More Than a Stranger: A Sealed With a Kiss Novel (30 page)

Richard meant the words as reassurance, but for some inexplicable reason, they only caused more sadness within her. He awkwardly patted her hand to comfort her and said, “I am so sorry you had to go through this. Why don’t you get some rest now?”

She nodded, giving a little sniffle. She didn’t want to rest, but she really didn’t want Richard to sit there and watch her cry like a ninny. She swallowed again and said, “Rest would be good. Thank you for coming to see me. And please, keep me updated on . . . anything.”

Richard rose and kissed her forehead before leaving. He retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her with a half smile. She gratefully accepted his proffered gift and quickly set about mopping up the tears. As she watched his retreating back, she crushed the fine-linen square in her fist and willed herself to stop her foolish crying.

It was easier said than done.

* * *

As dusk gave way to night and the air grew cool, Benedict remained motionless among the tangle of trees that had concealed him for the better part of an hour. His eyes were trained on the flickering light spilling from one of the second-story windows. When he had left the estate hours earlier, he had made it as far as the village before suddenly wheeling Brutus around and sprinting back. He hadn’t been able to do it.

He simply could not leave without seeing her first.

After the long and eventful day, the family appeared to be retiring early. One by one, the lights in the windows were snuffed, until only one remained—Evie’s. It was now or never.

With Brutus tied securely nearby, Benedict set off on foot toward the house. He kept a low profile as he ran across the lawn and skirted the stables.

As far as he knew, Barney remained securely within the storage room where he had left him hours earlier. It took almost an hour, and some less-than-gentle prodding, but Benedict had finally extracted the information he needed from a groggy and pained assailant-turned-informant.

What he learned was worse than he originally expected: His own brother had hired Barney to come after him. Benedict had been spotted in the village by one of Renault’s men, fleeing in the early-morning gloom as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Fearing Benedict would ruin things for him, he had sent Barney to see to it that Benedict was taken care of.

Was there any humanity left in the man who had played by his side as a child?

According to Barney, his brother was actually fairly close by. The man had spoken of a meeting at a pub that had taken place several days ago. Henry was apparently staying at a little-used manor house that served as a hunting lodge on one of his estates roughly halfway between Hertford Hall and London. Benedict could vaguely recall visiting the place when he was around eight or nine years old before the new lodge had been built on the richer hunting grounds of one of their other estates.

When he had emerged from the interrogation room, he had been surprised to find Richard waiting in the stables. With a grim face, he gave a curt nod. Richard offered a simple, “Good luck,” before returning to the house, leaving Benedict to make whatever plans he needed to get under way. Benedict appreciated both the sentiment as well as Richard’s lack of interference. Not that he could imagine Richard rushing out to help him after the turmoil he had caused, but still he was glad to be left to his own devices—this was something he had to do alone.

And now here he was, going behind the man’s back again. Damn if he wasn’t starting to really hate himself. But it couldn’t be helped; he simply had to see her with his own eyes, to make sure she was recovering and taken care of, before he could go on.

As he approached the house, he decided to try for the doors to the library. He carefully, quietly tried the knob—amazingly, it was unlocked. Who would have thought luck would actually be with him for once? Silently, he eased the door open and slipped inside. He stole through the house, creeping up the stairs and down the corridor to the door across from Richard’s room.

He paused, his heart beating in his ears as he drew in a calming breath, raised his hand to the brass knob, and twisted.

* * *

Evie should be asleep.

She shifted on the bed in a vain attempt to get comfortable. It was late, and she had endured a rather awful and exhausting day. Her shoulder, though marginally better, still ached like the devil, and the dull throbbing of her ribs made any position uncomfortable. Sleep would offer relief, but she simply could not calm her mind enough to rest.

The book she had tried to read proved worthless as a distraction and now lay discarded on the bed next to her. Really, she didn’t know why she had even bothered. Her mind was so preoccupied, the thought of concentrating on something as trivial as a novel was really quite laughable.

With a sigh, she leaned over to blow the candle out, when a noise at the door brought her up short.

What was that?

She had thought her whole family was in bed already. She wiggled into a more upright position and watched in momentary confusion as the door was pushed open.

Oh good heavens, had the attacker escaped? Fear coursed through her as a dark figure slipped into the room. She gasped, and the sound caused the intruder to whip around to face her.

Benedict!

She instinctively sat up, then cried out at the pain of jostling her shoulder. Benedict rushed across the room to her.

“Evie,” he whispered fiercely, looking distressed, “are you all right?”

He was at her side in moments, cupping her face in his palms as if it were completely normal for him to do so. The heat of his hands against her skin stunned her, and for a few seconds her mind went completely blank. In that moment, his touch felt soothing, wonderful . . . right.

The twinge in the shoulder as she started to reach her hand up to cover his was like a bucket of ice-cold water. As her shock gave way to anger, she tugged her chin away. He immediately dropped his hands to the bed and straightened.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed. Who did he think he was, walking into her room as if he owned the place? “You shouldn’t have come.”

The nerve of the man!

She grabbed the covers with her right hand and tugged them up to her chest. Thank goodness he had no way of knowing her stomach was doing somersaults at having him in her bedchamber. It was almost painful for her to look at his wounded expression.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said, sinking onto the mattress. “I had to see you, to make sure you are in one piece.”

She scowled. “Just barely, no thanks to you.” She struggled to put some space between them; it was too hard to concentrate with him sitting so close, looking at her the way he was—as if he actually cared about her.

“I know—it is all my fault.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily. “
Everything
is my fault. I wouldn’t have come, but I made a promise that I would explain everything, and I mean to make good on that promise. And I wanted to say good-bye.”

Her temper flared. He came to say good-bye, did he? To salve his conscience before walking away? Well, he was out of luck. “You should have—left, that is. I can’t believe I ever trusted you, Benedict—or Hastings—or whatever the bloody hell you are calling yourself today.”

“I know I lied to you, Evie—”

“Yes, so do I. I just didn’t realize how much you were lying about.”

He settled his dark gaze directly on her, unwavering in the candlelight, and she tried to ignore the sincerity she saw in his eyes. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for having been untruthful with you and your family. It is not possible for me to express the magnitude of my regret. All I can say is that I am truly sorry, Evie.”

She was softening toward him, and it suddenly made her furious. “Sorry cannot help my shoulder, Benedict. Sorry cannot undo the fear and anxiety my mother and father went through today. You stirred up trouble somewhere, and then you came running to us to hide like a child behind his mother’s skirts. If you had any honor, you would have faced your problems head-on, not brought them to our doorstep. You are a coward, a liar, and a complete fraud.”

Benedict’s face paled considerably, and through her anger she felt as though she had just plunged a dagger into his heart. She tucked her trembling hands beneath the counterpane.

“It’s not as simple as that. I’ve come to explain why I came here,” he murmured with a hooded expression.

“Oh, no need. My brother explained everything.”

“Everything?” He seemed incredulous. He must not have thought Richard would tell his secrets. “You know about my brother?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Your brother, France, the man with a grudge. I assure you, he explained it all.”

Something in his expression changed, like a candle being extinguished. His features became harder, more haggard almost before her eyes. She looked down, focusing on the blasted sling. She shouldn’t feel bad—she was the one who had been wronged.

“I see.” He stood and looked down at her. “If I had to do it over again, I would have done exactly as you said. But I made my choices. I have to live with the consequences.”

“And apparently, so do I,” she said. The pain she saw on his face was heartbreaking, but she simply could not let go of her overwhelming sense of betrayal. “God, Benedict, you already broke my heart once. Why did you have to do it again?”

“It was
never
my intention to hurt you.” His voice was fierce and low. “When I was young, I handled things dreadfully wrong. Now . . . well, now I’m just a bastard.”

She wasn’t going to disagree with him. “Why don’t you just go?”

“I will. I am. Obviously it is of no use to you, but I needed to offer my apology. Even though it is too late to undo the pain to you and your family, I will do what I can to make this right.” Almost to himself, he added, “No matter the consequences.”

He stood and locked eyes with her. She felt his gaze all the way to her toes, which curled involuntarily at his nearness. After a moment, he dipped his head and said quietly, “I shan’t bother you again. I have only one suggestion. If you still have that last letter I sent you, take another look. My regret was there for you all along; you just had to read between the lines.”

The mere thought of reading that heartbreaking letter again turned her stomach. She averted her face from him, closing her eyes against the sight of him leaving. Slow footsteps carried him away. When the door clicked shut, she opened her eyes and, staring at the place on her bed where he had sat, suddenly felt empty and adrift.

Why did he have to say such a strange statement in farewell? It didn’t matter. He was gone now, and she didn’t want to think on him again. Leaning over, she blew out the candle. As she lay back in the darkness, she tried to block out the image of his stricken expression when she had called him a coward. It was not fair that she had been the one wronged; yet, somehow, sympathy kept creeping up behind her anger. It was for the best that he was gone now. She would never have to worry about the man again.

* * *

Settling down on the stiff, slightly mildew-smelling bed in a posting inn about an hour away from Hertford Hall, Benedict fingered a scrap of fabric in his hands thoughtfully. The elaborately embroidered, silver-threaded monogram was much worse for the wear since Richard had handed it to Benedict earlier that day when he had scratched his cheek. The smear of blood caused by the branch was now indistinguishable from the multitude of stains the handkerchief had sustained since then. Pristine only hours before, it now lay limply in tatters.

How very fitting.

Benedict welcomed the slow burn of anger that seeped through his blood like poison. The handkerchief’s condition was about as good as that of his personal life, and, with the exception of himself, there was really only one person to blame.

Henry.

He still was having difficulty coming to grips with the depth of his brother’s betrayal. It was bad enough when his brother had been involved only in smuggling. It was nearly beyond Benedict’s ability to comprehend that Henry would send an assassin after his own flesh and blood in order to keep his despicable activities secret.

How could Henry have sunk so low?

Benedict would have never dreamed his brother would go to such lengths. When Benedict had fled, he never once considered that Henry would have his own brother tracked like an animal.

God, he had been so blind.

With a deep sigh, he stuffed the fabric into his jacket pocket and stretched out on the mattress, trying to get comfortable enough to catch a few hours of sleep. Usually, it took a while for him to get to sleep, but with the exhaustion weighing on his entire body, he was more worried about waking than falling asleep.

His brother was mere hours away. If Benedict had pushed himself, he could have been there by daybreak. It wouldn’t do, though. Unhappily, he had conceded that, by resting, he would be better prepared for the encounter. It chafed mightily to stop for the night, but he needed to sleep.

Desperately.

His body was screaming for a break after the intensity of the day. And after the confrontation with Evie, his emotions needed a break as well. His body longed for a hot bath to soak his aching muscles, but he settled for the dubious comforts of the hard bed.

As he relaxed each of his muscles in turn, encouraging his body to give in to slumber, he couldn’t help but wonder if Evie was thinking of him. She must be cursing the day she laid eyes on him.

He had thought if she knew about the betrayal of his brother, she might, in some small way, understand how Benedict could hold the truth to his chest. Instead, she was just so . . . flippant. Some small part of him, someplace deep inside, had died a little. Any hope that she might understand him, that she might, at the very least, not hate him, had sputtered and died.

All that was left was darkness.

He wished there were some way to have everything—justice, love, happiness, honor. If that were possible, he would throw himself at her feet and beg for mercy and forgiveness. He stiffened, as a strange weight settled in his chest.
Love.
Dear God, he was in love with her. He took a slow breath, letting the realization wash over him like rainwater.