Page 100

“Rhys,” she managed to gasp against his lips, twisting in his arms. “Stop. This isn’t solving anything. You haven’t given one moment’s thought to what you’re promising.”
“I don’t need to. I want you.”
“That’s not enough to make everything all right.”
“Of course it is,” he said, so arrogant and stubborn that she was at a loss for words. He stared at her parted lips, his eyes darkening in a way that sent hot and cold chills down her spine. His voice turned husky. “Damn you for saying I could survive without you. I’ll have to punish you for that, cariad. For hours . . .” His mouth crushed over hers, dizzying and blatantly sexual, making promises that sent her blood racing.
After a long time, his head lifted, and he reached into his coat, pulling out a soft white handkerchief. He gave it to her and kept an arm around her, his embrace now protective, supportive, as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” he said quietly.
“The scandal will never go away,” Helen said miserably. “People would talk behind our backs, and say malicious things, the most terrible things—”
“I’m used to that.”
“I was supposed to help you advance in society. But that won’t happen now. Charity and I are”—a residual sob came out in a hiccup—“liabilities.”
“Not in my world, cariad. Only in yours. Only in that razor-thin layer I was so determined to be part of.” A self-mocking smile tugged at his lips. “For no better reason than pride. To show off, and prove that a Welshman could have whatever he wanted. But that means nothing to me now. You’re all that matters.”
“And Charity?”
Rhys’s expression went carefully blank. “She matters too.”
Helen knew he was trying to accustom himself to the idea. But she knew how much she would be asking of him. Too much. “It won’t be enough for you merely to tolerate her. I grew up with a cold and unloving father, and—” She broke off, swallowing painfully.
“Look at me.” He urged her chin upward. “I can love her, Helen.” As she tried to look away, his grip firmed. “How difficult could it be? Half of her is exactly the same as half of you.”
“The half from Albion Vance,” she said bitterly. “You can’t dismiss that casually, and say it doesn’t matter.”
“Cariad, nothing about this is casual to me. But if you want a long, sensitive discussion about my feelings, I can’t help you. I’m from North Wales, where we express ourselves by throwing rocks at trees. I’ve had more feelings in the past half-hour than I have in my entire life, and I’m at my limit.”
“That still doesn’t—”
“I love whatever it is you’re made of. All of it.”
He seemed to think that was the last word on the entire matter.
“But—”
“Stop arguing,” he said gently, “or I’ll find a better use for your mouth.”
“Rhys, you can’t—”
His lips clamped firmly on hers, making good on his promise. She stiffened at first, withholding her response, but as he kissed her with passionate intensity, she soon found herself clinging to him weakly. The kiss turned deep and languid, and she went boneless, sinking through a soft, dark current of sensation into depths of drowsing pleasure.
Thump. Thump. Thump. She moaned in protest at the jarring sound of a fist on the door.
With a grunt of annoyance, Rhys fumbled for the doorknob. Lifting his mouth from Helen’s, he shot a lethal glance at Ransom, who stood there with his gaze pointedly averted.
“This had better be worth it,” Rhys said. Helen rested the side of her hot face against his chest. She heard a few indistinguishable words over her head. Rhys’s chest moved beneath her cheek with a short sigh. “That’s worth it.” Reluctantly he eased Helen away, gently encouraging her to stand on her own. She was wilted and dazed, her legs shaking.
“Little love,” he murmured, “I want you and Charity to go with Ransom—he’ll take you to my carriage. I’ll join you there, now in a minute.”
“Where are you going?” she asked anxiously.
“I have an errand to take care of.”
“Does it have to do with Mr. Vance? Is he here?”
Staring into her worried face, Rhys smiled and kissed her. “All I’m going to do is say a few words to him.”
Helen went to the threshold and watched as Rhys walked down the hallway with purposeful strides.
“Is that really all he’s going to do?” she asked.
Ransom gave her an oblique glance. “For now. But if I were Mr. Vance . . . after this, I’d try to keep a continent between myself and Winterborne.”
AFTER EXCHANGING A few words with the gray-haired booking clerk and handing him a gold sovereign, Rhys went to platform eight, where the last of the passengers had boarded, and porters were loading the final carts of luggage.
Albion Vance’s snow-colored hair gleamed from beneath a felt bowler hat. He was gesturing to one of the first-class carriages as he stood with three train officials in uniform: a platform manager, a train guard, and a conductor.
Vance wanted them to search for Helen. He was calm and deliberate, a predator who had no idea that he was being pursued by a larger predator.
Pausing at the end of the platform, Rhys couldn’t help wondering . . . had he known the first time he’d met Helen that this man was her father, would it have mattered?