare. “You’re not seriously asking me that.”

“I—”

“You left me.”

She shook her head. “I set you free.”

He snorted at that. “You’ve had me locked up for over a year.”

“What?” Her response was more motion than sound, but Edward didn’t feel like explaining. He turned away, his breath ragged as he raked his hand through his hair. Bloody hell, he wasn’t even wearing his hat. How had that happened? Had he forgotten to put it on? Had it flown off as he ran for the ship?

The godforsaken woman had him tied in knots. He wasn’t even sure if his trunk had made it aboard. For all he knew he’d just embarked on a monthlong voyage without a change of undergarments.

“Edward?” Her voice came from behind him, small and hesitant.

“Are you pregnant?” he asked.

“What?”

He turned around and said it again, with even more precision. “Are. You. Pregnant.”

“No!” She shook her head in an almost frantic motion. “I told you I wasn’t.”

“I didn’t know if—” He stopped. Cut himself off.

“You didn’t know what?”

He didn’t know if he could trust her. That was what he’d been about to say. Except it wasn’t true. He did trust her. On this, at least. No, on this, especially. And his initial instinct—the one goading him to question her word—that was nothing but a devil on his shoulder, wanting to lash out. To wound.

Because she’d hurt him. Not because she’d lied—he supposed he could understand how all that had happened. But she had not had faith. She had not trusted him. How could she have thought that running away was the right thing to do? How could she have thought he didn’t care?

“I am not with child,” she said in a voice so low with urgency it was almost a whisper. “I promise you. I would not lie about such a thing.”

“No?” His devil, apparently, refused to give up its voice.

“I promise,” she said again. “I would not do that to you.”

“But you would do this?”

“This?” she echoed.

He stepped toward her, still seething. “You left me. Without a word.”

“I wrote you a letter!”

“Before you fled the continent.”

“But I—”

“You ran away.”

“No!” she cried. “No, I didn’t. I—”

“You are on a boat,” he exploded. “That is the very definition of running away.”

“I did it for you!”

Her voice was so loud, so full of keening sorrow that he was momentarily silenced. She looked almost brittle, her arms sticklike at her sides, her hands pressed into desperate little fists.

“I did it for you,” she said again, softer this time.

He shook his head. “Then you should have damn well consulted me to see if it was what I wanted.”

“If I stayed,” she said, with the slow and heavy cadence of one who was desperately trying to make the other understand, “you would have insisted upon marrying me.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you think this was what I wanted?” she practically shouted. “Do you think I liked sneaking away while you were gone? I was sparing you from having to do the right thing!”

“Listen to yourself,” he bit off. “Sparing me from having to do the right thing? How could you even think I would want to do anything else? Do you know me at all?”

“Edward, I—”

“If it’s the right thing,” he snapped, “then I should be doing it.”

“Edward, please, you must believe me. When you recover your memory, you will understand—”

“I got my memory back days ago,” he cut in.

She froze.

He was not such a noble man that he did not experience a small pang of satisfaction at that.

“What?” she finally said.

“I got my—”

“You didn’t tell me?” Her voice was calm, dangerously so.

“We had just found out about Thomas.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“You were grieving—”

She smacked him on the shoulder. “How could you keep that from me?”

“I was angry!” he roared. “Didn’t I have the right to keep something from you?”

She stumbled back, hugging her arms to her body. Her anguish was palpable, but he couldn’t stop himself from advancing, jabbing his forefinger hard against her collarbone. “I was so bloody furious with you I could hardly see straight. But speaking of doing the right thing, I thought it would be kinder if I waited to confront you until after you’d had a few days to grieve for your brother.”

Her eyes grew large, and her lips trembled, and her posture—somehow tense and slack at the same time—brought to Edward’s mind a deer he’d almost shot years ago, while hunting with his father. One of them had stepped on a twig, and the animal’s large ears had perked and turned. It didn’t move, though. It stood there for what felt like an eternity, and Edward had had the most bizarre sense that it was contemplating its existence.

He had not taken the shot. He had not been able to bring himself to do so.

And now . . .

The devil on his shoulder slunk away.

“You should have stayed,” he said quietly. “You should have told me the truth.”

“I was scared.”

He was dumbfounded. “Of me?”

“No!” She looked down, but he heard her whisper, “Of myself.”

But before he could ask her what she meant, she swallowed tremulously and said, “You don’t have to marry me.”

He couldn’t believe she was still thinking that was possible. “Oh, I don’t, don’t I?”

“I won’t hold you to it,” she half babbled. “There’s nothing to hold you to.”

“Isn’t there?” He took a step toward her, because it was long past time they eliminated the distance between them, but he stopped in place when he realized what he saw in her eyes.

Sorrow.

She looked so unbearably sad, and it wrecked him.