Chapter 17
Tony wrinkled his brow and turned his bemused expression from the crumbly fa?ade of the storefront to Georgina. “A bookshop?”
Georgina smiled. “Come, Tony. It is not as though I’ve dragged you off to Sunday mass. I like to read,” she added for good measure.
Tony scratched the top of his head. “Read?”
She waggled her brows at him. “You know. Books?”
“Hmph.” He glanced longingly across the street.
Georgina followed his gaze to the men’s shop. He eyed it like a young lady picking through an assortment of satin and silk fabrics.
She nudged him with her elbow. “Go.”
His face flushed a dull red. “Go where?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s only across the street. I won’t leave this shop,” she promised.
His lips tilted down in a boyish frown. “My brother will have my head—”
“Your brother won’t know. Now go.”
He grinned. “I’ve got to find a woman like you. Sweet, understanding—”
She laughed. “Go!”
Georgina entered the bookshop. She wrinkled her nose at the overwhelming scent of aged books.
“Hullo, miss. Is there anything I might help you find?”
She spun around to face the bookkeeper. Bushy, white, wizened brows stood out on the bald man’s face. He smiled at her, which set his fleshy jowls to jiggling.
“Actually, yes. I am looking for a book.” He paused, turning back to face her. She tried to recall the name. “It is a collection of art.” She realized even as she said it that her words wouldn’t be much help.
The old shopkeeper scratched his head. “Uh…”
She saved him from struggling with the hopeless endeavor of finding an untitled and authorless book. “Is there a section for books about art?”
He inclined his head. “Right this way.” He didn’t wait to see if she followed, merely continued down the long, long row of books. He guided her to the very last corner of the store. “There is your section, miss.”
Georgina thanked him then focused her attention on the vast collection of books. She pulled out a copy of Jean-Etienne Liotard’s collection. It appeared the small, leather volume hadn’t seen the outside of a shelf in the current century. She studied the cover, trailing her fingertips along the title, and made to return it to its forgotten place.
She paused.
There was something so forlorn about placing the book back where it most likely would never see the light of day until…until…who knew? Years, perhaps.
Georgina set the copy of Jean Etienne Liotard’s work on the floor. She couldn’t abandon the volume in this dusty bookshop.
She continued through the shelves, biting her lip as she rescued an increasing number of art books. Georgina eyed the torn black edition of Guardi’s work in her hands and, with a sigh, set it atop the ever-growing stack. It wasn’t fair to leave them here, unwanted, unread, and unloved, all because they didn’t have a shiny, leather cover and golden lettering.
At last, her fingers settled on a deep red leather binding and she gasped, reaching for it with a fluttery breath. She pulled it into her hands with reverence, remembering that long ago day when Adam was first taken captive and spoke to her of Francois Boucher.
The soft tread of footsteps registered. Georgina glanced up and her smile died on her lips as the stuff of her nightmares materialized like a ghoulish apparition.
The book slid from her fingers.
Jamie leaned against the towering bookcase. “Hullo, Georgina.”
A swell of panic climbed into her throat. She shook her head. It couldn’t be! Not when she’d finally found happiness and relegated Father and Jamie to the corner of her mind dedicated to old, buried hurts. She closed her eyes, counted to five then opened them.
Jamie shoved himself off the shelving and, with slow, precise steps, walked closer. Closer. Ever closer.
Georgina lurched forward. The neatly built stack of books clattered to the floor. Heart hammering wildly, she spun on her heel and turned to flee.
Jamie blocked her escape.
She opened her mouth to cry out, but he clamped his hand over lips, stifling the sound.
“Shh,” he whispered against her ear, his breath hot and tinged with brandy. “Not another sound, is that clear? Your father is across the street speaking with a Mr. Anthony Markham.”
Oh God in heaven, her father was here as well, and he had his hands on Tony. If Tony came to harm because of her, Georgina would never forgive herself. In a short time, Tony had become a brother to her.
She nodded jerkily. If she resisted in any way, Adam’s brother would be killed. A sick dread filled her stomach, churning with the inevitable sense that her past had intersected with her future. Tears filled her eyes, blurring the shelving. She had come so very close to having everything she’d ever dreamed of. In the end, she’d only deluded herself, and now Adam’s brother might pay the ultimate price.
Jamie released her, casting a furtive glance around. When he looked back at her, his crystalline blue eyes burned with anger. “I understand congratulations are in order, Mrs. Markham.”
Georgina licked her lips. Her mind couldn’t keep up with her life, which was spiraling out of control before her eyes. She’d known Jamie long enough to know he was holding on to a very thin thread of control that prevented him from beating her down in this very public place.
“What do you want?” she whispered, proud at the steadiness of her response.
He cupped her cheek. “My lovely Georgina.”
She bit hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out for help. Jamie would most likely kill the old shopkeeper, and then Father would kill Tony in retribution. She waited in silence for him to speak.
Jamie broke the quiet. “We were very disappointed in you, my dear.”
She froze. After all these years, they’d discovered that she was the one responsible for sending off Emmet’s plans for the Irish revolution. “For what?”
He caught a strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “Why, for marrying the enemy.”
Relief swept over her. They knew she’d freed Adam and Mr. Blakely, but they didn’t know the depth of her betrayal.
A muscle ticked at the corner of Jamie’s eye. “What, nothing to say?” His brogue, thicker than usual, was a telltale indication of his fury.
Her toes dug into the soles of her slippers in remembrance of the many cruelties she’d suffered at his hands.
Jamie gave the lone lock in his fingers a painful tug. Georgina winced, closing her eyes as pain radiated along her temple. She drew in a staccato series of shallow breaths, knowing he would not hesitate to drag her from the shop and draw her away to his new lair.
He released the curl suddenly. “I am very angry with you, Georgina.”
“I’m sorry,” she lied. She could care less how Jamie felt about her, but she’d learned long ago that it was a good deal easier to lie and tell him what he wanted to hear.