Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (27 page)

“You can tell the Hartleys the truth now,” Jilly said, her hands clasped in front of her. She felt very serious, too. “That you’re not pursuing me.”

“Yes,” Stephen said. “I could.”

They stared at each other some more.

“Don’t—”
she couldn’t help blurting out.

“I won’t—”

They spoke at the same time.

He took a step toward her.

She held out her hand.

The bell at the front door jangled.

“Where is she?” a rough voice cried.

Jilly turned—

And looked into the cold, stern face of her husband.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Stephen’s heart pounded in his chest. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. Jilly was shaking like a leaf. She walked swiftly behind her counter and stood there, her nostrils flared, her cheeks pale, her mouth half open, as if she were struggling for breath.

She didn’t even seem aware of his presence anymore.

That magical moment between them—when they’d spoken at the same time and reached toward each other …

It was as if it had never happened.

Threat hung in the air, dissolving that special memory to mist and propelling Stephen into full-blown defensive mode. His training at sea during wartime saw to that. And he was prepared to go on the offensive if the situation should require it.

He assessed the man standing at the door. The danger came from him, obviously, but Stephen had yet to know why, and he wanted to know—very much.

He wanted to know who was scaring Miss Jones.

His
Miss Jones.

The fellow was impeccably dressed, in a fine coat and waistcoat and a diamond stickpin in his intricately folded cravat, yet somehow the clothes sat poorly on him. He was perhaps two or three years older than Stephen, about the same height but slightly thicker at the waist. His brown curls were glossy but hung lank at his temples in a style that suggested he wasn’t sure if he were a farmer, a Corinthian, or a man of business. His lips were thin and mean, and his chin jutted like a bull’s. Without blinking, his small, brown eyes focused with a terrible intensity on Jilly.

She stared back, almost blankly.

It was as if the Jilly Stephen knew weren’t there any longer.

This is the man,
Stephen thought,
the man she fears—

The one that Otis had been prepared to clock with a shoe.

He had the incongruous thought that he wished Otis were here now, pulling off one of his outlandish shoes. Jilly would have rebuked him—or not—but at least there would have been movement, words spoken, instead of this awful silence.

“Get your things.” The man’s voice was low, almost a growl.

Jilly flinched.

Stephen stepped forward. “Who are
you
?” he asked sharply, prepared at any moment to fight. He cast a discreet glance at the man’s waist. His coat gaped, but Stephen couldn’t tell if he was armed or not.

Every ounce of his being clamored to protect the woman behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he looked for a weapon of some kind. But all he saw were books. Book bindings could hurt if they landed on a temple correctly, but they weren’t nearly as useful a weapon as a pistol.

At least he had his fists.

The man looked at him with contempt, yet he didn’t appear interested in a fight. “I’m Hector Broadmoor,” he said flatly, “and I’m here to retrieve my wife.”

His wife?

Stephen’s mind couldn’t register what the man was saying. “She’s not here, obviously.” He looked about the room, and when his gaze passed over Jilly, she raised a shaky hand to her eye and wiped away a tear.

“Go away, Captain Arrow,” she said in a voice he didn’t recognize.

It was low. Ugly.

Despairing.

He shook his head. “What’s going on?”

He had the same feeling he had on a ship when he heard a low, mournful whistling through the rigging, the sound that signified a storm was brewing, the kind that required the men to be at their most alert—to murmur prayers when the darkness fell and the swells grew large and cavernous, slapping against the hull, taunting the sailors with their tentacle fingers.

Jilly stared at him. “Please,” she said. “Leave.”

Stephen spread his feet and put his hands on his hips. “Explain to me what’s happening, Miss Jones.” His heart was going faster than it ever had, yet he felt as if he were moving in slow motion.

“There needs no explaining,” the man at the door said, almost complacently. “She’s my wife. And her name’s not Miss Jones. It’s Mrs. Broadmoor.”

A wave of sickness washed over Stephen. He stared at Miss Jones—at Jilly—and she looked back with a mournful expression in her eyes.

It couldn’t be.

It simply couldn’t be.

“Is it true?” he managed to say. His mouth was drier than the bottom of a barrel of grog let loose among his sailors.

She hesitated but a moment, then nodded.

It all went rushing out of him then, like a waterfall, the bundle of emotions he’d felt about her—all of it, from the very beginning: the annoyance, the desire, the concern, the anticipation, the tenderness.

He was emptied in a moment, back to his old self, the one who hadn’t really known who he was until after his mother had died and a village neighbor had told him his core family had never existed.

“All right, then.” He looked back at Mr. Broadmoor, then one more time at Jilly.

Her brows, those exquisite black wings, were flung far out above her violet-blue eyes, which were wide with grief.

And perhaps shock.

Although …

Although she’d known he was coming, hadn’t she?

It was why she’d steered clear of Stephen, or at least
tried
for a while to steer clear of him—

She’d known.

He turned away from her and walked slowly past the man at the door. He felt small. Invisible.

And profoundly stupid.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jilly watched Stephen go.

His leaving was inevitable, but it hurt her more than she had imagined possible. She’d thought giving up Hodgepodge would be the worst thing. But it wasn’t.

Seeing Stephen look at her as if they’d never met? Seeing the joy leave his eyes? The respect? The regard for her?

It was like someone tearing out her heart.

She swallowed and looked around her, seeing her bookstore with the eyes of someone who knows she must go away forever. There were books everywhere, stacked neatly on the shelves. Too neatly, actually. A thriving bookstore wasn’t so blasted tidy.

Her father’s large, oval looking glass reflecting the street was shiny and clean, but the street was still hazy with fog. Looking into that oval mirror with its ornate frame, she wished she could walk into that murky otherworld and
stay
.

This
world was too painful.

Gridley, her cat, sprawled out on the ledge between two books. He seemed to sense her looking at him because he turned his head and blinked.

Little tears threatened her then.

Gridley.

He was hers, but Hector would never let her take him with her. Besides, Gridley belonged here, at Hodgepodge.

“Get on with it now,” Hector said in a threatening tone.

She jumped. “I will,” she said. “Just … just give me some time.” Her knees felt extremely wobbly.

He laughed. “Yes, you’ve had quite a shock, haven’t you?”

She refused to answer.

“You’re probably wondering how I found you.” His voice was smug.

She put a curl behind her ear. “No, actually, I’m not.”

Hector narrowed his eyes and advanced a few steps. “It was easy. I knew you’d not be able to hide long. You wanted to be found.”

Again, she said nothing. But he was coming closer, so she had to move. She walked out from behind her counter. “I’ve some things to pack,” she said.

Not much, really. She couldn’t take the books, of course.

She wouldn’t want to, either.

They belonged to Otis.

She felt a sudden jolt of power.

Hector had no idea.

It was the plan she’d shared with Otis, her worst-case-scenario plan. He’d balked, said it would never happen, not on his watch, but it was happening.

And she was very glad she’d thought ahead.

Now, when Hector thought she would be ripped away from all she’d managed to build up around her on Dreare Street, she would leave behind at least something …

The bookstore, for Otis.

“Yes, you wanted me to come after you,” Hector said, and now he was a mere foot in front of her. She could smell his sour breath.

She raised her chin. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“You’d better make it quick,” he said.

She turned her back on him and marched up the stairs, hating him every step of the way.

When she found her bag and began stuffing it with the meager clothing she’d allowed herself to bring, she was no longer shaking with shock.

She was furious.

Why, a voice inside her said, did she have to give up her life for a churlish, stingy man with no heart?

She went quickly through the sitting room, leaving everything in place for Otis, and had the fleeting thought that she’d never found that diary again, the one that had belonged to another wife who’d lived long ago, happily, it seemed, at 34 Dreare Street.

At Captain Arrow’s house.

She flicked the curtain back for a moment and stared at the white stucco front of his home, freshly painted. The pirate flag was no longer hanging from the roof.

She was back to thinking of him as the captain.

She could never think of him as Stephen again, not without inciting a little hitch in her breath and a burning behind her eyes.

She let the curtain fall.

It was time to go.

As she descended the stairs, she couldn’t help feeling a bit of triumph. Whatever Hector was doing to her now, he couldn’t erase all that she’d accomplished while she’d been away from him.

There was Hodgepodge. And Otis would run it.

Otis.

He’d be so—

Upset.

She inhaled a ragged breath. Who would take care of him? Who’d notice his shoes?

She stopped for a moment outside her office, closed her eyes, and pressed her fingers over them.

A comforting thought came to her. Otis would find friends. He already had friends. Susan. Nathaniel.

He’d been with them, actually, more than he’d been with her the last few days. He’d been humming about the sitting room in the mornings when he’d made breakfast, and he’d come home whistling at night.

Otis, she felt in her gut, would be all right, as difficult as it would be for them to part from each other.

But would she be all right?

Would she?

She opened her eyes and stared at her office desk, but what she was seeing was a picture of Captain Arrow’s face, of the front door of Hodgepodge opening, of Lavinia Hobbs, Susan and Nathaniel, the Hartleys, Pratt, the Hobbses’ children and Thomas, and all the other people she’d met since she’d arrived on Dreare Street.

Even Lady Duchamp. Jilly had never found out where she went each morning.

She’d wanted to know.

Now she never would.

Drawing in a deep breath, she entered the store again. It was time to go. Time to leave everything behind.

“Miss Jilly!”

Otis was there, his chest heaving and—God love him—his shoe in his hand. The other one was missing, presumably thrown at Hector.

Hector flung his finger in Otis’s direction. “That oaf hit me in the eye with his demmed slipper.”

“Yes, and I’ll do it again!” Otis roared. “You’ve no right to come here and destroy our peace.”

Jilly raised her hand. “It’s all right, Otis. Don’t worry about me. We knew this day would come.”

Her loyal friend looked at her, his eyes hurt and his mouth sagging. “I don’t want you to go.” His voice trembled.

“I have to,” she said, and knew she had to be strong for him. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got Hodgepodge.”

“What?” Hector’s face reddened more than usual.

Jilly looked him in the eye. “You can’t get this, Hector. It belongs to Otis.”

Hector twisted his head to stare down Otis. “You cur. How did you manage that?”

Otis lifted his chin. “I don’t care what you call me. And I didn’t manage anything. Your wife was looking out for her best interests, and if I can help her do that, I will.”