Page 27 of The Dove
“You see, Daphne,” he said, his voice low while he kept his expression neutral for the benefit of their audience. “There is one member of your family who will never be safe from me. As long as he makes a nuisance of himself, I will make it my business to cut him down to size … to take away any and everything that he holds dear. And if I have to continue using you to do it, I bloody well will.”
Her eyes began to sting with the beginnings of tears, but she blinked them back, determined not to crumble. She could survive this … she had certainly endured worse at his hands. The gossip did not bother her as much as it would Bertram. She supposed that if she had to search for a reason for her hurt, she would find it all-too closely entangled with her confused emotions where Adam was concerned. And she did not wish to even attempt untangling those snarled, convoluted threads.
“I pity you,” she murmured, still avoiding his gaze, as well as those of the passersby. “Not because you’ve been hurt by what was done to your sister, or because your father turned you into a cold brute … but because someday, this will end, and I am going to finally have peace. And you, I fear, will still wrestle with your anger. When Bertram has taken the last of your blows, what then? When he has been vanquished to your satisfaction, what will you have left but your hatred?”
He did not reply, and they spent the rest of their ride in silence, avoiding looking at each other as Adam navigated Hyde Park. They paused a few times while he was greeted by acquaintances, most of whom simply wished to gawk at her. She ignored them all, staring listlessly out over the pristine grounds of the park. After what felt like ages, they broke free of the square, exiting on the opposite side and coming out onto a clogged thoroughfare.
She felt his gaze resting on her from time to time, though he did not speak … not until they had arrived in front of her townhome. Before she could turn to step down from the vehicle, he reached out to grab her arm, holding her with a light but firm grip. Forced to confront him, she turned to face him, not bothering to fight his hold. He would let her go when he was good and ready, and there was nothing she could do about it.
“I’ll have peace, little dove,” he said, leaning closer, until she could make out the flecks of amber and gold amid the dark brown of his eyes. “Knowing that the person who hurt my Livvie has paid for it with everything he has. If I have nothing else when this is over, I will find peace in that.”
She could see he truly believed that, and perhaps this was why he’d pursued Bertram’s downfall so relentlessly … because until he had gotten the desired outcome, the guilt he carried over having been in Europe during Olivia’s ordeal would not abate. He truly thought to ease his own conscience by making amends the only way he knew how.
For the first time since coming face to face with him at Dunnottar, she felt as if she truly understood Adam—what drove him, what haunted him. That only made her pity him more.
“If you truly believe that, then you are lost,” she declared. “And I hope you are able to see that for yourself before it is too late, Adam. I really do.”
She pulled away from him, and he released her arm, seeming content to let her go. Climbing down from the perch, she turned to face the barouche, tipping her head back to look up at him. He stared down at her with pinched lips, his eyes as inscrutable as she’d ever seen them, dark and glowing with amber cinders. They stood that way for what felt like hours, locked in each other’s eyes, the rest of the world still moving around them.
Finally, he spoke, breaking the thrall.
“Prepare yourself, little dove,” he said, his voice coming out clipped and biting. “The consequences of my next move will make themselves apparent soon.”
Before she could reply, he was gone with a snap of his reins, the little barouche disappearing around the corner. With a heavy sigh, she turned toward the house, her shoulders slumped. Amazing, how a short time away had completely changed her mood, dragging her right back into the doldrums. Selling her townhome and finding some far-flung cottage in the country to live in began to sound like heaven.
With a sarcastic snort, she told herself not to be ridiculous. It didn’t matter where she went; Adam would always find some way to reach her and exploit her connection to Bertram.
Ascending the front steps, she found Rowney waiting for her, the door held open.
“My lady,” he said as she entered the house. “You have a—”
“Daphne!” came a desperate voice from the doorway of the drawing room.
She turned to find Bertram barreling toward her, his hair tousled and his clothing mussed, eyes wide and wild with panic.
Furrowing her brow, she backed away a few steps, her nose stinging from the putrid odor of spirits emanating from him. It had a strong, acrid scent that she could not associate with port or brandy.
Gin, she realized. Her brother had taken to swigging gin. Likely because it did not strain one’s pockets quite as much as a more dignified drink.
“Bertram, what are you doing here?” she asked, taking him in from head to toe.
He looked as if he’d slept in his clothing from the previous night, then rolled out of bed, doused himself in gin, and appeared on her doorstep.
Scowling at Rowney, who watched them with a heavy measure of censure and curiosity, Bertram took hold of her arm and guided her back to the drawing room. She squirmed in his grasp, the bite of his fingers hard and relentless.
“Let go of me,” she insisted, wrenching away from him and rounding the couch, putting large pieces of furniture between them.
She was not certain what had gotten into him, but she did not trust him in such a state.
Raking his hand through his hair again, he paced to the window, peering out between the closed curtains. “Was that him? Hartmoor … I saw you leaving a man’s barouche. It looked like him.”
She fought the urge to scream and tear out her hair. Even when Adam was out of her sight, he dominated every space she occupied. She could not even escape talk of him.
“That is none of your affair,” she hedged.
Bertram snorted, turning back to face her with a scowl. “It is when you allow yourself to be used against our family. The man has a vendetta against me, and you join him for afternoon rides as if you’re being courted.”
Weariness slumped her shoulders, and she wanted to sink to the floor and curl into herself, closing her eyes and shutting Bertram out. She’d been twisted and wrung dry, and did not possess the energy to answer him, to explain to him how and why she’d come to be in the barouche with Adam. Not to mention, she did not owe him an explanation for anything.
