Destined to Last (13 page)

He could still remember that night as if it had been only yesterday—the fear as he stood in the darkened hallway of the workhouse, the desperation for what was on the other side of the locked kitchen door, and the determination to acquire what was needed. But most vivid in his memory was what came after he’d found success and left the kitchen with his pockets stuffed with bread. He’d felt useful, confident,
even powerful. There was something he could do to help, to make a difference. It was a heady experience for a boy—one he’d sought out time and again, even after the sense of power had proved to be false. He’d been able to keep what he’d stolen, but not who he’d stolen for.

Hunter shoved the memory aside. He was no longer a helpless young boy. And there was work to be done. He searched the room quickly but thoroughly, opening every drawer, turning over every scrap of paper, and delving his hand into every pocket. His search was met with success in the form of simple note in a desk drawer.

My dearest Martin,

As you are quite well aware, the shipment shall arrive within a fortnight. Please do attempt a show of patience.

Hunter turned the note over in his hand. It was neither signed nor dated. Clearly, it had been hand delivered, but whether that delivery had occurred at the house party or prior to Lord Martin’s arrival was impossible to determine. What
was
clear, was that Lord Martin knew the sender well. The tone was chiding and that implied familiarity.

Hunter studied the note until he was confident he would recognize the handwriting if he saw it again, then tucked the note back into the drawer and made his way to Mr. Kepford’s chambers. He searched that room and Mr. Woodruff’s in under fifteen minutes and found nothing of interest. To his frustration, samples of both gentlemen’s handwriting failed to match the note addressed to Lord Martin. The second party remained an unknown. He
hated
unknowns. A man couldn’t strategize properly without knowing all the variables, all the players. As a thief, he’d studied his marks for weeks before making a move. As a businessman, he knew the personal and professional lives of each and every one of his competitors. As an agent, he was left studying cryptic, unsigned notes,
penned by an unknown individual who may, or may not, be a threat to Kate.

He left Mr. Woodruff’s room with a scowl, and headed for the parlor. It had been easier being a thief.

D
espite her distaste for moping, Kate spent the next morning in her room doing mostly that. She would have much preferred to have spent her time doing something a little less disheartening, or at least a little more imaginative, like devising ways to make Hunter pay for his high-handedness, but she just couldn’t drum up an interest in it.

Most of her anger had burned away the night before—
after
she’d stormed down the halls, painfully aware that Hunter was following her at a distance, and gone to her room to pace, fume, and kick at her bed a few times. When the latter had prompted Lizzy to hesitantly knock on the connecting door between their rooms, Kate had claimed clumsiness and pretended as if nothing was amiss. She’d allowed Lizzy to help her change her gown for a night rail, and then she’d gone to bed.

Though her sleep had been restless, what was left of her anger had melted away during the night, and now at midday she felt only weary, heartsick, and a strong desire to avoid Hunter for as long as possible. She also felt rather guilty for having told Lizzy and Mirabelle she wanted to spend the day composing. Guilty enough, in fact, that she’d been trying for the past three hours to put aside her foul mood and work on her symphony.

She hadn’t managed to put two notes together. For some
reason, her mind kept going back to a silly little tune she’d made up as a child, and she couldn’t open her windows and let the sound of the waves silence it because it was raining outside.

“I don’t even like that song,” she grumbled to herself. Nor did she like that she had misled her friends so she could mope about her room instead of facing Hunter.

“I’m not afraid of him,” she grumbled again and rose from her small writing desk. She was going downstairs to find Mirabelle and Lizzy, and if she ran into Hunter, so be it. There was no reason for her to feel ashamed.
She
hadn’t been the one to toss about asinine orders and heartless insults. Remembering, she felt a small revival of anger. She latched on to it greedily. It was so much better than despondency.

“See what’s to be done with me,” she muttered as she walked down the hall, her steps unconsciously matching the beat of the silly tune.

“Untrustworthy,” she said under her breath as she made her way down a back staircase. That specific memory prompted the return of disappointment and hurt. Did he really think so little of her? Did he truly believe her so capricious as to give her word one day and break it the next? Or the day after the next…which was neither an improvement nor the point.

Had he
always
thought so little of her? Had she given him cause to? She could admit to being impulsive—
occasionally
—and she knew her distracted and romantic nature sometimes got the better of her common sense. But she wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t dishonorable. That Hunter should think her both—

The silly tune playing in her head rather suddenly became a lively minuet.

Her hip nudged something hard and she glanced down to see the vase Lizzy had rescued once before go toppling from its table. To her considerable shock, Kate actually managed
to reach out and catch the thing. But she had only a heartbeat to revel in this unusual display of coordination, because in the next, her toe caught on the leg of the table and then
she
was toppling to the ground, vase in hand.

She landed on it—caught it right between her shoulder and the hard wooden floor. The sound of it breaking was like a gunshot in her ear.

Slowly, painfully, she sat up and surveyed the wreckage. The vase was in at least a dozen pieces. She looked at them numbly, the next twenty-four hours of her existence playing out before her.

She would try to pay for the replacement of the vase. Lord Brentworth would refuse. Her brother would press the money on him in private. Kate would press her money on Whit. Whit would refuse. She would give the money to her mother. Her mother would lecture. Everyone would feel terrible.

A stinging sensation on her shoulder provided an almost welcome distraction, until she looked down to discover a long slash in her gown and an accompanying blooming spot of red.

“Of course,” she said wearily.
Of course
she would ruin yet another gown. Hadn’t her brother worked so hard to restore the family coffers just so she could squander the money on one accident after another?

She rather felt like crying.

“Kate? What’s all this?”

And
of course
Hunter would suddenly emerge around the corner to witness her disgrace.

To her mortification, she felt her eyes begin to water. Ruthlessly, she battled back the tears. She was not going to add to her pitiable circumstances by leaking like a sieve.

“I’m constructing a mosaic,” she drawled in her most sarcastic tone, because honestly—
What’s all this?
Was the man blind? He had to be, not to see she was sitting in the hallway surrounded by pieces of a broken vase. And to see her as an
untrustworthy, dishonorable, and capricious idiot. The tears returned, and she fought them back again as Hunter crouched beside her.

“I deserved that, I suppose,” he murmured. “Are you all right?”

Her shoulder hurt, her heart hurt, and humiliation sat like a heavy blanket on her shoulders. “Yes.”

He bent his head, his dark eyes searching her face. Her misery must have been evident, because he reached out to take her hand in his. “It’s only a vase, Kate.”

“It’s
Lord Brentworth’s
vase,” she countered.
That
was the point. It wasn’t hers to break.

“I’ll fix it for—”

“You can’t fix it.” She gestured angrily with her free hand. “It’s ruined. I ruined it.”

“Everything can be fixed.” His eyes darted to the vase. “Or replaced.”

“Oh,
please
go away.”

“Not quite yet.” He let go of her hand to brush an errant lock behind her ear. “Here now, stand up before someone comes along. You’ll only feel worse if anyone sees you on the floor.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to feel worse,” she muttered.

“That someone could be Miss Willory.”

She let him pull her to her feet. She was going back to her room and staying there, she decided. Coming downstairs had been a dreadful idea. It would have been much more sensible to have crawled back into bed and caught up on the sleep she’d lost last night. She was always more sensitive when she hadn’t enough sleep, and when she broke someone’s vase, and when the man she’d been growing steadily more attached to unfairly accused her—

“You’re bleeding.”

She blinked at Hunter’s hard tone and followed his gaze to the injury on her shoulder.

“It’s just a scratch,” she said. It was
always
just a scratch, just a bruise, just someone else’s vase. Why couldn’t it ever be just a perfectly graceful walk from point A to point B?

“It’s not just a scratch, and I haven’t a handkerchief at the moment. We need—” Hunter broke off midsentence when she pulled three handkerchiefs from a pocket in her gown. “You carry three handkerchiefs about with you?”

“When I’ve somewhere to put them.” Three was a minimum, and too often insufficient. She dabbed at her injury and hissed at the resulting sting.

Hunter scowled at her shoulder for a second, then retrieved a small leather satchel from a pocket, and within a minute, had a door across the hall swinging open.

Kate gawked at him, momentarily distracted from her wretchedness. “You just picked that lock, didn’t you?”

Rather than answer, Hunter placed a hand on the small of her back and ushered her into a small parlor that looked to have gone unused for years. Most of the furniture was shrouded in dust covers, and the rest was covered in dust. He pulled the cloths off two chairs and led her to one. “Sit down. Let me see your shoulder.”

“It’s only a scratch,” she insisted. “And I need to clean up the vase before someone trips over it.” She moved to stand, only to have him nudge her back in the chair.

“Wait here.”

It took him less than a minute to step out into the hall, pick up the pieces of the vase and return to dump them into an empty planter by the window.

“Now,” he said pointedly, taking the seat across from her and pulling it forward until their knees brushed. “Let me have a look.” He drew her hand away from her shoulder. “It’s a nasty cut, Kate.”

Frowning, she watched as Hunter carefully widened the tear in her gown, exposing the wound. It
was
a bit nastier than she’d realized. It was nearly two inches long and seeping
more than she’d realized. She felt a trickle of warmth slide down her arm. “It’s not very deep, is it?”

He refolded the linen to produce a clean square. “It should be all right.”

“Should be?” That wasn’t the most encouraging assessment of an injury that one could hope to hear.

He tenderly dabbed at the blood around the cut. “It’s a clean slice, that helps.”

“Helps?”
She traded frowning at her shoulder for frowning at the top of his bent head. “You’re not very good at this sort of thing, are you? Atrocious, really.”

He glanced up at her. “Would you rather I lie?”

“Well, no, but couldn’t you…I don’t know, soften the truth a smidge?”

His lips twitched, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think we can save your arm.”

“Atrocious was too generous a description.”

“You’ll be fine, Kate.” He took the hand of her uninjured arm and lifted it to place a kiss against her palm. “All right?”

The warmth of that kiss spread along her skin, bringing on a slight case of nerves. She found that rather annoying as she hadn’t forgotten he’d called her honor into question. Carefully, she pulled her hand away. “Yes. All right.”

Hunter nodded. “Good. Think you can sit still while I remove the shard?”

Warmth, nerves, and annoyance were immediately, and thoroughly, brushed aside by shock. “What?”

“The…you didn’t notice, did you?” He winced sympathetically. “You’ve a shard of porcelain in the cut, sweetheart. It needs to come out.”

“It doesn’t. I don’t.” She twisted her neck in an effort to better see her wound. Oh, good heavens she
did.
She’d been distracted by the size of the cut and the blood coming from it and had not seen the small piece of ivory porcelain caught in the corner of the wound. How buried? she wondered uneasily.
How small? It was difficult to tell from the angle of her perspective.

“Is it very large?”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

How could he be sure? For all either of them knew, the piece was buried an inch deep. But that would hurt more, wouldn’t it? It hurt now, to be sure, but not terribly. “I’m surprised it doesn’t hurt more.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to hurt a little more when I take it out.”

“Oh.” She grimaced. “Yes, I imagine it will.”
Blast.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised and pulled out his leather satchel once more to retrieve something small and metal.

She turned away, quite certain the experience would not be enhanced by knowing precisely what the tool was, nor what he was going to do with it. Biting her lip, she concentrated instead on sitting perfectly still as he began to prod at the wound.

“You’ll tell me first?” she asked wincing at a sharp sting. “Before you pull it out?”

Keeping the tool in place, he leaned over suddenly and brushed his lips softly across hers. “Of course I will.”

The warmth spread quickly this time, before anger and annoyance had any say in the matter. “I…”

He pulled the shard out with a quick draw of his hand.

The pain of it was absolutely stunning. She jerked, cried out, and swatted at him. “Oh,
ow
! Oh, you
rotter
!”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He crooned to her as she rocked in her seat, gripping her shoulder above the wound and hissing through her teeth in pain. “I’m sorry. Shhh, it’s done.”

He tried to kiss her again. She swatted at him again. “You
lied.
”

“I did. I’m sorry. I thought it might be easier if you didn’t see it coming.”

“Well we won’t know
now
, will we?” she managed through gritted teeth.

“Not unless you care to break another vase?”

She stopped rocking to gape at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“I am,” he admitted and reached up to brush the back of his fingers against her cheek. “But only to distract you. Is it working?”

It was, rather. The pain had dulled to a throbbing ache. “It’s possible.”

“Poor Kate,” he murmured and leaned in to press his lips to her forehead. “It’s been a rough morning for you, hasn’t it?”

It had been a rough night as well, but she didn’t want to think of their argument in that moment, not while she was hurting, and he was being so kind. She’d think about their argument when she felt better and he was back to being a high-handed oaf.

She closed her eyes and sighed as the throb lessened. “I’m sorry I called you a rotter.”

“Don’t be. I did lie.” He tapped her chin gently until she opened her eyes. “Better now?”

She nodded as he pulled away to retrieve her handkerchief. He used it to stem the fresh flow of blood.

“You’ll need to take proper care of this,” he told her, his voice taking on a serious tone. “Keep the wound clean, and keep it covered when you go to bed. I’ll hunt up some bandages for you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She glanced to where he’d set the shard he’d pulled out. It wasn’t an inch, she was relieved to note, but she wouldn’t have described it as small either. It was triangular in shape, with the base a good quarter inch wide.

“I can’t believe this happened,” she said, somewhat awed. “I never hurt myself. Not seriously…Well, I did give myself a black eye with a door once. And I think I may have broken a toe when I fell out of father’s curricle, but—”

Hunter’s head snapped up. “You fell out of a curricle?”

“There were no horses attached to it at the time.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “A game of hide-and-seek with Evie when I was ten.”

“Ah.” He cleaned the cut a moment longer, then returned the handkerchief. “No one goes through life without acquiring an injury or two, Kate. Don’t overthink the matter.”