Whispers from the Shadows (16 page)

The word bit like a sword, made her knees buckle and her stomach heave. Like Papa, she crumpled. Like Papa, she fell. But
rather than a hard floor catching her, strong arms held tight, and her fingers found Thad's lapels. A keening welled up, but her throat closed off to trap it.

“Tell me.” Too quiet to be called speech, naught but a murmur in her ear. A bid more than a command, a begging. “You need to tell me.”

“I…can't.” Even those two words made her tongue twist. Made the black monster gnash its teeth. “He will hear me.”

“He will not. Gwyn, look at me.” He pulled her head back and tilted her chin up. Gently but insistently, until those yellow-topaz eyes burned her anew. “You are safe. You can tell me. Tell me what you saw.”

“Nothing.” She loosed his coat, but only with one hand. Only so she could grip his wrist and hold on. Hold it there, where it cradled and steadied. “I saw nothing. I can't have. If he thinks I did, he will kill me next.”

“He will not.” His words burned like his eyes.

“He is coming, I know he is. He mustn't hear me. He mustn't know I know, or he will…he will…”

“I'll not let him. I swear to you.” His thumb swept over her jaw and lit a new quake that shivered through her. “Tell me, sweet. Tell me who killed your father.”

The cry ripped out, savage and fierce. So long held at bay, but rising now like a tidal wave, pounding at the walls of her being until it forced her to the ground.

Thad went down with her, never letting go.
Tell me
.

Did he speak it again or just think it so loudly it echoed along with the sobs in her mind? She tried to shake it away, close it back up, and knit it tight, but tears rushed down her cheeks and surged through her throat. Through the hole they made came the gasp. “Un–un–cle.”

“Oh, Gwyn.” He must have pulled her closer, for she felt his chin rest on the top of her head, his fingers tangle in her hair. Arms tight around her, keeping the demons away. “One of his brothers?”

“M–mama's. G–g—”

“Gates.” Certain dread made the word fall like lead. “Do you know why?”

The river of tears hit a bank of rocks within her, making rapids. Gasps. She could only shake her head and bury her face in his chest, letting the floodwaters empty her. Letting them spill out until there
was nothing left within. Not a torrent, not a trickle, not a tear. No horror, no hope. Nothing.

Nothing but the soothing brush of fingertips through her hair and the drifting scent of sandalwood. “You are safe now, sweet. I'll not let him harm you, so help me God. You can start anew here.”

But there was nothing new to start.

The tan of his frock coat faded to the black of her eyelids, and she held tight to whatever fabric was under her fingers now. “Don't let go.”

“I won't. Not ever.”

Not ever.
Never
. The only hope she had left…and it was a promise for nothing.

Thirteen

T
had lowered Gwyneth's still form to the divan in the drawing room, where the breeze could whisper its way over her from the nearby window. Though her head rested on the pillow, her fingers still gripped his jacket. Perhaps another day, it would have made him smile.

Today, his breath shook as he dragged it in. He pried her fingers loose but then held them tightly.

“Thaddeus.” Rosie bustled in, setting a pitcher down on the end table with an angry thump, her scowl directed at his chest. “She got paint all over you both.”

“Don't fuss, Rosie. Not now.” His voice felt strained, a perfect match to the tension pulling his insides tight. With his free hand, he brushed the burnished curls from Gwyneth's cheek.

Rosie stepped close and went still. “Something wrong?”

“Very wrong.” The curls wrapped themselves around his hand. Of their own will, surely. No fault of his. “She saw her father murdered. That is what has been haunting her so.”

Rosie's breath hissed out through her teeth. “Lord, bless her. No wonder, then. So she has no one? No one left in England?”

No one she could trust, it seemed. He let the hair weave itself through his fingers. A tapestry of flame and gold. “She thinks his killer will follow her here.”

Rosie pressed a hand to her damp forehead and adjusted the turban holding back her midnight hair. “As if a war ain't enough to worry about. You promise to keep her safe?”

“Of course.”

“Good. She trusts you. Guess that's why she can only sleep when you're home.”

“What?” His head jerked up, and he frowned into Rosie's exasperated sigh.

“You haven't noticed that?” She clucked her tongue and planted her hands on her slight hips. “She's even worse than Emmy when Henry's gone a-piloting. Soon as the door closes on you, she wakes up. Never until you get home that she can rest sound again.”

“I…” What was he to do? Nights were when the soldiers and sailors gathered and talked. But if he could actually help Gwyneth recover simply by staying home a few days…

Rosie shook her head and held out her hand. “Give me that jacket and let me see if I can get the paint out before it sets. We should get her up to her room so Mrs. Wesley can help her out of her dress.”

“Let her rest a few minutes first.” He pulled his hands away from Gwyneth's just long enough to shrug out of his frock coat and pass it to Rosie. He marveled out how cold his fingers seemed without Gwyneth's laced through them, how right it felt to slide his palm under hers again a moment later as Rosie left the room.

God of my end, show me what I am to do. How I can help her. Please, help me understand why You sent her to me, to comprehend the wheels of Your orchestration so I do not foul them up by jumping in the way. Show me, my Providence and Guide. Please, show me.

Sometimes the Lord answered with an image in his mind. A place he ought to go or a person for whom he ought to watch. Sometimes He gave him a peace that meant
be still and wait
.

Never before had He sent a crushing wave over Thad's spirit, so forceful it pushed him to his knees on the wide-planked floor. Never before had he felt a hand press like this on his head, warm and welcoming, yet without compromise.

Never before had he felt his soul be bound to another's. But when his fingers tightened around Gwyneth's, fire touched his heart. Branded him. So bright it eclipsed all else, so fast it was gone before he could lay hold of it.

Yet in its wake a few simple words echoed in his mind.
I called you beloved.

The statement resonated, crystalline. And he understood. He must love as he was loved. Whatever she needed, that was what he must be. Brother, friend, champion, guardian. Confidant and confider. Trustworthy and trusting.
Beloved
.

A caress on his cheek brought his eyes open. His face was mere inches from hers, their noses nearly touching, and her fingers had found him. He could see the faint smudge of ultramarine at her temple, a few swipes of blue caught in the roots of her hair. The fan of red-gold lashes that swept up and then down onto the cream of her cheek again.

And in that brief, half-second glimpse into her sleep-filled eyes, the silken ropes pulled taut. Only three weeks ago had she entered his life, but he knew in that moment she would not leave it again. Must not. She was his, and loving her would be the easiest thing the Lord had ever asked of him.

But that was not all He asked, was it? He also demanded Thad be hers. That he trust her and lean upon her, even though she looked too fragile to survive it. Even though she could not possibly believe in his cause. Even though it made no sense. He must need her. Let her love him.

Beloved
.

“Thad.” His name was a sigh upon her lips, her fingers a sigh upon his face. She opened her eyes again, though they were clouded. “Stay.”

“I will.” Unable to resist, he traced the contour of her cheek too. So soft, like the petal of a rose.

“Do you promise?”

His smile felt strange—slow and secret. “I promise. So long as you do too.”

Her brows drew down into a delicate
V
. “Do what too?”

“Stay.”

“Oh.” If her cheek felt like a rose, the curve of her lips looked like one unfurling in the first light of morning. “I promise.”

“Good.” Were he a rake, he would lean over now, close that breath of a gap between them, and claim her lips as she had claimed his heart. But he knew he mustn't. Not when tragedy still tormented her so.

So he pressed his lips only to her forehead and caught her fingers in his once more. “I am sorry, sweet. So sorry about your father.”

She squeezed his fingers tight and didn't loose them again. “I am glad you know. I think…I think he would have wanted you to. He trusted you.”

And so she, because she trusted her father, trusted him too. Thad closed his eyes and rested his head on their joined hands.
Why
did the man trust him, when they hadn't met but once fifteen years ago? “I am glad he sent you here.”

“Are you?” Her eyelids fluttered down again. “I did not understand why he would.”

Nor, truth be told, did Thad. “Perhaps he knew something we do not.”

“He often did.” She drew in a long breath and eased it back out. “I wish I knew…knew why…what it was. Uncle Gates was looking for something. Papa said he had sent it away.”

Could it be? He closed his eyes too and called to mind the image of that letter.
Gates
. The name was in it, just past the middle of the first page, but Mother had declared it a nonsensical line. He had said something about Gates being like a son to him. But they were brothers-in-law, of an age. Friends.

Was this murderous uncle of Gwyneth's the same Gates rumored to be set on the destruction of America? Who, through his position in the Home Office, had been gathering information on U.S. soil ever since the Revolution ended? What, exactly, would that mean?

A chill raced down his spine. If he
was
that man…then for what, as Gwyneth said, had he been looking?

All Thad knew was there were two things Fairchild had “sent
away” that had come to
him
. A letter, mysterious and full of blatantly wrong facts.

And the sleeping woman before him.

For the first time since she fled Hanover Square, Gwyneth opened her eyes lazily. She yawned, stretched, and relaxed against the pillow.

Morning light touched the pane of glass, inched over the floor, and reflected off the mirror. It made her sigh in wonder.

Light. No horrific monsters, no creeping puddles of darkness. No terror stalking her. She had simply slept. Slept and dreamed of idyllic things. Thad had been in them, smiling and laughing. Swinging little Jack high above his head. Teasing Philly and her husband.

Taking Gwyneth's hand, touching her cheek, toying with her hair.

She settled a hand over her thudding heart and felt the soft cotton of her nightdress under her fingers. Part of that had been no dream. At least she
thought
she remembered opening her eyes down on the divan and seeing his face so close, feeling his touch. Glimpsing that light in his eyes that had made her feel…safe. Treasured.

Her fingers twirled through the ribbon at her neckline. She knew she had stirred long enough to eat with Thad last night, but that was only a hazy recollection. Perhaps her mind had blurred it deliberately, as dinner conversation had been her reliving those horrific moments—hurrying into the house, hearing the argument, seeing the blade, and watching the life extinguished from Papa's eyes.

Then came Thad's promise not to leave again until after breakfast, and he had called Mrs. Wesley to help her up to bed. Darkness had been falling by then.

She had slept the night through. The whole, entire night. Without any nightmares.

More memories filtered in from the night before. Her begging Thad not to tell anyone else about her father, him insisting that the household needed to know. His tone had been soft but unyielding, and he had sworn she would not have to be the one to recount it again.

Her hand fell to the mattress, and she pushed herself up. Had he told them after she retired? His parents, who counted Papa one of their dearest friends? The Wesleys?

Mrs. Wesley entered with only a cursory knock on the door. Her feet shuffled rather than bustled as usual. Her shoulders were
hunched, her eyes red and puffy.

Gwyneth had her answer. “Good morning, Mrs. Wesley.”

The woman trudged over to the window and pulled back the drapes. “You should have told us. You should have let us share the grief and heartache.”

It wasn't the words that pierced. It was the tone, dull and full of censure. Gwyneth slid to the edge of the bed and put her feet upon the floor. “I am sorry. I was too frightened.”

“Frightened?” Mrs. Wesley faced her, the wrinkles made all the deeper and fiercer by the sunshine behind her. “How could you be too frightened to have the sense to run for the authorities rather than across the ocean? He was your
father
, and you let his murderer go free.”