Charles’s associate was still on the ground. Presumably dead. But Silverton was wary to draw too close without support, just in case.
“None of your Oxford Set here to save your hide this time?”
“And none of your friends to throw in the way?” Silverton called back. “It was unwise of you to return to England, Charlie. Staying away was your only option. You know I can always tell the press who you really are.”
“But mama would not like that, would she? And you do so want her to love you like she used to. Besides, how would that make you look to everyone else?”
“Yes, our mother has suffered enough.” Any more damage and Silverton feared his mother would finally succumb to the unhinged horrors of the insanity that had claimed his twin. He moved away from the carriage and the fallen man, farther into the field. “I will make you a deal.”
“There isn’t anything you can give me. Willingly.” Charles was circling around him, keeping his distance.
“I can arrange passage for you to America.” It hurt Silverton to offer such a deal, but if it meant England, and he, would finally be rid of Charles, surely it was worth it? Then he realised that his brother was not circling without purpose, but edging towards the shattered hackney. If there was another pistol concealed there…
Silverton charged towards his twin, adrenaline carrying him forward. But his brother was quicker and closer to the hackney. In a flash of movement, Charles hopped up onto the driver’s seat. He snatched up the reins, thwacked the whip against the horse’s rump, and took off at an uneven pace, leaving Silverton behind to make his way back home through the sleeping streets of London.
* * *
It was notuntil mid-afternoon that Silverton roused himself to wakefulness, having slumbered in an exhausted, guilt ridden and miserable state at letting Charles get away. His plan of finding a willing woman to be his bride seemed to have backfired. His twin was back in London and eager for his blood. And he was lucky to have survived the previous night. He laughed at his relief at that; after all, he was dying. Perhaps going out in a blaze of glory would have been far better, especially if he had taken his cursed twin with him.
Moroseness rolled over him, and Silverton pulled the coverlet up to his chin, unwilling to move. Perhaps he should just accept his fate and die. After all, what was the purpose of his continued fighting? As his brother had pointed out, Silverton had barely anyone who wanted, needed, or cared for him.
A quiet tapping at the door interrupted his dark thoughts.
“Enter,” he called out, and the door swung wide. He had been expecting Danes with some dull household duty, but it was Maeve who stepped into the room.
It galled him to realise she was pretty. He had thought her plainly handsome earlier, but now her face glowed in the afternoon light. She was fresh and wholesome, and with her hair loose, she looked adorable. It gnawed and annoyed him. Hugely. It was as if she were an angel come to see the devil, and the longer she lingered with him the more damaged she would become.
“I heard you leave last night.” She moved closer, her fingers resting on the bedspread.
“Yes.” He did not want to tell her that he had been shot at—that his brother was hunting him. Again. In person. He dared not, in case she wanted to abandon him. So instead, he frowned at her, frustrated and angry at how trapped he was. She came forward easily enough and sat down next to him on the bed. Her hand reached out and stroked a curl of hair off his forehead.
“Are you feeling unwell?” It was a sweet, comforting gesture, one which he was desperately unworthy of. He marvelled that she was still here and wondered how long she would stay if she knew how broken he truly was.
“I am tired.”
“Indeed.” She was the voice of patience, but there was a tightening around her mouth, and he could tell she was annoyed at how unforthcoming he was being. “Perhaps if you are as sick as the doctors say, you should avoid leaving the house for hours at a time.”
“You already sound like a wife, scolding me.”
Maeve made to stand up, but he reached out and snatched up her departing hand. He did not want her to leave him. Her presence was the only thing that chased away the darkness, and he wanted her in this room as a beacon of hope. She turned back and looked down at him.
“I am sorry.” Silverton found his voice. He needed her to know—that was key—he was not just apologetic for his illness, the bribery, or the manipulation, but he was sorry for the whole thing, that this woman was trapped with him.
Thisparticularwoman. Maeve.
To his surprise, she nodded and sank back down onto the bedspread beside him. Her hand came out and resumed stroking his forehead. “This is my favourite thing that my sister does for me when I am ill. Sleep, and we will discuss it when you wake.”
Silverton closed his eyes, doubtful it would have any effect. After all, he loathed the idea of someone next to him when he slept. Well, he would humour her until she grew bored and left. But as her gentle hand eased over his skin, the frets and worries that consumed him danced away, and a surprisingly soothing, soft sleep reached up and claimed him.
CHAPTER8
Aquiet, gentle light poured through the gap in the curtains, easing Maeve out of the deep sleep she had been mired in. It was so warm she had little desire to do anything more than snuggle closer and continue to rest her eyes. When her eyes did flutter open it was to stare into the face of the viscount. She had fallen asleep next to him, and she realised there was a bedspread pulled over her body; one of them must have adjusted it in the night.
Silverton was close to her and at peace, and it gave Maeve the perfect opportunity to study his countenance without any degree of shyness.
He had seemed the type of man who burnt brightly, passionately, vividly, and she could not think of anyone who was as visceral. But in sleep, the ferocity of the man was dimmed, and he created the illusion of an entirely different person—one who was apologetic, who seemed concerned about her father, who kissed her with a passion Maeve only had dreamt of. He was a mass of contradictions, but Maeve had tied herself to him, and the desire to run away and pull closer warred within her chest. It baffled her, and defied her good morals that she had fallen asleep next to him, given everything she had said about wishing to wait for marriage before going to bed with him.
“If you mean to look at me in such a manner, perhaps you could tell me what is amiss?” His question made Maeve jump, although the heavy bedspread on top of her didn’t let her go very far.
