Not Sera.
The woman waved her hand in the direction of a man with a fiddle at one side of the stage, and he began to play a rousing jig of sorts, at which point she lifted her skirts to show her ankles in red stockings, to the pleasure of the assembled crowd.
Haven watched for what seemed like forever, not believing.
He could have sworn he’d heard her. He would have known that voice anywhere. A girl pushed past him, tray laden with ale. He stayed her movement with a touch. “That woman. The dancer. Who is she?”
Her gaze followed his. “The Dove.”
The words, so uninterested, so direct, were a knife to his heart.
The Dove wasn’t Sera.
It was never his Sera.
Chapter 7
Sparrow Sings to City’s Soul
She’d been in Boston.
He’d traveled half the world to find her, the echo of that song curling through him in that godforsaken tavern in that godforsaken city an aching reminder of his failure.
Regret slammed through him.
He should have searched more. Should have torn the damn place apart. But he’d felt the disappointment so keenly, been so thoroughly overwhelmed by the futility of the search, by his anger—at Sera for hiding so well, at her sisters and his own mother for aiding her so thoroughly. And at himself, for his inability to find her.
Except he had found her.
It had been her, all along.
And it had been this goddamn American, too.
Haven’s gaze fell to the other man’s now crooked nose, the pleasure he might have found in having been the instrument of the feature’s demise overwhelmed by the fury that this man was touching Sera. Laughing, happy Sera. Comfortable in her skin.
When was the last time he’d seen her that way?
How often had he remembered her that way?
Countless times. As many times as he’d remembered the way she sang, so out of place with the dark, empty tavern down a dingy Covent Garden lane. Because she sang like an angel, achingly beautiful, full of sorrow and longing and truth. And as he’d stood in the doorway, watching her, the ache had returned, though it had never been far to begin with.
He’d ached for her for years.
She filled him, stifled him, stole his breath, marking his chest with her lilting, sad song, as surely as if she’d extracted a blade and carved it herself, drawing blood like a siren.
And then she’d turned away, giving all that beauty to another man, and laughed, the sound—free and light and damn perfect—a harsher blow than the music. He remembered every time she’d ever laughed with him, making him twice the man he was. Ten times it. Making him a king. A god.
There was nothing in the wide world like his wife’s laugh.
He hated that she gave it to another.
And then the American put his hands on her. Lifted her from the stage with such ease that there was no question that he’d done it before. That he’d touched her before. That he was allowed access to her.
Jealousy raged through Haven, fury in its wake.
There was no way she was leaving him for an American.
There was no way she was leaving him, full stop—but the American did add insult to injury. Particularly when Haven considered the fact that the other man was broader, bolder, and possibly handsomer than Haven was, broken nose aside.
Not that any of that mattered. She was his wife. And he would not stand by while another touched her. In fact, if the damn Yank did not remove his ham hocks with all deliberate speed, Haven was likely to remind his opponent just how well he could break a nose. As soon as he navigated his way through the tables and chairs to reach them.
As though she heard the thought, Sera moved in front of the other man, and Haven tried not to notice the way the action stung, whipping envy through him—the vision of his wife protecting another man. A man who continued to touch her with a certainty that could mean only one thing. Possession.
He’d known she was here, with an American. He’d been prepared for the idea that they were lovers. But the visual of it was a wicked blow.
“Ah,” the American drawled. “The duke arrives.”
“The husband arrives,” Haven replied, unable to bank the anger in his tone. And then, to his wife, “We are yet married, Seraphina.”
How was she so utterly calm? “Not in any way that matters.”
In every fucking way that mattered.
She added, “The silly laws of this nation may make me your chattel, Duke. But I will never play the role. I should think the last three years would have made that point well.”
He resisted the urge to spirit her away and show her just how well he could claim her. To make love to her so thoroughly that she screamed to be his. To lock her away and show her how well the role of wife could suit.
Instead, he took the nearest seat, at a low table in the dark corner, knowing she wouldn’t be able to see him as well as he could see her. Desperate to regain the upper hand, he willed his voice calm. His muscles still. Even as he wanted nothing more than to tear the tavern to pieces. “I shan’t be cuckolded,” he said.
Her spine straightened. “If only I had been able to say the same.”
Shame came, hot and unpleasant. He resisted it, redoubled his conviction, directing his attention to the American. “Remove your hands.”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure the other man would respond in any way but to level him with a long, superior look, one that Haven imagined had been taught to every young man in the colonies with a loathing for the king. After several seconds, however, he let go of Sera, spreading his hands wide with a too-loud laugh. “Far be it from me to suffer the fury of a husband scorned.”
“That door should have been locked,” she said, released from the touch of her lover. Sera headed to the bar at the end of the tavern, seemingly uninterested in the masculine posturing in which Haven could not help but engage. As though he were a much younger man. A much stupider one.
Not so much stupider.
He directed his scorn to the other man, who touched his wife with such casual comfort that there was no doubt of their intimacy.
She’d been unfaithful. He shouldn’t mind it. Shouldn’t have been surprised by it. After all, it had been years.
And he had been unfaithful, too.
Once. And not like this. Not with emotion.
Lie.
There had been emotion. The action had been full of anger. Full of punishment. All for Sera. Sera was the only woman who had ever had his emotions. Not that she would believe it.
Not that she would care.
“Don’t worry, Caleb,” she was saying, “Malcolm doesn’t believe himself scorned. For that to be the case, he would have had to have wanted the marriage from the start.”
He had wanted it. He’d wanted her.
He stayed silent as she moved around the bar to place a small glass on the counter and pour a healthy drink into it. “How did you find us?”
Malcolm hated that us. The way it cleaved her to another man. Instead of answering her, he asked a question of his own. “What in hell are you doing here?”