He hadn’t the faintest sense of what to do.
“Adam,” she said, her voice nearly carried away by wind and rain. “Have you ever felt … trapped?”
He didn’t know how to answer. Firstly, she’d used his given name. A woman shouldn’t do that unless she wished to give a man notions. Secondly, she’d asked a question with a much longer answer than yes or no.
Adam Shaw had seen everything once. Everything vile and hellish. Everything wondrous and fine. He’d seen a man flayed to death for spilling his ale. He’d seen his mother turn cold and lifeless in the thick, living heat she’d despised. He’d seen the sun rise out of endless water into an endless sky. He’d seen Phoebe Widmore laugh.
“Yes,” he answered, moving closer, angling his body to protect her from the worst of it. “I have. The trick is not to let the trap spring fully.”
“How do you escape?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you live through it. Then plan.”
She turned her eyes upon him. They were swimming. “And sometimes you’ve so thoroughly trapped yourself, there is nothing more to plan.”
“Phoebe …” Frowning, he inched closer, watching her fragile shoulders begin to shiver. “Why this despair?” he murmured.
She sniffed, smiled weakly, and shook her head. “Perhaps it is the weather.”
As though it had been waiting to be announced, the weather shoved at his back, necessitating the bracing of his arms around her, the gathering of her close and tight. Her bonnet scraped his chin, and her warm, slender form tucked in against him like she was made for that very purpose.
“We should return,” he murmured, stroking her back and trying to ignore the way she clutched at his lapel. “Mustn’t give the staff reasons for speculation.”
Another sniff. “Speculation?”
“Oh, come now. Surely you know of their habit of making absurd wagers. I shouldn’t be surprised to find Duff collecting a shilling or two when we return before dusk.”
She giggled. “Should we—”
“No. That would generate a new set of wagers. And likely a scandal.”
Sighing, she pulled away and started toward Piccadilly, leaving cold wind and empty space where she’d been. As he walked by her side, he was struck by a peculiar sensation. A charged chill over his skin. A warm flush beneath it. Deeper still, it was earth, flat and solid, rooted and certain.
He’d felt it only once before—the day he’d met Reaver.
Then, as now, his heart had begun to race, his hands and arms tingling. He glanced down at Phoebe. Her little red nose. Her soft lips. Her pale, milky skin. Wisps of hair had come loose, plastered across her cheek and chin by the damp. She didn’t bother to brush them away. Instead, she strode on across muddy turf toward the bustling street, her gaze distant and bothered.
“One day soon,” he said quietly, “when the weather eases, perhaps we could ride in the park. The club has a fine mount or two in its stable.”
She glanced his way, her smile oddly sad. “Perhaps.”
Her diffidence disturbed him. He could only guess she’d had time to realize the implications of being seen at his side. Flexing his jaw, he bit back old bitterness and offered, “If you prefer, I can wear livery.”
Her steps halted. “I beg your pardon?”
Having passed her by several paces, he turned. Blue eyes previously dulled by despair now fired with indignation.
“Why should you wear livery?” she snapped. “You are not a servant.”
“It would go easier for you if I were.”
She stomped toward him, small, gloved hands clenched into fists. “Listen to me, Adam Shaw. You are neither my footman, nor my nursemaid, nor my butler. You are my friend.”
Bloody hell, she’d struck him square in the heart. The damned thing ached and pounded. He tilted his head. Brushed the wet strands of hair from her cheek. Swallowed against a tight throat. “As your friend, I wish to protect you.”
“I do not need protecting.”
His smile felt bittersweet upon his lips. “A statement which only proves that you do.”
She released an exasperated breath. “The prejudices of others are their shame, not mine.”
“My mother said the same. She was a strong woman.” Remembering the determined tilt of her jaw, the challenging lift of her brow whenever anyone cast them an untoward stare, he chuckled. “Never gave an inch. Remained adamantly English in every respect, of course, yet she rejected just as strongly the notion that one’s origins matter more than one’s character.”
Phoebe’s expression softened. “She sounds sensible. How did she come to live in India?”
“I shall tell you the story if you will resume walking. It is too dashed cold out here, and your luncheon is waiting.”
She clicked her tongue but started forward again.
He fell in beside her and continued his tale. “My mother traveled to India to marry her first husband, a clerk with the East India Company. When he died, she moved heaven and earth to return”—he shot a wry glance skyward—“to her beloved, rain-soaked isle.”
“What happened? Why did she stay?”
“Moving heaven and earth takes time. In that year, she met my father.”
Her mouth quirked knowingly, as though his mother’s reasoning was obvious. “He looked like you, I take it.”
“So she said. I do not remember him well. He died when I was still a boy.”
“But she stayed.”
He nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and glancing briefly at his boots. “For my sake, at the beginning. Company men often took bibis—”
“Bibis?”
“Indian consorts or wives. The children of these unions were better accepted in India than here. My father was the product of such a union, and my mother believed I could more readily carve out a place for myself there. As it happened, the opposite proved true.” Indeed, their lives had been hell, complete with murderous heat and desperate poverty. No, India had not been kind to him. But it had killed his mother, and for that, he bore his birthplace scant affection.
She drifted closer, brushing another strand of hair away from her lips. “So, you came to England.”
“Mmm. After she died. Upon my arrival, I met Reaver.”
Her lips formed a moue of disapproval.
“He is not the villain you have judged him, Phoebe,” he cautioned. “Your sister is safe, I assure you. Safer than with somebody of Glassington’s ilk, that much is certain.”
She jerked. Stiffened. Drew away as though he’d struck her.
What the devil had he said?
Moving faster as they reached Piccadilly, she marched onward past numerous shops, huddling against a blast of rain and ignoring him entirely. He didn’t blame her, of course, despite a twinge of disappointment. Being seen in his company was not to her advantage.
Suddenly, a dozen yards later, she halted like a bird colliding with a window. Her eyes went wide, fixed on the area in front of Fortnum and Mason.