The word bit like a sword, made her knees buckle and her stomach heave. Like Papa, she crumpled. Like Papa, she fell. But rather than a hard floor catching her, strong arms held tight, and her fingers found Thad’s lapels. A keening welled up, but her throat closed off to trap it.
“Tell me.” Too quiet to be called speech, naught but a murmur in her ear. A bid more than a command, a begging. “You need to tell me.”
“I…can’t.” Even those two words made her tongue twist. Made the black monster gnash its teeth. “He will hear me.”
“He will not. Gwyn, look at me.” He pulled her head back and tilted her chin up. Gently but insistently, until those yellow-topaz eyes burned her anew. “You are safe. You can tell me. Tell me what you saw.”
“Nothing.” She loosed his coat, but only with one hand. Only so she could grip his wrist and hold on. Hold it there, where it cradled and steadied. “I saw nothing. I can’t have. If he thinks I did, he will kill me next.”
“He will not.” His words burned like his eyes.
“He is coming, I know he is. He mustn’t hear me. He mustn’t know I know, or he will…he will…”
“I’ll not let him. I swear to you.” His thumb swept over her jaw and lit a new quake that shivered through her. “Tell me, sweet. Tell me who killed your father.”
The cry ripped out, savage and fierce. So long held at bay, but rising now like a tidal wave, pounding at the walls of her being until it forced her to the ground.
Thad went down with her, never letting go. Tell me.
Did he speak it again or just think it so loudly it echoed along with the sobs in her mind? She tried to shake it away, close it back up, and knit it tight, but tears rushed down her cheeks and surged through her throat. Through the hole they made came the gasp. “Un–un–cle.”
“Oh, Gwyn.” He must have pulled her closer, for she felt his chin rest on the top of her head, his fingers tangle in her hair. Arms tight around her, keeping the demons away. “One of his brothers?”
“M–mama’s. G–g—”
“Gates.” Certain dread made the word fall like lead. “Do you know why?”
The river of tears hit a bank of rocks within her, making rapids. Gasps. She could only shake her head and bury her face in his chest, letting the floodwaters empty her. Letting them spill out until there was nothing left within. Not a torrent, not a trickle, not a tear. No horror, no hope. Nothing.
Nothing but the soothing brush of fingertips through her hair and the drifting scent of sandalwood. “You are safe now, sweet. I’ll not let him harm you, so help me God. You can start anew here.”
But there was nothing new to start.
The tan of his frock coat faded to the black of her eyelids, and she held tight to whatever fabric was under her fingers now. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t. Not ever.”
Not ever. Never. The only hope she had left…and it was a promise for nothing.
Thirteen
Thad lowered Gwyneth’s still form to the divan in the drawing room, where the breeze could whisper its way over her from the nearby window. Though her head rested on the pillow, her fingers still gripped his jacket. Perhaps another day, it would have made him smile.
Today, his breath shook as he dragged it in. He pried her fingers loose but then held them tightly.
“Thaddeus.” Rosie bustled in, setting a pitcher down on the end table with an angry thump, her scowl directed at his chest. “She got paint all over you both.”
“Don’t fuss, Rosie. Not now.” His voice felt strained, a perfect match to the tension pulling his insides tight. With his free hand, he brushed the burnished curls from Gwyneth’s cheek.
Rosie stepped close and went still. “Something wrong?”
“Very wrong.” The curls wrapped themselves around his hand. Of their own will, surely. No fault of his. “She saw her father murdered. That is what has been haunting her so.”
Rosie’s breath hissed out through her teeth. “Lord, bless her. No wonder, then. So she has no one? No one left in England?”
No one she could trust, it seemed. He let the hair weave itself through his fingers. A tapestry of flame and gold. “She thinks his killer will follow her here.”
Rosie pressed a hand to her damp forehead and adjusted the turban holding back her midnight hair. “As if a war ain’t enough to worry about. You promise to keep her safe?”
“Of course.”
“Good. She trusts you. Guess that’s why she can only sleep when you’re home.”
“What?” His head jerked up, and he frowned into Rosie’s exasperated sigh.
“You haven’t noticed that?” She clucked her tongue and planted her hands on her slight hips. “She’s even worse than Emmy when Henry’s gone a-piloting. Soon as the door closes on you, she wakes up. Never until you get home that she can rest sound again.”
“I…” What was he to do? Nights were when the soldiers and sailors gathered and talked. But if he could actually help Gwyneth recover simply by staying home a few days…