Her Prodigal Passion (33 page)

Paul stared at the scarred former cutthroat. This menacing fellow, who'd survived and thrived in the London underworld, was talking about
love
?

Looking not in the least bit discomfited, Hunt said, "I like being the kind of cove a woman like Percy could love. Like that I'm about to be a father, too. Respectability ain't all fun and games, but it beats the cutthroat business any day of the week."

Heart pounding, Paul thought of the qualities that had always drawn him to Charity: her sweetness, steadfast loyalty, the way she'd believed in him from the start. In her presence, he didn't feel like a failure ... he felt like the man he wanted to be.

A man of honor and worth.

A man worthy of a wife like Charity.

He blurted, "I love her."

God. He did. So bloody much. Why hadn't he realized it sooner?

"We men can be sods about love," Hunt said, not without sympathy. "Or so Percy says."

"What if Charity doesn't love me back?" Paul said suddenly.

He'd given her so many reasons
not
to love him. Self-loathing swirled like acid in his gut. He'd made her an object of ridicule and gossip—not once, but
twice
. He'd left her, wasn't with her now when she needed him the most. His throat closed as he thought about how much she must be grieving, how alone she must feel.

"You do whatever it takes to win her love and devil take the rest."

Paul's shoulders bunched. His plan exactly.

He slanted a look at his brother-in-law. "I was under the impression that we weren't on the best of terms. Why are you helping me—for Percy's sake?"

"Aye, I want Percy happy." Hunt crossed his burly arms. "But I've also come to see that you ain't a bad sort. Not every man can pick himself up from the gutter and keep on fighting."

Paul's brows shot up. "Do I detect a hint of respect?"

"More like self-interest." A grin chased across Hunt's harsh features. "Been following your fights, Fines, and you've won me a pretty penny."

"You bet on me to win?" Paul said in disbelief.

"Aye."

The notion that
Hunt
saw him as a winner astonished him. "But
why
?"

"A Fines is a Fines." Hunt's lips twitched. "Being married to one, I know you're a stubborn lot who don't like to lose."

*****

By seven o'clock, Charity cleared the shop of its last customer and sent the clerks home. Percy and Mr. McLeod remained to help with the last of the tasks.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Percy said. "For heaven's sake, you've been working since dawn, Charity."

"I'm not tired."

She wasn't. Despite little sleep and low appetite, a strange energy buzzed through her veins. 'Twas as if she was peering through a tunnel and all she could see was the goal at the end: saving her father's shop. Seeing Percy hide a yawn and rub at her lower back, however, filled Charity with remorse.

"Oh Percy, you've done far too much for a lady in your condition," she said. "You're going home right this instant."

"I'm not leaving you here alone," her friend protested.

"I'm not alone. Mr. McLeod is here, and he'll help me close up, won't he?"

Charity tipped her head at the stoic ex-soldier. His blunt features and brawny build made his an intimidating presence, but she'd come to know him as a gentle giant. He didn't speak much, and in his silence she sensed a certain kinship. As if he, too, had his reasons for remaining solely focused on the tasks at hand.

He gave a grave nod of his dark, shaggy head. "I'll see you home safe, Mrs. Fines."

"But—"

"No fussing, Percy. Go home." Charity steered her friend outside to the waiting carriage. "What would Mr. Hunt say if you didn't take care of yourself and the babe?"

Percy lingered even as the groom unfolded the steps. "Promise me you shan't stay much longer."

"Go, mother hen. I'll be perfectly fine."

After seeing Percy off, Charity returned inside and locked the door behind her. "Let's start with restocking," she said decisively. "There are boxes of merchandise yet to sort through, and I want everything we have out on the floor."

McLeod followed her, his habitual limp barely slowing his stride. They entered the cramped back room which served as an office and a storage space. Boxes lined the shelves, which covered two walls from floor to ceiling. McLeod fetched a ladder, propping it against the highest shelf. When he placed a large boot on the bottom rung, the rickety contraption gave a protesting creak.

"Wait," Charity said. "I had better go up."

McLeod shook his head. "It isn't safe."

"Safer for me than you." She tested the first step with her entire weight; no creaking. Being slight had its advantages. "I'll hand the boxes down to you."

Climbing onto the fourth rung, she was able to reach the top shelf. She removed a box and carefully handed it down to McLeod's outstretched hands.

"Do you have it, Mr. McLeod?"

"Will," he said as he took the box.

She passed him another. "Pardon?"

His gaze—a velvety brown—met hers. "You can call me Will. Most everyone does."

"Whatever you prefer." She continued unloading the shelf until there was one last carton remaining. It dangled like the farthest apple on a branch. Holding onto the ladder with one hand, she stretched her other hand toward it. Almost there ...

"Have a care, Mrs. Fines—"

Will's warning came too late. Just as her fingers grasped the corner of the box, she lost her balance and her grip on the ladder. Crying out, she tumbled backward through the air.

*****

Paul unlocked the door to Sparkler's—and heard a piercing scream.

"Charity!" he shouted.

He raced toward the back, shoved aside the curtain. Heart hammering, his gaze locked on Charity ... lying in the arms of a stranger. A tall, dark-haired man was cradling her against his chest, murmuring her name. Two facts struck like lightning.

First, Charity was unharmed.

Second, whoever that stranger was, he was a
dead man
.

Paul's vision darkened at the edges, and he heard himself roar, "
Unhand my wife
" the instant before he charged.

THIRTY-NINE

One moment, Charity was falling to her doom ... the next she landed safely. As she tried to catch her breath to thank Will,
Paul
tore into the room. Before her equilibrium could recover, he snatched her up, set her in a chair, and went charging back at Will.

She jumped to her feet. "What are you doing?"

Neither man heard her. They were too busy exchanging blows. Despite Will's bulkier build, Paul had the clear advantage, his fists striking with lethal speed and force, backing the other into a wall.

"Stop it!" Charity dashed toward them. "Paul, stop hitting Will!"

"
Will?
" Paul's head jerked back as if he'd been punched.

Wrong thing to say, apparently. Paul glowered at her, and her breath caught at the blue flames leaping in his eyes. His momentary distraction cost him, however, and Will plowed his fist directly into Paul's gut. She cried out, but Paul only grunted and gave as good as he got, landing a cross that snapped Will's head back.

Enough was enough.

Charity grabbed the first thing she could lay her hands on—a teapot—and sent it flying against a wall. The resounding
smash
filled the room.

"Bloody hell, stop!" she shouted. "Or I'll summon the damned magistrates!"

Paul stopped mid-punch. Will likewise. They both stared at her.

"Did you just curse?" Paul said.

"Twice," Will said.

"I'll do more than that if you don't stop acting like two idiots," Charity said through her teeth. "What in heaven's name are you doing here, Paul? And why are you attacking Will?"

Paul scowled. He didn't release his hold on the other's lapel.

"He had his hands on you. On my bloody
wife
," he snarled in Will's face.

Paul was ... jealous? Over her?

Despite her irritation, Charity felt a betraying thrill. She quickly shoved away the feeling.

"He caught me when I fell off the ladder," she said coldly.

"Someone had to be around to do the job," Will added in hostile tones.

His face reddening, Paul gave the man another shake. "Who the devil are you, anyway?"

"Mrs. Hunt hired me to guard Sparkler's."

"
Percy
hired you?" Paul's gaze shot to Charity.

She dipped her chin in assent.

"In case Garrity's men came back. Mrs. Fines is a lone female, vulnerable,"—Will aimed another dirty look at Paul—"and Mrs. Hunt wanted me to keep an eye on her and the shop."

Paul released his grip on Will's jacket. The two stood, toe to toe, glaring at each other. They were a hair's breadth from another brawl: two males raring to scrap over their perceived territory.

Which was ridiculous.

Restraining the urge to roll her eyes, Charity said, "Thank you for your help, Will, and in particular for saving me from a fall just now." She smiled at him. "But I'm fine and it's getting late, so I think it's best you go."

Will didn't break his eye contact with Paul. "Are you certain that's a good idea?"

Paul growled, "She's
my
wife. I'll take care of her."

"Like you were doing the past few weeks?" Will said.

For heaven's sake.
She could see the ominous twitching of Paul's jaw.

"Please go, Will," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Moments passed. The guard inclined his dark head. "You can count on that, Mrs. Fines."

Will left, the tension he took with him replaced by another, far stronger, that pulsed in the air as her gaze locked with Paul's. Her throat cinched. She didn't know what to say. Since her father's death, a mantle of numbness had shrouded her, and she had gotten used to its protection.

Now Paul was here. After all these weeks. He and she remained a few feet apart, and he looked as uncertain as she felt.

"I ... how are you?" he said.

She didn't know how to respond to the mundane opening. Settled for, "Fine."

"You look different," he said. "Your hair ... it suits you. Lovely and unique."

At his tentative smile, a droplet of sensation trickled down her spine.

"It was time for a change," she said.

His eyes widened slightly, and he blurted, "I came as quickly as I could. Once I heard ... I'm sorry about your father. I know how much you loved him."

She gave a tight nod.

"I'm sorry about other things as well. I should have been here with you, through all of this." He ran a hand over his mouth. "Instead I ran away like a coward at the first sign of trouble between us."

The warning prickle centered in her chest, like pins and needles greeting an awakening limb.

He took a step toward her. "There's so much I want to say to you—I don't even know where to begin. But I think I must start with Rosalind."

Yes, feeling was returning because the mention of that name made Charity's belly tighten into knots.

His hands fisted at his sides, Paul said, "Rosalind wanted to have an affair."

The knots twisted painfully.

"I turned her down," he said. "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I swear on my mother's name that nothing happened."

Charity swallowed. She knew how much Paul loved his mama, and he wouldn't make such a vow if it weren't true. Hope budded, pushing through the layer of frost.

"Why?" she said through dry lips. "When you have loved Rosalind for so long—"

"I thought what I felt for her was love, but it turns out I was wrong." He came closer, close enough for his familiar masculine scent to feed her famished senses. "I was infatuated, yes, but I was an imbecile to mistake that for love. And an even greater fool for nurturing that delusion. And while I have to ask forgiveness for those and so many other things, you are to blame as well, sweeting."

His endearment caused a shift within her, like a slow crack spreading through ice.

"For what?" she managed.

"For not showing me sooner what love truly is. You've been there this whole time, Charity, and I never saw you. Why did you hide from me?" His handsome face looked so
fierce
. "How could I have missed such a treasure otherwise?"

Powerful torrents raged against her barriers, yet she said, "You had eyes only for Rosalind. I don't blame you. She's as beautiful now as she ever was."

"Hold up ... how do you know what she looks like now?"

Charity's pulse skipped.

His brow furrowed. "Have you
seen
Rosalind?"

Unable to bring herself to lie, Charity took a breath and told him about Rosalind's visit to the shop.

"The lying
bitch
."

The vehemence of his tone stunned her. But not as much as being suddenly swept off her feet and brought to the nearest chair. He sat, cradling her on his lap, his hand on the nape of her neck so that she had no choice but to meet his desperate, burning gaze.

"I owe you an explanation, my love, and I need you to listen. Parts of it aren't pretty, and I'm sure to bumble through the others as I haven't worked it all out myself. But I'd like to talk it through with you—as I ought to have done instead of leaving." His tone was firm, yet his eyes beseeched her. "Can you give me the chance? Save judgment until I've finished?"

She gave a small nod.

"When Rosalind approached me, it was after the blow up with your father," he said tautly. "I was furious at him ... and at you. I'd worked so hard to make things right, you see, and—I don't wish to speak ill of the dead or to cause you further pain—but Sparkler seemed hell-bent on pinning me as a failure. He never even gave me a chance."

It
was
painful to hear. It was also the truth.

"As for you,"—his shoulders hitched in a self-deprecating manner—"I wanted you to take my side. To stand with me against your father, which I understand now was an unreasonable expectation. An untenable position to put you in."

His honesty made her heart beat faster.

"When I've mulled it over—and, it seems, I've spent the length of our separation mulling—I see now that anger was but a small part of what I was feeling." He paused a fraction. "Mostly, I was afraid."