LITMIR.BIZ

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against the wall to mull over his options, for his talk with the solicitor had confirmed his own suspicions.

      He had spent the day in Ipswich after contacting Beatrice’s lawyer, Robert Nelson, and the man had had a story to tell that had been entirely different from the one James Radcliff had told.

      ‘I trusted the young man and all I was repaid with were lies. If I were to see the scoundrel again, I’d have a few choice words to blister his ears with before I set the police upon him, I can tell you that, for it seems that he had been siphoning off rightful money for all of the three years he was in my employment and withholding funds from Mrs Bassingstoke with her husband so dreadfully ill.’

      ‘And the ledgers you talk of. Where are they now?’

      ‘Not here. I have looked high and low for them—if we can lay our hands on them the proof will be irrefutable.’

      Suddenly things began to make more sense to Taris. ‘Did Radcliff know that he was under suspicion?’

      The man nodded.

      ‘Lord.’ If Radcliff had thought the books were with Bea in the carriage he might have sawn through the axle in an attempt to reclaim them. The accident in Regent Street could have been his doing too, for the scent of the man had been in the house when they had returned. Perhaps he had paid an urchin to create an incident, giving him the time he needed to visit her house. Without the ledgers any case would be far harder to prove and paper was easily destroyed. Danger began to mount, for time would only sharpen a man’s desire for what it was he sought, especially one with blood on his hands and a future that was at best uncertain.

      Returning to Falder to see if Bea stayed safe was suddenly vitally important, for if there was any risk to her at all…

      The memory of her refusal of marriage still rankled and the walls he had put up against a world that was becoming increasingly darker seemed more of a prison now than a fortress. Isolation and exile had their drawbacks and his inability to be honest was one of them. Still, years of coming to terms with his loss of sight could not be easily translated into acceptance and it had been a long time since he had ever let the more frivolous emotions of love and trust take over from caution and denial.

      He wanted back what he had been and knew that he could never have it. He doubted he could hit a target now at ten yards, let alone a hundred, and even the smallest trip to town involved the eyes of his man Bates. Always dependent, never alone.

      He laid his hands against Bea’s door. The only place he felt truly himself now was with her, curled beside him in the darkness, feeling the soft truth of comfort and knowing the fineness of her mind and the generosity of her body.

      Home.

      With Bea.

      The thought struck him sharply, piercing all the defences he held in place. No longer just himself.

      The smell of violets wafted close as he pushed open the door. And perfumed wax? Candles, he determined, the warmth of flame felt even from this distance. So many?

      Beatrice’s soft breathing from the sofa had him turning, puzzlement at her slumber and anger at her forgetfulness in not dousing the wicks. When his fingers touched warmth he wondered what it was that she wore, lace and skin in equal measure along the fine lines of her legs. Like the garments a courtesan might wear in the better establishments off Curzon Street.

      He knew the instant she came awake.

      ‘I fell asleep?’

      ‘It is well after twelve. Why did you not seek your bed?’

      ‘I was hoping that you might come.’

      He sniffed as she moved, the scent of violets almost overpowering. Much more potent than usual! ‘Did you spill your bottle of perfume?’

      ‘No?’ The word came back to him as a question.

      ‘There is strong smell of violets in the room.’ He crossed to the candles. ‘And it is dangerous to leave so many candles alight whilst you slumber, Bea.’

      She laughed easily, but ceased the instant his hands covered the full abundance of her breasts. He loved the way she did not pull back.

      ‘What is it that you are wearing?’

      ‘A nightdress that Emerald lent me.’ The shyness in her voice was easily heard as she explained. ‘I have been waiting for you to return home.’

      Suddenly he understood. ‘This was all for me? The candles, the perfume, waiting up…?’ Taris felt something inside himself that was foreign and unfamiliar and disturbing. Something undeniable. Something so empowering that the very essence of it made him still.

      ‘Emerald told me a little of your time in the army under Wellington. She said that you were a master of disguise who never once was caught.’

      ‘That was a long time ago and I was a different man.’

      ‘Have you forgotten the languages Emerald insists that you speak fluently?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘And are you not still involved in the deciphering of ciphers for the British Army?’

      He smiled and the amber in his eyes was dancing light. ‘Yes, but if anyone else knew that you knew I’d undoubtedly be instantly dismissed.’

      ‘You negotiate a world that every other person might simply have given up on, Taris, and that to me is heroic.’

      He stayed silent.

      ‘The lace on this gown is almost silver and I am wearing nothing at all underneath it. My hair is newly washed and scented and the nails on my feet and hands have been very carefully painted. Pink,’ she added, as though the colour might be important to him. ‘And I have done none of this to entice a man whom I pity or patronise. Frankwell abused me for years, you see, and the scars that I bear are the scars of shame and fury. Fury that I did not fight back or seek help or say what it was that was happening to me. Your scars, on the other hand, come from honour and valour and bravery, wounds that tell the story of saving your brother and escaping from a place that no other ever had before. If I could exchange my damage for yours I would, Taris. I would do it in a second.’

      Her voice broke on the last words, but she did not let him speak.

      ‘I would exchange it because you never gave up as I did.’

      ‘Never gave up.’ The echo of the words nearly broke his heart. For him and for her, two people dealt a hand that was not fair, yet surviving in spite of it. Or perhaps because of it? The question surprised him.

      Brave and valiant? In her eyes he was that?

      Outside the wind was loud and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. Inside with the fire and the candles and the cobweb nothingness of a gown he had no need for sight to imagine, a new possibility began to dawn on him.

      Home and hearth and Beatrice.

      His hand stole to the slight swell of her stomach and he felt her quick intake of breath.

      And family. His family. Children and laughter. More than one. Many. Running at Beaconsmeade and Falder and knowing the land as well as Ashe and he ever had.

      This child will be born in less than five months by my calculations and I should not wish it to be born out of wedlock.’

      She did not speak.

      ‘Would you give me leave to court you, Beatrice-Maude? Court you properly, I mean?’

      ‘Properly?’

      ‘Partner you to the country entertainment on offer around Falder? Court you in the way of a beau who has only the very best of intentions?’

      In response she entwined her body around his, leaving him with no doubts as to her answer.

      All his reserve broke. ‘Love me, Bea,’ he whispered into the long curtain of her hair.

      ‘I

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