Callum stepped out onto the street, his attention drawn not to a ship, but shadows, three of them. One very large figure held a lantern, which glowed in the night. That alone would not have caught his attention, but the voice did. He knew that deep voice well.
“My lady!” White bellowed, his agitation carrying on the whipping cool wind coming off the Thames and straight to Callum’s heart. It froze his breath, his blood, his ability to move for a moment, and then searing fright rushed through him, thawing the shock as he sought and found Constantine, a very visible dark shadow in the wan moonlight.
She was running toward the dock, well ahead of the others she’d likely come with. Callum was running now, too, heart pounding, blood roaring, shouts battering him from behind like bullets. She was chasing someone who had reached the ship and disappeared into it, and then she reached the gangplank that led from street to ship, her skirts and hair billowing in the winds as her small body seemed to float almost above the boards that Callum knew with gut-wrenching surety were carrying her toward Trask—and danger.
An almost inhuman bellow of rage resounded through the cacophony, and he realized as he ran, feet pounding against the dockyard, that the animalistic sound had come from him. He shoved past White, Peter, and Blythe, nearly knocking her over in his urgency to get to Constantine. And as he reached out, his hand finding Blythe’s elbow to steady her and their eyes locking for a brief moment, an explosion rocked the night. Time came to a grinding halt. His feet quit moving as his eyes searched frantically for Constantine. He found her, flying backward through the air in a blur of motion, wood whizzing past her, and then the Earth and the heavens seemed to tremble as she fell toward the planks.
Silence descended for a breath before bells and horns started resounding and lights flickered to life across the darkness. Abrasive noise erupted everywhere as brilliant orange flames lit the night sky and smoke tickled Callum’s nose. He was running toward her again, to where she lay unmoving, as men poured out of ships to see what had occurred.
By the time he reached the edge of the walkway, men were coming from the other direction, some fleeing, some carrying buckets to help put out the fire. He reached her as another man did—a stranger. The man was already moving aside the wood that was on top of her, and Callum bent down, and scooped her up and to his chest. Her head lolled backward, and her arms fell lifeless to her side. He looked down at her face. Blood flowed from a wound on her forehead, and squeezing her to him, he let out a cry of rage, of fear, that she might be lost to him forever.
“I do not want food or drink or sleep,” he bit out to the people in his bedchamber where Constantine lay unmoving on the bed. Hours had passed and their friends were huddled around him as he knelt by Constantine’s still body, gripping her hand in his. The doctor had said that though her head had sustained a serious blow, he did not think the damage was permanent and that she should wake when she was ready. But she was still not awake, and the longer it took, the more likely it was that maybe she wouldn’t wake at all.
“Kilgore.” Valentine placed his hand on Callum’s shoulder. “You need to keep up your strength for her so if she wakes—”
“When she wakes,” Callum snapped and shoved away Valentine’s hand. “When,” he repeated, growling and turning to glare at his friend.
“Yes,when,” Valentine corrected, swiping a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply she wouldn’t wake.”
Callum’s throat closed up, making it impossible to speak, so he simply nodded.
“Kilgore,” Blythe said from the corner of the room where she had remained standing, though he had yelled at her, Peter, White, and Lady Frederica to leave and never return.
He knew it was unreasonable to blame them. He knew Constantine. She would have gone to the docks with or without their help, but he was not ready to forgive Blythe for carrying the information about Trask to his wife. Nor was he ready to forgive Lady Frederica for her part in aiding Constantine in slipping out of the townhome unseen, and he sure as the devil was not prepared to forgive Peter, who bloody well knew better, though Callum understood Peter was now as loyal to Constantine as a child to a beloved parent. White, who had also surprisingly stood his ground against Callum’s rage and still hovered in the doorway, was the only one Callum knew he absolutely could not blame. After all, White had technically followed Callum’s directive and kept Constantine close to him. More the fool was Callum for not stating more clearly to keep herhomewith him.
Callum knew all of this and didn’t damn well care. Nothing mattered but her. Not the revenge he had wanted, not his nightmares, not even the humiliation, the betrayal he had been keeping from her. All that mattered was that she wake up. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to confess his betrayal. He wanted to admit what he’d realized only a few short hours ago.
“Please get out.” His voice cracked with strain. He lowered his head to the bed beside her thigh and pressed his forehead into the coverlet. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then he did something he had not done since the day he had returned to see his father before he’d passed away—he prayed. He prayed God would grant him the gift of one more chance with Constantine.
Hands clasped his shoulder one by one, words of encouragement whispered in his ear, and then a low voice said, “You take care of her, and I’ll take care of your cousin.”
Callum did drag his head up at that, and he met Beckford’s eyes. The man was the only one left in the room besides Callum. “No,” he said. “He’s my problem, and he’ll not make a move to harm me right now.” Trask had been the last living connection to what Ross had done, and Trask was now dead, too, killed in the explosion. And Callum knew Ross—his cousin was a careful planner and would not rush to get rid of him. Ross would be methodical, so that he could get what he wanted—Callum’s life right down to Constantine.
Callum inhaled a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs and clear his head a bit. “When Constantine awakens, I’ll talk to her, and together we will decide what I should do.”
Beckford’s eyes widened in surprise, but he nodded and quit the room.
Callum turned back to Constantine, focusing on the rise and fall of her chest, and taking comfort in that steady, sure movement. He pressed a gentle kiss to her hand and then her forehead. She stirred at the touch of his lips, and hope welled within him. “Please wake up,” he begged, his eyes stinging. “Please. I cannot—” He swallowed the large knot in his throat. “I cannot live without you.”
He stared down at her, willing her to wake, but she did not stir, so he began to talk. He told her of his childhood, of Ross’s beating him, of his feelings of unworthiness that had come from that and from his father, who he now knew had never meant to make him feel unworthy.
And when she still did not stir, he talked of when he had first seen her, and how he had recognized instinctively that she was filled with good and warmth, and how there had never been a chance for him to be anything but in love with her after that. He talked until his throat was raw and daylight filled the room, and when his voice finally gave, he lay his head on the bed beside her hip and closed his eyes, finally coming back to the conversation they had left unfinished and the confession he needed to make.
“I need to tell you what happened,” he said, his head down in the coverlet, his voice muffled. “I’ll tell you again when you’re awake, but I need to tell you now how you gave me back my hope.”
“Once will do.”
He jerked upright, and seeing her eyes so full of love and a smile on her face, a cry of relief was ripped from him. “Thank God,” he said, rising halfway up to press a gentle kiss to her lips. “How do you feel?” he asked, searching her eyes and cupping her cheek with his hand. He never wanted to let her go.
Her hand came to rest on top of his, and her smile widened. “Full of hope.”
He laughed and kissed her again before sitting on the edge of the bed and capturing both her hands in his. “Can I get you anything?”
“Something to drink,” she said, clearing her throat.
He rose and went to the stand that held a decanter of wine, poured her a glass, and brought it to her. After she took a few sips, he set the glass by the stand by the bed that would be theirs one day when the nightmares ended.
“Now,” she said, squeezing his fingers, “tell me how I gave you hope and how it was taken away.”
