“That doesn’t sound like such a tragedy to me. A bit of disgrace would be no more you deserve.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But a bit of disgrace is the best possible outcome.”
“And the worst?”
He shrugged and released a long, slow sigh. “Charges of treason?”
“Oh.” Worry lines creased her fair brow. “We can’t have that. Your family has suffered too much already.”
Yes, Christian thought. They certainly had suffered. And he adored her for understanding that. For thinking of them.
“I’ll help you,” she said. “I’ll help you for their sake. What is it you need?”
He ran his hands from her shoulders to her wrists. God, she was so soft. His voice went husky with emotion. “I need you, Violet. Just a little time with you. I need to hold you in my arms again and kiss you and tell you how remarkably lovely you are in green. I need make you understand why I—”
“No, no, no.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “I don’t mean that. If you’re going to meet up with your ship by morning, what are your immediate material needs?”
“I need a rowboat. My coat and boots. And a gun, if it can be managed.”
She nodded. “We’ll take the last part first. Follow me.”
Chapter Five
A gun, if it can be managed.
Christian laughed at his own folly. Of course a gun could be managed. He was in the house of Sir Lewis Finch, England’s most celebrated innovator of firearms. As Violet led him down the corridor, he saw weapons from the man’s famed collection lining every wall. Spears, maces, rockets, swords, daggers…
And guns. Guns by the score.
Violet led him into a narrow, dark room toward the back of the house. The stone floor chilled the soles of his bare feet.
“This is the gun room,” she whispered, handing him the candleholder.
“No doubt.” From floor to ceiling, racks held a variety of polished muskets, rifles, pistols and more. He reached for a gleaming, double-barreled Finch pistol. “Good Lord. That’s a thing of beauty.”
“No,” she said sharply. “Don’t touch it. You can’t take just anything. I won’t allow you to steal from Sir Lewis.”
He looked around them. “I don’t know that he’d notice I’ve stolen one.”
One of her pale eyebrows rose. “He’d notice. And I’d notice.” She went to a rack on the far side of the room and removed a small pistol. “I won’t let you steal, but you can have this one.”
Christian peered at it. It was a single-barreled, rather basic weapon, but it looked to be in excellent working order. “Why that one?”
“Because I’m free to give it. This one’s mine.”
He laughed, stunned. “Yours?”
“Yes, mine.” She reached for a powder horn and deftly measured out a charge. “During fair weather seasons, we have a schedule here in Spindle Cove. Mondays, we have country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. We spend Wednesdays in the garden. And on Thursdays”—she jammed a lead ball into the barrel—”we shoot.”
He whistled faintly through his teeth. “I thought Spinster Cove was a place for young ladies to come and…be spinsters. Read books. Do needlework. Wear scratchy stockings and unattractive frocks.”
“Well, you were wrong about this place. About us.”
“Evidently.” He watched her with amazement as she turned the polished, well-oiled weapon over in her delicate hands. “God, Violet. I always knew you were the girl for me.”
“Please,” she scoffed. “You knew nothing of the sort.”
“Honestly, I…” At a sudden click, he jumped. “Holy God.”
She’d cocked the gun and pointed it directly at his heart.
“Violet…”
“Don’t try anything. I know how to use this.”
“I don’t doubt you do.”
He swallowed hard. Her hands didn’t even tremble.
“The night of your sister’s debut,” she said. “I was just a year out of the schoolroom, but my parents let me attend, so long as I didn’t dance. You were dressed in a dark blue topcoat, buff breeches, and a gold-threaded waistcoat. And your new tasseled Hessians. You were so proud of those. You had a brocade pocket square, but you lost it sometime between the quadrille and midnight supper. Now, what about me?”
“What about you?” he asked. She nudged the gun forward, and he raised his hands. “You want me to remember what you wore?”
She nodded. “Was I wearing my ivory crepe, or the blue percale?”
Christian churned the air with his hands. “I don’t know… The blue? No, the ivory.”
“Neither. I was wearing my Indian yellow silk.”
“I didn’t even know you had an Indian yellow silk.”
“Precisely. You wouldn’t know. You never noticed me at all. I watched you chase after the fancy ladies during your breaks from Oxford. And I heard the scandalous rumors our sisters traded during their debut season.” She steadied the gun and took a step toward him. “So don’t lie to me now. You can’t make me believe I’m the only woman you ever wanted.”
“You’re right. You’re right. I wouldn’t even try.” Doing his best to ignore the pistol, he looked her in the eye. “But I can tell you—in perfect honesty, Violet—you’re the only one I ever loved.”
She remained absolutely still. “Loved. You expect me to believe that you loved me.”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“I… I don’t know the precise moment it started, darling.”
“Because it never truly started at all.”
“Wait, wait. Give me this much. My uncertainty has the ring of honesty, doesn’t it? If I were lying, I would take the trouble to invent a specific story.”
“Perhaps you exhausted your imagination with the Breton farmhand bit.” She motioned with the pistol. “Turn and walk. Down the corridor. I’ll be right behind you.”
He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Why?”
“I want answers from you, but I don’t trust you in this room. Too many weapons.”
As he turned, he muttered, “Clever girl.”
She kept the gun pressed against his back as they marched down the corridor. With every step, he racked his brains for the right words to say.