Page 60 of The Rogue’s Embrace

A blackberry poised on her lips, Adalia watched as Toren shut the breakfast room door behind the girls as they scampered out, and then he gave a nod to the footman by the side entrance to the room. The footman silently slid out the side door.

They were good at that—Toren's servants—silent to a fault, disappearing and appearing with only a nod or a finger twitch by Toren, and never saying a word. How long did it take to train them thusly?

She popped the blackberry into her mouth just as Toren strode back across the room to her. The easy smile he had worn while the twins were with them had vanished, and the room was now empty except for the two of them. Toren's face had gone suspiciously blank, and she had come to understand that rarely meant anything good.

He sat down across the small round table from her, his fingers not moving to pick up the fork and continue his half-eaten breakfast of eggs and sausage. His brown eyes scrutinized her with such deliberateness that she had to swallow hard to move the blackberry down her throat.

She wiped the corners of her lips. "You have something to tell me? Is it about Mr. Trether—did he accept the satisfaction of the debt that you had delivered? Please tell me he accepted it—and that you threatened him to no end, as well. For him to so brutally want the Revelry's Tempest that he would be a danger to the twins—the man deserves every lick of hellfire that will come his way. "

Toren offered a slight nod, his countenance unchanged. "He did accept it. Both the money and the threat. You are now married. The Revelry's Tempest is closed. The matter should be done."

Her eyes narrowed. "But it is not?"

"I do not know yet."

"Why not? When will you know?"

"Money drives some men. Vengeance drives others. I do not yet know where Mr. Trether lands on that spectrum."

He paused, clearing his throat. "Mr. Trether has a crew that works for him—have you ever seen them—did they ever accompany him when you met with him? A driver, a guard, perhaps?"

"Yes, I have seen a number of his men."

The tines of her fork tapping on her plate, Adalia's eyes went to the high point of the stone arch on the wall opposite her as she visualized the faces she had seen. Her gaze dropped to Toren. "Five that I can easily recall. Two more—only marginally. Why?"

"We have a suspicion it wasn't just that one man in Dellington that tried to take Josalyn."

Her fork clattered to the table. "Are the girls still in danger?"

"No."

His hand instantly reached over to clasp the top of hers. "Not here. They are safe at Dellon Castle—do not doubt that. But we believe there is another one of Mr. Trether's men in the area—the man has been stopped several times along the far western border of my lands. But there is no way of telling his purpose unless he makes a move to get closer to the castle, or unless we cajole it out of him. If he is Mr. Trether's man, I imagine he is still in the area because he has yet to hear from his boss that the matter has been settled to satisfaction."

"Cajole…"

Her right eyebrow lifted. "Cajole with pain?"

Toren's head slanted to the side with a shrug as his hand slipped off of hers.

"But if he is innocent? What if he is just a vagrant passing, looking for work?"

"A possibility—yes,"

Toren said. "Which is why I would much prefer for you to look at him and tell me if you recognize the man."

"Yes. I can do that. Where is he?"

"In the next village past Dellington. He has been holed up in a coaching inn,"

Toren said. "It is a half day's ride, if you are willing. And you will need to be mostly concealed; a hood and common clothes would be best so he doesn't recognize you."

Adalia nodded. "Yes."

Her bottom lip jutted upward, her eyes pinning him. "Tell me again Josalyn and Mary will be safe here while we are gone."

He grabbed her hand on the table again, squeezing it. "They are safe here, Adalia. Trust me."

But what about me?

She hadn't admitted it to anyone but herself, but the incident in Dellington had shaken her to her core. She had grown too relaxed, too comfortable in Toren's world. So much so that her wits seemed to have dulled completely. Dellington was nothing but proof that her guard had slipped so far it had vanished, and she couldn't let that happen again.

For her own sake and for the girls.

She had been such a fool about Mr. Trether. The man was vicious, and she had denied for far too long how dangerous he was. Twice now, he had nearly snatched her niece's from her. So what else was he capable of?

She looked down at the table, focusing on Toren's hand swallowing hers. Strong, his fingers had the capacity for such gentleness on her skin, yet also the brutal ability to crack a man's bones.

She had to concentrate on that—not on worry. If threats upon the girls could be eliminated, she had to help. And Toren knew exactly when to move with delicacy and when to move with brutal strength. She had to trust that.

She would be safe with him.

Her head slightly bowed, Adalia surveyed the main dining hall of the coaching inn past the edge of her grey hood.

Her cloak and hood were warm, almost stifling hot in the stagnant afternoon heat pooling under the low, heavily weathered beams spanning the dining room. But Toren had insisted she keep it in place as they slid into a high-backed wooden booth by an outside door at the rear of the dining area.

Toren had found rough, nondescript clothes for himself to wear, and she knew she would look less suspicious without the hood and cloak. But she suffered the heat for Toren's peace of mind, at least for the time being. She would be able to shed it soon enough if the man Toren wanted her to look at was in here.

The dining hall rather busy for the late afternoon, her gaze travelled amongst the many square wooden tables, benches, and chairs. She spotted three of Toren's guards that had staggered their entrances into the coaching inn. They had settled themselves randomly about to not arouse suspicion.

Two mugs of ale delivered to their table, Toren clutched the handle on his as he leaned forward across the table and looked at her.

"There."

He took a sip of the ale, instantly attempting to hide the curdling of his tongue at the taste. He could dress the part of a common man, but his tongue would never be so. He choked down the liquid. "The far square table to the left of the bar. By himself. Blue jacket. Dingy undershirt. Cap pulled down past his ears. Oddly shiny boots. One full and one empty glass in front of him. Half picked through plate of pie."

Adalia blinked at the amount of detail. She had only seen Toren glance in that general area once.

She nodded, scratching the side of her face and casually lifting her hood as she glanced to her left across the dining hall. She spotted the man quickly, just as described. The man chewed slowly, hunched, staring at the table in front of him. Toren had positioned them as far away as possible from the man. Her hood dropped past the side of her face as she looked to Toren. "I can only see his profile from here. And very little of it at that."

"Look again."

She repeated the process, stretching out her peek. Her fingers went to the silver tankard in front of her, fiddling with it. "I think I have seen him before."

He gave one nod, grasping her hand and pulling it away from the tankard. "Good. Then we are leaving."

She yanked her fingers from his grip, her words a rushed whisper. "No, I think—but I am not certain. Not certain it is one of Mr. Trether's men. I am not going to condemn an innocent man, Toren. I have to be positive."

Before he could reach to stop her, Adalia scooted out from the bench of the booth.

"What the hell are you doing, Adalia?"

Toren's hissed whisper disappeared into the swish of her skirts.

Moving quickly, she walked across the dining hall close to the front wall where she could approach the man from his rear side and he would not notice her until she was upon him. She fished out one of her kidskin gloves from the pocket in the faded blue cotton dress she had borrowed from Miss Mable, the governess they had hired for the twins.

Just as she stepped past the man's table, she dropped the glove to the floor. Stopping, she stooped, angling herself so she could look at him straight on. The glove in the tips of her fingers, she glanced up, seeing the full of his face.

She gasped.

Half his face had been torn to shreds, partially healing. Ripped apart by teeth—dog teeth. The man that had taken Mary in London.

Hazard had done a beautiful job in marring the man for life. As deserved.

His look raked over her. Jerking upright in his seat, recognition flashed in his cold eyes.

"Well, I be, mousey."

His eyes flashed upward above her head for only a moment before his look snapped back to her and he sneered, pouncing. His thick fingers dove under her hood, snagging the thick of her hair at her neck and yanking her upward as he lunged to his feet.

He dragged her two steps. Flailing, all she could see was the beaten wooden boards of the floor flashing in front of her. A scream—his scream, laced with pain. His hand jerked from her head, tearing out hair with it.

Her balance upended, a mess of feet and bodies and arms scuffled about her, and she fell, landing hard into a body. Toren. She could tell by his boots. His clothes he had changed. His boots he had not.

More legs. More boots joined the fray.

An arm clamped around her, pulling her from the scuffle, dragging her to the rear door of the dining room.

Out the door, the sunlight hit her, making her squint as she attempted to get her feet under her. Tucked under Toren's arm, she couldn't right herself completely, and he didn't halt his long strides, moving them down the slight hill toward the stable. It wasn't until they reached the back end of the structure that he stopped, spinning her around the corner—hidden from the inn—and propping her onto the outside wall of the stable.

Breathless, her palms went flat onto the worn wood on either side of her as she caught herself. Toren stomped away from her.

Ten steps, and then his fingers ran through his dark hair as he spun. Stalking back to her, he slammed the butt of his palm on the wood plank by her head, making the whole wall rattle against her back.

"Why in the blasted hell would you do that, Adalia?"

His chest almost touching her nose, his palm slammed onto the wood again.

Adalia cringed at the sound, but didn't cower, her chin tilting upward so she could see his face. "Toren?—"

"No, Adalia, you don't get to speak. He could have had a damn blade. He could have had a pistol. He could have knocked you down. He could have slammed you into the fireplace, and crushed your head on the stone. He could have bit you. He could have thrown a knee so deep into your belly you could never breathe again. He could have snapped your neck. He could have?—"

Her hands lifted, waving in front of his face. "Stop. Stop, Toren. I understand. I was in danger—you don't like that. But I needed to look at him straight on and you were only feet away. Your men were only feet away. I was safe."

"No, you weren't. You don't know what the hell could have happened in those seconds it took for me to reach you."

His head shook, his eyes going to the wall above her head as his lip curled in disgust.

"Don't be ridiculous, I?—"

"I froze, Adalia."

His brutal voice cut her words, his palm slamming into the wall again as his look pierced her. "My damned feet froze."

Confusion creased her brow. "Froze? No—you didn't. You were to me in an instant."

"No, dammit. My blasted feet froze. Dead weight. Watching you—the moment he recognized you—his sneer—I could not move my bloody feet."

"What? You were the first one to me, Toren. A second in time did me no harm."

"It could have."

Her hands went lightly onto his chest, fingers splaying wide. "I am right here in front of you, Toren. Not hurt, not scared. I knew you were there the whole time. I wouldn't have done it otherwise. I knew I didn't have anything to worry about."

"But—"

"No."

She reached up to grab his hand on the wall, tugging it down to set his palm flat against the slope of her left breast. "Feel this. Even my heartbeat—it is steady. I am steady. If I had been worried, my heart would still be frantic—out of control—but I am not."

His look went upward, his head shaking again.

"Look at me, Toren—all you have to do is look."

She reached up with her other hand, setting her fingers along his cheek and drawing his look down to her. "I am not scared. You have all my trust. You did not fail me in there, Toren."

His brown eyes hard on her, he swallowed, his jaw shifting to the side. "Do not put that upon me, Adalia."

"Put what upon you?"

His voice dropped to a coarse gravel. "Your trust. Your love."

Her hand dropped from his face with a sharp intake of breath. "Why not? You practically demanded a week ago that I give you my unequivocal trust. So you have it. You have it because you demanded it."

Blast it. It was bubbling up in her, steam demanding to escape the kettle.

She was going to say it again, and this time it would be no slip of the tongue. This time she would say it because she had to, because Toren was standing in front of her and making her feel it like never before. Because she would say it a thousand times over for the smallest hope that it would someday reach him.

Her hand tightened along the side of his cheek. "You have it because I love you."

He jerked away from her. His hand ripping from her chest as he turned, his face angled to the bright sky.

She stilled for a long second.

Turn. Turn back to me, dammit. Turn back and tell me you feel something—anything for me. Just turn. Even if it is only in your damn eyes and not your words. Turn.

The moment passed. Then another. And another.

He didn't turn back to her.

Her knuckles went to her lips, hiding her slight gasp as she pushed herself from the wall of the stable. Dazed, she walked forward, walking to escape him, escape the moment.

Past the pasture. Past the sparse woods. She walked until the ground stopped, her toes at the edge of the brook that ran at the base of the hill behind the coaching inn.

He had told her—been very honest with her about his feelings, or lack thereof. She had sworn to him she could accept it.

She had truly thought she could.

But that was before…before he was the most doting of all uncles to the twins…before he took her, night after night in his bed, his only goal to make her body feel indescribable euphoria…before he had requested his gardener to start work on the rose garden, reviving it to former glory just because it made her happy…before he put the twins and her safety above all other concerns…before he cracked a man in half for her…before he held her when she cried…before he allowed himself to be beaten night after night in whist, and by two seven-year-olds, just because it would make them laugh—make her laugh…

Before all of it. Before he became so very core to the life she lived…before she couldn't imagine her life in any other way but with him.

She stared at the moving water of the brook, wanting nothing more than to lose herself in the swirling bubbles of it.

The man damn well made her feel loved. So why? Why could he not bring himself to actually do so—to love her?

And did it matter?