Chapter Twelve
Poppy was wide awake and doing a horrible attempt at reading in bed when Winston finally returned. He walked on cat feet lately, thus she didn’t hear him coming until the door was opening and he was facing her, his expression grim but careful, as though he expected a fight. But she didn’t have it in her. It had been a mistake to push him. And humiliating to think that she’d believed if he just touched her again, had sex with her, that it would break down the wall between them. If anything, the wall was higher now. Watching him, she set down her book and remained silent.
Broad shoulders squared, he moved farther into the room. Red rimmed his blue-grey eyes, and water clung in crystalline drops to the ends of his hair, turning it the color of old brass. “I took a walk. It’s raining.”
“It usually is.” Her voice was as rough as his in the awkward silence.
Win ducked his head and, frowning, began to pull off his sodden coat. His cravat, waistcoat, and boots followed, all of them carefully placed upon the back of a chair. When he got to his shirt, he stopped and looked back up at her. Poppy couldn’t know what he was thinking. Before, she’d always known his moods and what to expect. Now, she felt unbalanced. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she covered her legs with the billowing folds of her nightgown.
“I think it best that you sleep in Talent’s quarters tonight.” She couldn’t look at him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod, but he came closer anyway. When he stopped before the bed, she forced herself to face him, only to find his expression solemn. “If you wish,” he said in a low voice, then his hands went to his shirt.
“If you are thinking of getting in this bed with me, think again.” If he did, she’d lose all sense of herself. Sometime between crying and curling up in a lonely ball upon the bed, she realized that if he could not accept who and what she was, then so be it.
He paused, and his brows lifted. A glint lit his eyes. She’d almost forgotten how Win loved a challenge. Proof, she supposed, of her exhaustion. But he’d have a fight on his hands. The glint in his eyes grew. “Do you suppose I’ve come to ravage you, Boadicea?” His finely shaped lips twitched, and her face heated.
“Again, you mean?”
His smile fell. “I dishonored you. And it shames me to my soul.”
And like that, her ire left her. He spoke of honor. She had clearly forgotten hers as well. Blast it, but she shouldn’t have let him wander the ship alone. No matter what personal strife had arisen between them, it was still her duty to protect Win. Even if he hated her for it. She could only be thankful that he’d returned in one piece. Damn it all.
He did not give her a chance to reply before he whipped his shirt over his head and tossed it away.
Her breath left her. Not since he’d first been attacked had she seen his torso. He hadn’t allowed it. He stood stock-still and let her drink in her fill of him. Despite his sudden reveal, or perhaps because of it, she looked not at his chest, but at his face. His jaw was set and hard as he gazed at a spot on the wall.
“Go on,” he said, “look at me.”
Good God, but he’d changed. Gone was the lithe torso. In its place, a network of corded muscle reigned. He was still lean; his body would never run to pure bulk, but the definition and the strength had increased, and he’d added a good fifteen pounds to his frame. She’d known this before he’d taken his shirt off, but seeing the bare results was another matter. A part of her mourned the loss of his earlier self, though this newer Win intrigued her as well. He was a study of power tempered by grace. “You’re bigger,” she said inanely.
He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort. And she realized that she’d missed the point of this exercise entirely. Taking a breath, she looked over the scars that marred his fine, ivory skin. It had been bad, his attack. Thick, ropey scars covered his left pectoral muscle, shoulder, and forearm, while thinner, redder slashes crisscrossed over his rippling abdomen and the swell of his biceps. He’d been so close to death.
Unable to help herself, she rose onto her knees and reached out to trace the thick slash just over his heart. His warm skin twitched at the contact, but he held still.
“You’ve healed well, Win.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “You keep saying that. Don’t.” His voice was a whip of censure.
“It is the truth,” she snapped back.
He took a step forward, the action sending her palm against his chest. “Don’t patronize me. Just look at me. Look at what I’ve become.”
White lined the livid red scars on his face as he glared at her.
“I am looking,” she said, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her hand. “What would you have me say, Win?”
“That I am deformed. That I will never be the same again.”
“No. That would be patronizing you. And what I cannot understand is why you want me to do so.” His breath left in a hiss as he stepped even closer. So close that his nose almost bumped hers. Poppy did not back away. “Why do you want my pity, Win? Or is it that you want me to turn away in disgust?” Her eyes searched his, and it became a chore to speak. “Do you want me to be the one to end this so that you don’t have to?”
They stared at each other, neither of them daring to move. And then he took a deep breath as his eyes closed. “I don’t know.” His head fell forward, and his forehead rested on hers. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Nothing could stop her then from wrapping her arms about him and pulling him closer. He fell into her, his arms twining about her waist in a hard grip, his fingers grabbing the loose folds at the back of her nightgown. Something within her sighed in relief at his hold and the feel of his body pressed against her. They’d always fit together so well. Hugging him made her feel safe, feel needed as well. So many people needed her, and yet never for this basic sort of comfort. They needed her to fix things. Only Win had needed her heart.
His lips pressed against her neck as they held each other up, and his breath warmed her. Poppy closed her eyes and let herself relax further into him. When he finally spoke, his words were muffled by her skin. “You were always my anchor, Poppy. Now I am adrift.”
Gently, she touched the cool strands of his hair, still damp from the rain. But his body was so nice and warm. “I am unmoored as well, Win. And I don’t know what to do. For it was you who cut the ties.”
A deep, shuddering sigh left him, and his fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “I am not… I have spells, Poppy. I become unable to breathe; I fall ill.” She felt him swallow against her shoulder. “I am not the man you knew. I am not—” He stopped abruptly and took another breath. “I was angry and embarrassed. I could not face you.”
Anger stirred within her breast, and she tried to pull back. But he held tight and wouldn’t let her go. “It isn’t logical. Hell, it isn’t fair, the way I feel.” Only then did he move away enough to look her in the eyes. His were pained. “I am ashamed, Pop. And yet every time I try to govern my feelings, I fail.”
Poppy broke free of his grip, realizing belatedly it was because he let her. With a sigh, she sank down onto the bed. “You hurt me, Win.” She swallowed hard. “And I hurt you.”
He moved as if to touch her cheek but let his hand fall. “Yes.”
“How do we get past it?” Poppy’s fingers clenched. “Do you want to, Win?”
His expression darkened, making his patchwork of scars appear twisted. “Move over.”
She scuttled to the other side of the bed, and her back met with the pillows piled high behind her. To her surprise, he sank down and rested his head upon her lap. The warm weight of him seeped through her thin gown as he looked up at her, his winter eyes clear yet unreadable. Then he turned and curled in on her, his face pressing against the small swell of her lower belly. His breath left in a gust of warm air as he slowly lifted his hand. Everything in her stilled. The tips of his fingers stroked her, a violent shiver wracking his frame as he made contact.
Her chest tightened, and she blinked up at the ceiling, knowing that if she looked at his face just then she’d fall apart. His raspy voice drifted up through the thick silence. “Were you going to tell me?”
She swallowed several times. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Of course.”
Gentle fingers traced across the small rise of her belly. “When?”
A pained half-laugh escaped her, and she pressed her palm over her eyes. “I don’t know. I’d only just realized it myself. It was such a-a…” Oh, God, she didn’t want to speak. For years they had tried. Years of nothing but disappointment. It had ripped her heart open to discover that they’d finally achieved what they both wanted on the heels of his defection.
“You left me, Win.” Her fingers dug into the throbbing points at her temple as she gritted her teeth. “Wouldn’t talk to me.”
He hugged her tighter, a sound of pain breaking from him, but he did not speak. What could he say in any event?
“And I thought…” She licked her lips. “I did not want you to come home out of obligation.” She glanced down at him. “I still don’t.”
The ruined side of his face was to her. The paleness of his flesh made his scars vivid red. She wanted to touch them, lay her hand on his cheek, and send cool comfort into him. And her childish self wanted to yank him by his ungoverned locks and throw him from the room for causing her pain. His attention remained fixed on her belly, as his eyes began to water. Her fingers found their way into Win’s hair. She stroked his head as if to calm them both.
With a harsh sound, he cleared his throat and blinked rapidly. “I failed us both, Boadicea.” He fisted the loose folds of her gown and held on tight. “And will fail us more before the day is done.”
“Win.” Her voice broke, and she took a breath. “There is nothing so broken that cannot be mended.”
A wobbling, pained smiled ghosted over his lips. “Oh,” he said in a shaking voice, “I beg to differ.” Slowly, he rolled away and sat up at the edge of the bed, giving his back to her. His hair fell about his face as he glared down at his clenched hands, and she ached to rub the broad expanse of his back. She might hurt, but he seemed utterly lost.
“I’m the veriest of hypocrites, Pop.” As he turned back to her, the depth of regret and sorrow reflected in his eyes took her breath. “I left you for lying when I have done ten times worse.”
Though they no longer touched, Winston could feel Poppy tense. He knew his wife so well in this regard. She was preparing herself, governing her emotions. Before he had left Poppy, they never had a true row. It was all very civilized, their arguments. Voices might become raised, tempers flare, but one of them would leave the room before there was any danger of getting out of hand. Staring at his clenched fists, Win wondered if their mutual civility had really been a disservice. For it had made it too easy to walk away when things grew sticky.
He had walked away. And it disgusted him. Slowly, he relaxed his fingers. Never again would he turn from a fight with Poppy. Christ, but that was an easy thing to say when he had less than a week to save both his and their child’s soul.
Swallowing against the fear, he turned back to Poppy. Her pristine white nightgown covered her from neck to foot and made her appear all of twelve. The red silk of her hair ran over her shoulders and down to her waist. He pulled his gaze up to her eyes. Those eyes, dark and glinting beneath straight red brows. Those eyes never failed to draw him in.
“The demon found me.”
Horror slashed across her features, and she lurched forward. “When? What did he want?”
He rested a hand on the bed between them. “Poppy… Hell. He wants our child.”
Quite abruptly, the temperature in the room dropped, as if someone had walked in from an Arctic night. “Over my dead body.”
“No, over mine.” His voice came out stronger than he felt. “I made a bargain with him.”
“What!” Poppy wrenched herself out of the bed, her long hair swinging.
Win rubbed the back of his neck. “Fourteen years ago, I loved a woman. I was the son of a duke who would not let me marry this woman, and I wanted to be a detective.”
Poppy blanched. “You were cut off and I agreed—Oh-ho no…” Her fists bunched tight as if she might hit him. “Do not tell me…” Red swarmed up her cheeks, and the room grew icy. Currents of air swirled about them.
“Yes, Boadicea.” He made a furtive gesture to touch her but dropped his hand when she bared her teeth like a feral thing. “He found me and gave me my heart’s desire in exchange for my soul.” The sound of his swallowing was overly loud in the silence. “It’s all been a lie. Our life…”
“Do not!” She hissed through her teeth before going on. “Do not tell me this, Win.”
“It is worse.” On a breath, he told her the rest. With each word out of his mouth, each lie revealed, the room grew colder, until he shivered and icicles hung from the lamps and frost coated the portholes.
“Damn him to hell,” Poppy shouted when he finished. She whirled about and slammed her palm against a chair, sending it flying. “Bloody f*cking bastard!”
Icy air tore about the room, howling in the small space and blinding his eyes. Squinting, he braced himself, waiting for the explosion to turn his way. It did not come. The frost blew itself out, as quickly and deftly as if one had slammed the door shut on it. Standing in the center of the room, her back to him and her head bowed, she pressed a fist against her mouth for one silent moment. Then she took a quick breath, letting her hand fall, and looked up at the ceiling as if it might hold answers or a way out.
When she spoke, her voice cracked. “All right. The damage is done.” She sucked in another shallow breath. “Now we need to contain it. So you’ve been charged to find this woman? And then we are free?” With shaking hands, she smoothed her gown. “Fine then, let us find her. Not that I bloody well trust Isley to deliver.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes, but simply moved to pick up an overturned chair.
“Poppy, look at me.”
She did not.
“Then shout at me… Blame me for my idiocy. Anything.” He cursed and tried to come near, but she hissed between her teeth with such vehemence that he stopped. “I’ve done you a terrible wrong,” he said. “Have a proper go at me. In truth, I would welcome it.”
She made a sound that might have been amusement but had too much anger behind it. “I’m certain you would.” She brushed back a stray wisp of hair with a steady hand, then straightened a pillow, looking anywhere but at him, and he wanted to punch something, wanted her to punch him, as he deserved. But her voice grew composed. “You were tricked by something far more devious than yourself. You hadn’t a chance once Isley got his claws into you. What more is there to say?”
That he was a hypocrite? That he’d put their family in danger because of his selfishness? Winston had a dozen self-recriminations, and it irked him that she wouldn’t address a one. Instead, she retreated behind that shell of hers, where no one could see her pain or rage. Just as she always did. No matter what occurred, Poppy was an entity unto herself, and he was the one on the outside.