I Kissed an Earl: Pennyroyal Green Series (41 page)

Flint, despite himself, was drawn into this narrative, and his mind crept toward imagining what it must have been like for Lyon. Then shied back from that dark place: how he’d wanted Violet untenably in those long nights, knowing they were doomed for the very reasons they loved each other: the unshakeable loyalty, the courage, the determination and passion. And how the first time he’d known he’d been loved, he’d been given wings. And they’d been snatched back before he’d ever properly learned how to use them. And suddenly Lyon’s desolation seemed indistinguishable from his own.

“For you see, Captain Flint, I, too, never settle for less than what I want. Or never thought I possibly could. I’m a Redmond. If only you truly understood what this means. So I set out to reorder the world in a way I thought would make me worthy of her love. But my quest has changed me in ways I never anticipated, and I’m not the man who once loved that girl. There’s much more to my journey yet. And here’s a bitter irony: I’ve found in becoming heroic, in becoming worthy of her, I’ve painted myself into an untenable corner. I’ve more work to do to prove someone’s innocence or guilt. And you, Captain Flint, though an admirable man, understand far, far less about what I’ve done, and why I’ve done it, than you think you do.”

He paused. Took a long draught of his pint. Drank it down almost to the bottom, but left a half inch or so sloshing there. As though he knew when he reached the bottom his time would be up.

Flint watched Lyon Redmond, he understood that beneath that cool Redmond elegance, that control, the measured irony of his words, was a man whose passions were likely twice as volcanic as Violet’s. Darker, more committed, more rooted in suffering, even more arrogant and less forgiving. Fascinating. Was he like this when he’d left Sussex? How this man must have chafed beneath his father’s rule. The golden Redmond son, the hope of his father and family. How extraordinary his control must have been even then, for no one had known he’d done anything but bask in the glory of being Lyon Redmond.

“So tell me…what do you want above all, Captain Flint?”

“What I want is justice for The Steadfast and for Captain Moreheart. A man to whom I owe everything. My entire future fortune, depends upon bringing you to justice. And it’s what I want. So…”

He began to stand, and saw Lyon stiffen, poised to do whatever he needed to do. He, like Lyon, could throw himself on a pyre, too. Because fire cleansed. She’d won, and he’d lost.

It had stopped mattering. Her happiness was indistinguishable from his own. No matter what became of him, he wanted her to know he loved her.

“You’d best get out of here, Redmond. Your secret is safe with me.”

Lyon’s eyes flared in wary surprise. He froze. And his smile, when it came, was slow, and crooked, and he looked very like Lavay when Lavay was being insufferably knowing.

“Ah. You do love her more than life. Splendid. And that, my dear Lord Flint, is what I came here today to discover.”

Whatever he felt was between him and Violet. “Go before I change my mind, Redmond.”

And Lyon stood. All tall, lean, indolently lethal grace. And with a fluid motion, the way another man might tuck away his watch, he locked and tucked his pistol away.

“Try Sussex, Flint. I paid for her passage on a ship sailing out to Calais, and from there she’ll board one that will take her to England again. She’s already on her way. Godspeed, Flint. Until we meet again.”

With astonishing speed and grace, he slipped deeper into the pub, until smoke closed over Flint’s vision, and when it had cleared again, Lyon was gone.

Chapter 27

V iolet had been away for nearly three weeks, during which everyone assumed she was enjoying a house party at Lady Peregrine’s. The message inquiring after Violet would reach Lady Peregrine’s only today, which would confuse the lady and prompt gossip. But nothing like the gossip Violet was about to cause.

She was contemplating the results of her adventure and what now might become of her, when Jonathan peered around the corner.

“Miss Redmond…you’ve a guest.”

She heard the fruitless clacking of Morton’s footsteps following Jonathan. His legs were shorter.

“Mr. Jonathan, I should have preferred to announce it more formally.”

“My apologies, Morton,” Jonathan said, wide-eyed in mock contrition. “It isn’t every day you get to announce an earl. I say, Vi, are you going to faint?” He sounded less concerned than astonished. “You’ve gone white. Should I send the big bugger away?”

“No. Go away, Jonathan,” she said faintly, rudely.

All the announcements were moot anyway, because Flint, who had no patience or use for the social niceties when he was on a mission, stood in the doorway, listening to all of this. The footman’s arms jutted out and Flint absently dropped his coat and hat upon them. Morton bore them away.

“The big bugger begs a private word with your sister,” Flint said politely.

“When you put it so nicely, I can’t see how I can deny you that pleasure, my Lord.” Jonathan had extraordinarily fine manners when he chose to use them, too. And Jonathan wagged up his eyebrows and backed away, and closed the door, mouthing a word she thought might be Lavay.

She scowled quickly at him out of habit, then turned.

Oh God.

It was so very, very clear that Flint was the only man for her. That he belonged to her, and she to him. Without him, she knew she’d become thin and glittery-eyed and take up causes like Olivia Eversea, which she was tempted to do anyway. Or become an eccentric burden to her parents, a secret shameful relative hidden away somewhere, destined to become part of the Redmond family lore.

Because she had a rather large secret of her own.

“Why are you here?” she began cautiously.

“I’ve come for you,” he said simply.

“Come for me? How like an order that sounds. And yet we’re not on your ship anymore, Captain Flint. I haven’t peeled a potato in weeks, and you cannot make me do it now.”

It seemed he’d exhausted his words.

And she was abashed, suddenly, because he was pale, too. She couldn’t bear to see this man look uncertain.

“I’m sorry I left you as I did,” she offered tentatively. She was surprised when her voice emerged a mere whisper.

“I know you are,” he said gently. “I wouldn’t have done anything differently. You did the right thing.”

“I…did?” Wondering which of the things he meant: leaving, or taking the rosewood box, or warning Lyon, or—

He smiled faintly at her wariness. “All of it was right. You did it for someone you love. You never pretended you might do otherwise. We both knew it.”

Why was he standing on the edge of the carpet, as though it were lava, and she was an island he could merely aspire to reaching?

She couldn’t bear not knowing. She had to ask. “Flint…why are you here? Where is Lyon?”

“I’m here because I wanted you to know that I did what I did…for someone I love.”

Her hands were damp. She, who’d once thought she’d expire from lack of novelty, wasn’t enjoying this particular game of suspense. She drew them down the front of her skirt nervously. Something she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing just a fortnight ago. She’d become more amenable to mussing things when circumstances required it.

“And what did you think was right?” Her nerves were drawing tight as bowstrings. Her voice was faint and nearly shrill.

He paused. “I saw Lyon.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then he smiled a slow crooked smile. So pleased with himself. With her. She thought she might just swoon. She thought she would draw that smile around her like a shawl, let it cradle her like a hammock. Her hand nearly went out to touch the back of a settee. Then she refrained and collected herself.

“You saw Lyon?” she repeated. Coaxing it out of him was torture. “You…spoke to Lyon?”

“Yes. And then I left Lyon.”

She was stunned. “But…”

“Violet…he looks so like you.” He gave a short, wondering laugh. His hands pushed his hair back nervously.

“Where is he?” She looked about wildly. “What was right?”

“Loving you is right, Violet,” he said easily. “I left him in Cádiz. He has more work to do. He says. He looks quite fit.”

Fit.

“Flint…I found Captain Moreheart’s journal in Lyon’s box and…all the investors were listed. I know what Lyon is doing and why he’s doing it—I so didn’t want to tell you about Captain Moreheart—”

“I know. Of a certainty he was captaining and investing in slave ships. They all were.” He sounded grim. “I cannot begin to guess why. I can’t condone it. But I can’t grieve him any less. I suspect justice was meted to him, though it wasn’t Lyon’s justice to give.”

“There’s one thing you don’t know, Asher.” An expression, inexpressibly tender and fierce, flickered over his face when she said his name and she felt shy. I do love you. “One of the investors listed on the last page of Moreheart’s diary is…Jacob Eversea.”

Flint frowned, puzzled. Then his face cleared. “Olivia’s father?”

Violet nodded. “It would kill her. And ruin the Everseas if anyone discovered. I’ve been left with a loaded gun, so to speak. Bloody Lyon is leaving me to decide what to do about it.”

“Poor bastard.” He meant Lyon. “And I thought we had a dilemma for a fortnight.” He sounded almost amused. “He said he had more work to do regarding proving someone’s innocence or guilt.”

Silence fell. She watched her father’s clock pendulum swing out the time. It was time for a very careful and specific question.

“But Flint…so that means…you don’t want to capture Lyon anymore? That you’ll tell the King you failed?”

“Well, I’m not partial to the word failed.” Oh, good. He sounded amused. “But Violet…when I saw Lyon, I knew I was sunk. I live only to make you happy, Violet. You’re necessary to me. I belong with you. And please, for the love of God, may I touch you now?”

It was only now that his composure was crumbling that she saw how powerfully he’d tried to keep it intact.

She all but bolted across the carpet for him, and she reached out her hand, and he reached out his hand, and their hands clung there, joining and separating their bodies from a distance of about two feet. Hers was cold, and his was warm, and he gripped hers as though she were anchoring him to the earth, or the means by which he would launch, like a kite. She needed to know more. “But that means…”

“It means I love you, Violet. I have never said that aloud to another human being.”

He said it quickly and tonelessly. As if he was afraid of the words. Violet stood basking in those words the way she might a sunbeam after a long, gray day. She closed her eyes. And she knew she was lit from within.

“Do not let me just stand here having said those words,” he said stiffly. “It’s undignified.”

“I love you, too,” she said softly, hurriedly. Feeling abashed. Eyes still closed. Egads. So this was what it was like to be in love. Awkward and foolish, indeed. And he furled her abruptly into his body and sighed his relief when they were folded together, because their bodies knew what to do when words made them feel human and awkward. She melted into him without reserve. She pressed her ear against his chest to hear his heartbeat, to feel his breathing, wrapped her arms around him to reassure him she was here and would never leave him.

He would never again be alone.

“It also means,” he said over the top of her head, “I’ve land, but no money to support it. Just the grand title. You could always marry Lavay instead. I think even he has more money than I do at the moment.”

“I have a dowry,” she said absently. “My father will be pleased enough to marry me off to an earl. I think. Even one such as you.”

She stood back abruptly to find him looking amused at the “such as you,” and as he was unwilling to relinquish her, she leaned back into the cradle of his arms.

“But wait…we are to be married?” she asked, forgetting to consider whether she ought to have waited for him to ask.

“I should think so. Don’t you? Should I have issued a more romantic proposal?”

“No. We’re not romantic,” she breathed.

“Not romantic at all,” Flint murmured about an inch from her lips. “But I may die if I don’t kiss you right this—”

His lips just took hers, and their kiss was, quite frankly, savage. She reveled in it. It was new, because it was a promise, and precious and humbling, and bogglingly erotic. He kissed her like a man starved, like a man intent on taking her in just a few minutes, and she gave like she thought she’d never give to anyone, her hands tangling in his hair, his hands and arms wrapping her tightly.

“But your home in America…” she said against his lips when they decided they needed to breathe. “All the things you wanted…”

“You’re my home. I’ll go wherever you like. Whether it’s by land or sea.” He moved in for more kissing.

“Truly?” She stood back for a moment. Bit her lip.

He looked worried. “You’re thinking, aren’t you? Don’t.” He leaned in again. She remained just out of reach of his lips. “But I might like to live in America. Or perhaps you’ll like Sussex. And you have your own properties in England, too. I suppose it depends on whether you want your baby to be born an English or American citizen.”

His expression went as blank as though she’d clubbed him in the head. His arms loosened. She hadn’t meant it to happen quite like that.

“You’re…we’re…” He stopped.

She would never forget his expression for the rest of her life. This is what joy looks like. She nearly wept. She could feel the tears burning at the back of her eyes.

“Going to be a family.” And now she was shy again. “Are you going to faint?” She held onto him. “You’re very pale.”

“It’s the color of bliss.”

She smiled a small smile. She was, in truth, afraid. The future dizzied her. But someone needed to look after the Earl of Ardmay, and she would have the privilege of it for the rest of her life. She had no doubt he was equal to the task of looking after her. He saw something in her face. “Are you going to faint, Violet? Do we need to move over to the settee?”

Before she could answer he’d swept her up in his arms. Taking command.