Then he remembered who she was, and who he was, and precisely why they were here. And he reminded himself that this would be the end.
He pressed his face into the curve of her neck and inhaled deeply of her lemony clover scent. He’d hold her while he could.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “That’s better.”
When he lifted his head, she relaxed her grip on his shirt.
“I’ve remembered it for you,” she murmured. “The amusing story from your childhood. It’s like I told you, everyone has one. You see, there was this girl who shared your attic. A pestering little thing who tugged at your sleeves when you would have rather been running loose with the neighborhood boys. But late at night, sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, you took it on yourself to make her laugh and laugh—with games and shadow puppets and sweets nicked from the kitchens downstairs. One night, you bundled her up in every cloak and cape and muffler she had, and told her it was time to play gypsies. We were going to have a grand adventure, you said.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide in the dim firelight. “Why didn’t you tell me everything? You told me the truth of my mother, but you neglected to tell me the truth about you.” She touched his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me that you saved my life?”
He swallowed hard. “I didn’t save your life.”
“I think you did. Or something close to it. I told you, I finally remembered.”
She gazed into the fire, contemplative. “All my life, I’ve kept this shadowy recollection in my thoughts. I’m in a long, dark hallway, and I can feel pianoforte music coming up through the floor. I hear the song, that same little verse about the garden. There’s something blue flashing in the darkness, and someone says, ‘Be brave, my Katie.’ ”
A knot stuck in his throat. He couldn’t speak.
“It was you, wasn’t it? We were up in the attic, and we were escaping that place.”
He forced out a reply. “Yes.”
“You took my hand and opened the door. We hurried down the stairs, and we never went back. You delivered me to Margate.”
“It was what your mother wanted. Before she died, she made her wishes clear. You were clever, and everyone could see it. She’d read about Margate in some subscription magazine and knew they took in foundlings. She wanted you sent to that school.”
“But I wasn’t?”
He shook his head. “After Ellie Rose died—”
“Why can’t I remember her?” she interrupted, distressed. “I remember you now, in little bits and pieces. But no matter how I search my brain, I still have nothing of her.”
“Perhaps you’ll recall more, in time. It’s not your fault. We had to stay out of our mothers’ way, for the most part. Else we would have been branded as troublesome, and landed ourselves on the streets. Anyhow, after your mother died, weeks passed. Then months. I knew they never meant to send you to that school. They never meant to let you go at all. They would have kept you there, made you one of them far too soon. For God’s sake, they were already teaching you the song.” His stomach turned, just thinking of it.
“They taught me the song?”
“The place . . .” He blew out his breath. He hated telling her these sordid details, but they’d come this far. She needed to know everything. “It was an opera house, mainly, with music and dancing girls cavorting on stage. But all manner of other things went on abovestairs. They named it the Hothouse, and all the dancers were called ‘blossoms.’ ”
“Like Ellie Rose,” she said, understanding. “Instead of Elinor Haverford.”
“Lily Belle. Pansy Shaw. Molly Thorne.” He winced. “That verse you remember . . . it’s what they sang for the gentlemen at the start of every performance.”
“So they were teaching me . . .”
“To be part of it, yes. They’d dress you up like a doll, push you out on the stage. At first, just as a poppet to sing and smile for the crowd. But the devil only knew how long it would take, before they wanted something more of you.”
“Oh.” As his meaning sank in, her face twisted. “Oh, God. That’s horrible.”
“I know it’s horrible. I know. That’s why I had to take you out of that place. That’s why I never wanted you to hear this.” He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “Katie, don’t ask me about it anymore.”
“All right. We’ll speak of other things.” She reached for his right wrist. “How is your arm healing?”
“It’s better. Still clumsy, but improved. If I ever did save your life, I think you returned the favor that afternoon. We’re even now.”
“I doubt that.” Her fingers found their way to the border of his open collar. She pulled the gaping shirtfront to the side, exposing the hardened surface of his chest.
She stroked her fingertips over the most prominent of his tattoos. He sucked in his breath, trying not to let her touch affect him. Too late. His groin was already rock hard. So disgusting. So wrong, that he should be aroused by her, so soon after relating that tale.