Nicholas’s whole body went tight, but he couldn’t identify the source of the feeling. Was it hope or terror?
“Why would you do such a thing? Sophia said that you had decided to stay in this era—that you were looking to purchase property,” he said. The Ironwoods earned income from several centuries, made investments, owned shares in lucrative companies. He knew this was merely a drop in the ocean of their wealth, but it came too freely offered. There would be shackles attached.
“Sophia is not privy to my thoughts. I have no desire to stay in this era beyond waiting for the astrolabe to be brought back to me,” Cyrus said, surprising him with an actual explanation.
Nicholas hesitated a moment before nodding for him to continue.
“In exchange for what I’ve offered, you will accompany the girl on her search. That girl has too much of her mother in her. She will try to abscond with it at some point. I will need you to ensure that she doesn’t reveal herself as a traveler, or meddle with the timeline, and see that the astrolabe is returned to me—all without revealing my conditions to the girl. Should she become aware of our agreement, our contract will be destroyed, and I personally guarantee that you will never set foot on a dock again. Not in America, not in Europe, not in the Indies.”
Nicholas felt the cold sweat collect along his spine, and tried to tamp down his desperate longing. He could picture being on the other side of this so clearly, and was struck by the profound power of finally being in the position to free the family’s slaves, of finally being granted reparations. This offer would open the door to nearly everything he desired. Money was power; he could demand respect, and spite those who would not freely give it.
But he could not help seeing Julian’s face. He could not banish the searing agony of that moment as it played out again behind his eyes. Yet again, he was being cast in the role of servant, put in a position to fail. Yet again, he owed something to someone who—
Julian’s face was gone, replaced by Etta’s, pale with terror. The image seared his heart.
Not again. He could not survive it.
“I realize, of course, that you are not a blank slate,” the old man continued. “You will need to ingratiate yourself to her, earn her trust wholly, so she confides in you about the location of the astrolabe once she has ascertained its location. If you are separated from her, you will return to me immediately and we will proceed accordingly.”
And leave her alone, to be lost, harmed, or taken, as she continued on without him in the meantime? The thought pricked his pride, stoked his fear.
Nicholas had promised her protection, vowed to get her away from Ironwood should the need arise; there was no question now that her life was in danger. But…perhaps he could reconcile his hopes with that promise. Keeping Etta safe meant not only shielding her from harm, but also preventing her from crossing Ironwood. Once they found the blasted thing, he could be the one to ensure the old man kept his vow. Nicholas could deliver her back to the passage in Nassau, wherever it might be.
What else was there to do? Give up the future within his reach for someone who, in time, would only be a memory? He had lived nearly his whole life for others—wasn’t it time to live for himself, secure his future?
He owed it to himself. What’s more…he owed it to Julian to finish what they’d begun, so his death wouldn’t be for nothing.
I am the one who truly owes a debt to them—not her. He’d stolen Julian. He could give the old man this, and then he’d never need to see his wicked face again.
Cyrus watched him carefully. “I see the indecision on your face,” he continued. “If it makes the offer more palatable, I will lift the ban on your traveling. Your exile here in your natural time will end. You will be free to go wherever, whenever, you like.”
Nicholas recoiled instinctively, but caught himself. “My exile is payment for the debt I owe for Julian’s life. I have no desire to return to traveling.”
It was the truth, and it made him uneasy that the man had even offered. Ironwood had raged when he’d returned, weak and wounded and without Julian, and he’d understood his fury; felt, even now, that he deserved it. Not for depriving the man of his last direct heir, but for depriving the world of the only decent soul in the family. Now all would be forgiven, as if it were nothing? As if Julian were nothing?