Marrying Winterborne (29 page)

A
LONG THE WAY TO
Waterloo Station, in a hansom cab that jounced, tilted, and swayed with suicidal fervor, Helen discovered that it was easier to be brave in the presence of a child than when she was alone. She was so determined to keep Charity from worrying that she found herself making ridiculous comments, such as “Isn't this exciting?” when they nearly crashed into an omnibus, or “How exhilarating!” when the wheels hit a hole in the road and the vehicle was briefly airborne. Charity remained silent, staring at the chaotic world rushing past them. She had a remarkable willingness to endure discomfort or uncertainty without complaining. Whenever Helen had been praised during her childhood, it had usually been for the same quality. She wasn't certain that had been a good thing.

The hansom stopped on Waterloo Road beside one of the massive train sheds. Helen handed up the payment to the driver and grappled with her tapestry bag as she descended from the vehicle. She reached for Charity, who half-jumped, half-fell into her arms. Catching her neatly, Helen lowered her feet to the pavement. She felt a flicker of triumph.
I couldn't have done that with a bustle
. Gripping the tapestry bag on one side and holding Charity's hand on the other, Helen followed the flow of the crowd as it poured into the station.

The approach to the booking office was a narrow, convoluted path, leading through a collection of temporary structures. The station was in the process of yet another expansion, with the result that the waiting rooms and service areas were crudely constructed and unpainted. Keeping a firm grasp on Charity, Helen waited her turn in line, watching as parcel clerks, booking clerks, and porters rushed back and forth from the row of ticket counters. She reached the front of the line, where a clerk informed her that the train to Alton Station would depart in an hour and a half.

Helen bought two first-class tickets. She was relieved that they hadn't missed the train, but she wished they didn't have to wait for so long. Hopefully the twins and the servants could manage to detain Vance long enough to keep him from reaching the station before her train departed. She took Charity to a cluster of stalls that sold newspapers, books, penny journals and periodicals, boxed sandwiches, snacks, and tea. After buying a cup of milk and a bun for Charity, Helen browsed over the bookstalls and purchased a compendium of illustrated children's stories.

They went to the first-class waiting area, furnished only with backless wooden benches. Some travelers complained about the lack of upholstered seating and the rough, unpainted walls, while others sat stoically. Helen found an empty bench in the corner, and settled there with Charity, keeping her tapestry bag at their feet. While the little girl ate the bun and drank her milk, Helen opened the book and paged through it.

Charity poked excitedly at an illustration of the three bears. “Do that one, Helen. That one.”

Helen smiled. “You're not tired of it yet?”

Charity shook her head.

As Helen searched for the beginning of the story, she caught sight of another title: “The Red Shoes
.
” She paused and frowned. “Wait a moment, I have to fix something.” With a few deft tugs, she tore the hated story out of the book. Regretfully, a page of “Jack and the Beanstalk” had to be removed with it, but Helen considered it a worthwhile sacrifice.

Hearing the sound of ripping paper, a woman seated nearby glanced in their direction. She frowned in open disapproval at the sight of a book being mutilated in such a fashion. Feeling rebellious, Helen met the woman's disdainful gaze as she crumpled the pages in her gloved hand. After dropping the wads of paper into her tapestry bag, Helen said in satisfaction, “There, that's better.” She found “The Three Bears” and read it to Charity in a whisper.

As the minutes wore on, Helen glanced up frequently, fearing she would see Albion Vance walking toward her. What would she do if he found them? Would he try to take Charity by force? In a public conflict between a woman and a well-dressed, respectable-looking man, the man would almost certainly win. No one would lift a finger to help her.

The room was unheated, and icy draughts of air numbed Helen's feet. She wiggled her toes until they prickled uncomfortably. The bench became progressively hard, and Charity lost interest in the book. She leaned against Helen, shivering. Wrapping the shawl more snugly around the child's tiny frame, Helen wished she had brought a lap blanket. People left the waiting area, and others came, and the incessant shouts and train whistles and clamor began to fray Helen's nerves.

Someone approached her directly, and her head
jerked up in alarm, her heart hammering. To her relief, it was not Albion Vance but the small, elderly booking clerk who had sold her the ticket. He had a kind face, and a gray mustache with curled waxed tips that gave the impression of a perpetual smile.

“Pardon, ma'am,” he said quietly. “You're on the next departure for Alton Station?”

Helen gave him a slight nod, briefly surprised at being called “ma'am” instead of “miss,” until she recalled that she had given her name as Mrs. Smith.

“There's been a delay for at least an hour.”

Helen regarded him with dismay. “May I ask why?”

“It's being kept waiting outside the station, as we have an insufficient number of platforms. A special train has caused delays for our scheduled departures.”

Another hour of waiting. Another hour for Albion Vance to find her. “Thank you for informing me.”

He spoke even more softly. “Ma'am, in light of circumstances, seeing as you're the only one in here with a child . . . would you like to go to a more comfortable waiting area? We don't always offer it, of course, but the little one seems cold . . .”

“This other waiting area is nearby?” Helen asked warily.

His smile nudged the points of his mustache higher. “The offices in back of the ticket counter. They're warmer and quieter than here. You could rest in a soft chair while you wait.”

The offer was irresistible. Not only would they be more comfortable, but they would be tucked safely out of sight. “I wouldn't want to miss my departure,” she said uncertainly.

“I'll watch the clock for you.”

“Thank you.” Helen straightened Charity's shawl
and hat. “We're going to wait in another room where it's warmer,” she whispered. Picking up the tapestry bag, Helen ignored a multitude of small aches throughout her body. They followed the booking clerk out past the ticket counters, and went through a door that opened to a row of private office rooms. Heading to the last one in the row, the clerk opened it for Helen.

It was a nice room, neatly kept, with maps on the walls, a desk piled with schedules, books, and pamphlets, and a shuttered window that revealed a partial view of one of the main platforms. A small chair was positioned behind the desk, and a large comfortable-looking wingback occupied the corner.

“Will this be acceptable, my lady”?

“Yes. Thank you.” She smiled at him, even as her nerves crawled with a sudden feeling of apprehension.

The clerk left the office room, and Helen busied herself with making Charity comfortable. She set her in the large upholstered chair, wedging the tapestry bag at one side for her to rest on, and covering her with the shawl. Charity snuggled down in the chair immediately.

Going to the window, Helen stared at the busy platform.

A thought occurred to her. Had the booking clerk just called her “my lady”?

He had. She was so accustomed to the term, it had temporarily escaped her notice. But there was no way for him to know that she had a courtesy title. She hadn't given him her real name.

Her stomach turned to ice.

Striding to the door, Helen opened it. The threshold was blocked by a man in a dark suit and a low-brimmed hat. She recognized the hat first, and then the blue eyes.

He was the young man who had come to help her and Dr. Gibson, when they had been harassed after leaving the Stepney Orphanage.

Staring at him in shock, Helen asked unsteadily, “Why are you here?”

He gave her a faint smile that seemed to be intended as reassurance. “Keeping an eye on you, my lady.”

She took a shaking breath. “I'm going to take my child and leave now.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible.”

“Why not?”

“You'll have to wait a bit longer.”

The door closed in her face.

Helen clenched her fists, furious with him, and the situation, and most of all herself
. I shouldn't have trusted a stranger.
How stupid she'd been. Tears stung her eyes, and she struggled to keep from losing her self-control. After taking a few deep breaths, she glanced at Charity, who was drifting off to sleep, having absorbed enough new experiences for the time being.

Wandering to the window, Helen widened the shutters and stared at platform eight. A train had pulled in, bearing the same number as the train listed on her ticket. It hadn't been delayed after all.

Fear and determination raced through her. She went to the chair, picked up Charity, and grabbed the handle of the tapestry bag. Huffing with effort, she carried the sleepy child to the door, and kicked it with her foot.

The door opened, and the young man gave her a questioning glance. “Is there something you need, my lady?”

“Yes, I need to leave. My train is at the platform.”

“You'll have to wait for a few more minutes.”

“I can't wait. Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

The door closed again, and to Helen's furious astonishment, a key turned in the lock. She closed her eyes, despairing. “I'm sorry,” she whispered against Charity's head. “I'm sorry.” She carried her back to the chair, made her comfortable again, and paced around the office.

In another few minutes, she heard masculine voices outside the door. A brief, low-pitched conversation.

The door unlocked, and Helen moved protectively in front of Charity as someone came in. Her heart began to thud with sickening force as she looked up at him.

“Rhys?” she whispered in bewilderment.

He entered the office, surveying her with hard obsidian eyes. His head tilted slightly as he looked past her to the sleeping child in the chair.

Helen realized that Rhys had never really been angry with her before now. Not like this.

Unnerved by his silence, she spoke unsteadily. “I'm supposed to be on the train leaving for Hampshire.”

“You can take the next one. Right now, you're going to tell me what the bloody hell is going on.” His eyes narrowed. “Let's start with an explanation of what you're doing with Albion Vance's daughter.”

I
T WAS HUMILIATING TO
have been outmaneuvered and cornered like this. It was also infuriating.

Helen glanced at Charity, who was sleeping peacefully in the chair. “I don't want to wake her. Is there another place we might talk?”

Without a word, Rhys took her with him past the threshold. She hated the way he guided her with his hand clasped on the back of her neck, as if she were a helpless kitten being carried by the scruff. The fact that he was doing it in front of his . . . henchman, or whatever the young man was, made it even worse. He shepherded her into a little office on the other side of the hallway, pausing to speak tersely to the man in the hallway. “Ransom. Don't let anyone near the child.”

“Yes, sir.”

This room was smaller, only big enough for a desk, a chair, and a bookcase. Rhys seemed to take up most of the available space. He looked calculating and utterly self-assured, and Helen had an inkling of what his business adversaries must face when they sat across a table from him.

She retreated to the foot of wall space between the desk and the door, still feeling the sensation of his hand on the back of her neck. “That man in the hallway . . . he works for you?”

“Now and then.”

“You hired him to follow me.”

“At first I hired him to follow Vance. I'd received word about some underhanded business he was involved in, and I had no intention of being duped by the bastard. To my surprise, I received a report that not only had Vance visited Ravenel House, but you and he met again the next day for a private chat at the museum.” A chilling pause. “I found it interesting that you didn't see fit to mention it to me.”

“Why didn't
you
say something?” Helen countered.

“I wanted you to tell me. I gave you every chance that night at the store.”

She felt herself turning very red, as she remembered that night. Seeing her flush, Rhys looked mocking, but mercifully made no comment.

“But I didn't,” Helen said. “So you told Mr. Ransom to follow me.”

“It seemed a good idea,” he agreed with knife-edged sarcasm. “Especially when you and Dr. Gibson decided to traipse through the East End docklands at night.”

“Did she tell you that Charity is Mr. Vance's child?”

“No, Ransom bribed the orphanage matron. When I cornered Dr. Gibson to ask about it, she told me to go to hell.”

“Please don't blame her—she only went because I told her I'd go by myself if she didn't help me.”

For some reason, that broke through Rhys's veneer of control. “
Christ
, Helen.” He turned away, seeming to hunt for something in the tiny office to destroy. “Tell me you wouldn't have gone alone. Tell me, or I swear I'll—”

“I wouldn't have,” she said quickly. “And I didn't. I took Dr. Gibson with me for safety.”

Rhys swung back to her with a lethal glare. His color
had risen. “You say that as if she could provide anything close to adequate protection! The thought of you two skipping along Butcher Row through that crowd of whores and thieves—”

“No one was skipping,” Helen said indignantly. “I only went there because I had no choice. I had to make certain that Charity was safe, and . . . she wasn't. The orphanage was unspeakable, and she was there because no one wanted her, but I do. I do, and I'm going to keep her and take care of her.”

His temper finally exploded. “Damn it,
why
? She's not yours!”

“She's my sister,”
Helen blurted out, and a wracking sob escaped her.

Rhys turned ashen beneath his bronze complexion. Staring at her as if she were a stranger, he sat slowly on the edge of the desk.

“Vance and my mother—” Helen was forced to stop, coughing on a few more sobs.

There was nothing but silence in the tiny room.

It took a full minute before Helen could control her emotions enough to speak again. “I'm sorry. It was wrong of me to deceive you, but I didn't know how to tell you after I found out. I'm so sorry.”

Rhys sounded sluggish and disoriented. “When did you find out?”

Helen told him the entire story—God, she was so tired of explaining it. She was hopeless and unflinching, like a condemned soul at her last confession. It was agony to cut every bond between them, one by one, word by word. But there was also relief in it. After this, there would be nothing left to fear.

Rhys kept his head lowered as he listened, his hands clamped on the desk with splintering pressure.

“I wanted just a little more time with you,” Helen finished, “before I ended the engagement. It was selfish of me. I should have told you right away. It's only that—losing you felt like dying, and I couldn't—” She stopped, appalled by how melodramatic that sounded, like a manipulation, even though it was the truth. In a moment, she managed to continue more calmly. “You'll survive without me. She won't. Obviously we can't marry now. I think it would be for the best if I left England for good.”

She wished Rhys would say something. She wished he would look at her. She especially wished he wouldn't breathe like that, with tautly controlled energy that made it seem as if something terrible were about to happen.

“You have it all decided, do you?” he finally asked, his head still bent.

“Yes. I'm going to take Charity to France. I can look after her there. You can go on with your life here, and I won't be here to . . . to bother anyone.”

He muttered two quiet words.

“What?” she asked in bewilderment, inching forward to hear him.

“I said,
try it.
” Rhys pushed from the desk and reached her with stunning quickness, caging her body with his and slamming the sides of his fists against the wall. The room vibrated. He glared into her shocked face. “Try to leave me, and see what happens. Go to France, go anywhere, and see how long it takes for me to reach you. Not five fucking minutes.” He took a few vehement breaths, his gaze locked on hers. “I love you. I don't give a damn if your father is the devil himself. I'd let you stab a knife in my heart if it pleased you, and I'd lie there loving you until my last breath.”

Helen wanted to crumple in agony. His face blurred before her. “You—you don't want to end up living with two of Albion Vance's daughters.” At least, that was what she thought she had said. She was crying too hard to be sure.

“I know what I want.” He pulled her against him, his head lowering over hers.

Feebly she tried to twist away, and his mouth landed on her jaw, dragging hotly over her skin. Shoving at his chest was like trying to move a brick wall. “Let go,” she wept, grieving and exasperated, knowing that he had made the decision without thinking. But the force of his will, the strength of his desire for her, couldn't change facts. She had to make him face them.

He was kissing her neck, his beard scraping her tender skin until it smarted. But his lips gentled as they grazed the hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse was beating.

“You s-said any child of his is demon spawn.”

His head jerked up, his eyes fierce. “I didn't mean you. Whatever damned evil thing I might say, it never means you.”

“Every time you look at me, you'll remember that I'm half his.”

“No.” His hand came to the side of her face, his thumb wiping her tears. “You're all mine.” His voice was deep and shaken. “Every hair on your head. Every part of you was made to be loved by me.”

He bent over her again, and she tried to push him back long enough to say something, but she was covered by at least fourteen stone of thoroughly aroused male, and soon she was too distracted to remember what she'd wanted to tell him. Her struggles slowed, her resolve weakening, and he took advantage, devouring
and seducing every tender place he could find. Somewhere in the middle of it he turned gentle, searching her with slow fire, until she sagged against him with a moan. She felt him pull at the little combs that anchored her hat, and he tossed it aside. His hands went to either side of her head, angling her mouth upward, and he possessed her hungrily.

“Rhys,” she managed to gasp against his lips, twisting in his arms. “Stop. This isn't solving anything. You haven't given one moment's thought to what you're promising.”

“I don't need to. I want you.”

“That's not enough to make everything all right.”

“Of course it is,” he said, so arrogant and stubborn that she was at a loss for words. He stared at her parted lips, his eyes darkening in a way that sent hot and cold chills down her spine. His voice turned husky. “Damn you for saying I could survive without you. I'll have to punish you for that,
cariad
. For hours . . .” His mouth crushed over hers, dizzying and blatantly sexual, making promises that sent her blood racing.

After a long time, his head lifted, and he reached into his coat, pulling out a soft white handkerchief. He gave it to her and kept an arm around her, his embrace now protective, supportive, as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“Tell me what you're afraid of,” he said quietly.

“The scandal will never go away,” Helen said miserably. “People would talk behind our backs, and say malicious things, the most terrible things—”

“I'm used to that.”

“I was supposed to help you advance in society. But that won't happen now. Charity and I are”—a residual sob came out in a hiccup—“liabilities.”

“Not in my world,
cariad
. Only in yours. Only in that razor-thin layer I was so determined to be part of.” A self-mocking smile tugged at his lips. “For no better reason than pride. To show off, and prove that a Welshman could have whatever he wanted. But that means nothing to me now. You're all that matters.”

“And Charity?”

Rhys's expression went carefully blank. “She matters too.”

Helen knew he was trying to accustom himself to the idea. But she knew how much she would be asking of him. Too much. “It won't be enough for you merely to tolerate her. I grew up with a cold and unloving father, and—” She broke off, swallowing painfully.

“Look at me.” He urged her chin upward. “I can love her, Helen.” As she tried to look away, his grip firmed. “How difficult could it be? Half of her is exactly the same as half of you.”

“The half from Albion Vance,” she said bitterly. “You can't dismiss that casually, and say it doesn't matter.”

“
Cariad
, nothing about this is casual to me. But if you want a long, sensitive discussion about my feelings, I can't help you. I'm from North Wales, where we express ourselves by throwing rocks at trees. I've had more feelings in the past half-hour than I have in my entire life, and I'm at my limit.”

“That still doesn't—”

“I love whatever it is you're made of. All of it.”

He seemed to think that was the last word on the entire matter.

“But—”

“Stop arguing,” he said gently, “or I'll find a better use for your mouth.”

“Rhys, you can't—”

His lips clamped firmly on hers, making good on his promise. She stiffened at first, withholding her response, but as he kissed her with passionate intensity, she soon found herself clinging to him weakly. The kiss turned deep and languid, and she went boneless, sinking through a soft, dark current of sensation into depths of drowsing pleasure.

Thump. Thump. Thump.
She moaned in protest at the jarring sound of a fist on the door.

With a grunt of annoyance, Rhys fumbled for the doorknob. Lifting his mouth from Helen's, he shot a lethal glance at Ransom, who stood there with his gaze pointedly averted.

“This had better be worth it,” Rhys said. Helen rested the side of her hot face against his chest. She heard a few indistinguishable words over her head. Rhys's chest moved beneath her cheek with a short sigh. “That's worth it.” Reluctantly he eased Helen away, gently encouraging her to stand on her own. She was wilted and dazed, her legs shaking.

“Little love,” he murmured, “I want you and Charity to go with Ransom—he'll take you to my carriage. I'll join you there, now in a minute.”

“Where are you going?” she asked anxiously.

“I have an errand to take care of.”

“Does it have to do with Mr. Vance? Is he here?”

Staring into her worried face, Rhys smiled and kissed her. “All I'm going to do is say a few words to him.”

Helen went to the threshold and watched as Rhys walked down the hallway with purposeful strides.

“Is that really all he's going to do?” she asked.

Ransom gave her an oblique glance. “For now. But if I were Mr. Vance . . . after this, I'd try to keep a continent between myself and Winterborne.”

A
FTER EXCHANGING A
few words with the gray-haired booking clerk and handing him a gold sovereign, Rhys went to platform eight, where the last of the passengers had boarded, and porters were loading the final carts of luggage.

Albion Vance's snow-colored hair gleamed from beneath a felt bowler hat. He was gesturing to one of the first-class carriages as he stood with three train officials in uniform: a platform manager, a train guard, and a conductor.

Vance wanted them to search for Helen. He was calm and deliberate, a predator who had no idea that he was being pursued by a larger predator.

Pausing at the end of the platform, Rhys couldn't help wondering . . . had he known the first time he'd met Helen that this man was her father, would it have mattered?

Maybe at first. He wasn't sure. But there was no doubt that eventually he would have succumbed to the irresistible attraction of Helen, the magic she would always hold for him. In his mind, there was no connection between Helen and Vance, regardless of physical resemblance, blood, or heredity. There was only good in Helen. That gentle, valiant spirit, that perfect mixture of strength and kindness, was all her own.