Charlotte’s knees folded, and she slid along the cabin’s wall to the deck.
He shoved Jason out of the way, cleared the distance between them, and dropped to his knees. “Charlotte?”
She looked at him, her eyes clear. “Well, this is embarrassing.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Mortified, but fine. I shouldn’t have marched out here. I’ve overextended myself. I don’t think it’s anything life-threatening, but I’m probably going to lose consciousness. Please don’t leave me here on the deck.”
“I won’t.” He wrapped his right arm around her. She leaned against him, her forehead resting against his cheek. He couldn’t believe he was touching her. “I promise.”
“Look at the two of you,” Jason said above him. “You’re a sorry-looking mess. Maybe after this, you should plan something less tiring. A tea party or a book club or whatever you senior citizens do in your spare time. Look at me—six men dead, the city looted, and I’m good. Look at my crew. Are y’all tired?”
“No!” a dozen people roared.
“See? Fresh as daisies.”
Richard growled low in his throat. One day . . .
Charlotte caressed his cheek. Her lips brushed his, and he forgot where he was or what he was doing.
“Thank you,” she said.
He held still for a full minute before he finally realized that she had drifted off into sleep.
* * *
WHEN Charlotte awoke, she was lying on a cushioned seat, under a blanket. Around her, the polished walls of the horseless phaeton glowed in the sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtain. Sealed behind smooth, transparent pseudoresin, the structure of the phaeton consisted of gears and delicate metalwork, with glowing, hair-thin threads of magic running through it all. Faint lights of warm amber-and-green magic slid along the threads once in a while, melting into the metalwork, like man-made will-o’-the-wisps. Drowsy and comfortable on the soft seat, she watched the soothing interplay of magic and metal. It occurred to her that she had no idea how the phaeton actually worked. She had ridden in them a hundred times and never thought to find out.
Someone was watching her. Charlotte turned her head. Across from her, Richard sat in the contoured seat. He still wore the same clothes, smelling of smoke. His hair was a mess. His arm rested in a sling. He was ridiculously handsome, and his dark eyes were warm, almost inviting.
Last night was a blur. She remembered being so tired, waiting for Richard and George to return. George’s story made no sense, and she chased Richard on the deck and demanded to know if he let George kill his own father. Her mind boggled at the idea that he would force the child to live with that kind of guilt. It would scar George in a way nobody could heal.
Richard looked her straight in the eye, standing there against the backdrop of the burning city, like some beautiful demon, and said nothing. Then she raged at him and accused him of being heartless. He had the strangest look in his eyes, then he told her John Drayton killed himself. She believed him. Richard didn’t lie.
And then he’d asked her if she thought he was a monster.
She wanted to tell him then. She wanted to explain the rush of gratitude she felt when he offered her his arm on the bow of the brigantine. She wanted to tell him that she admired him for making a stand and that she wished she could’ve met him before all this happened, before she had thrown her life away.
Then Jason’s crew boarded the ship, and she had nearly fainted like some weak-nerved fool. Her legs refused to support her, and she went down like a cloth doll. Somehow, she had gone the entire thirty-two years of her life without fainting once, and now she’d managed to almost do it twice in a day. It had to be some sort of record. So shameful. Some partner she turned out to be. It’s a wonder she didn’t die of sheer embarrassment.
Richard had come to her rescue. She remembered his scent as he wrapped his arm around her, the smell of sweat and smoke and sandalwood, a rich, smooth, earthy, powerful redolence that took her to places she had no business going. She had said something in her addled state she couldn’t remember.
“Where are the boys?”
“In front,” he said. “They insisted on driving.”
“And the dog?”
“He’s with them. You will have to name him at some point.”
“Where are we?”
“Half an hour from Camarine Manor,” Richard was still watching her with that warm look in his eyes. “We’re almost there.”
“Already?”
“It’s late afternoon,” he said. “We left Kelena at dawn and rode nonstop through the day.”
“Do you still have the ledgers?”
He reached into a bag lying by his feet and pulled out an edge of the small red leather book.
It slowly dawned on her then. The horrors of last night were over, and she could let them fade from her, as if it were all a terrible nightmare. They had their proof. They would take it to the Marshal of the Southern Provinces, and the slave trade would be no more. She’d been too spent and traumatized to recognize it last night, but now she finally understood.
They had won.
She looked at Richard. “We won.”
“We did.” He smiled. It was a genuine, beautiful smile that pulled her as if she were a speck of iron and he a powerful magnet, its lure so sudden and strong, she pressed her back deeper against the carriage seat. She’d kissed him last night before passing out. She was almost sure of it.
“Are you all right, my lady?” he asked.
That “my lady” slid over her soul like soft velvet over skin. “Fine, thank you.”
She waited, but he said nothing more. He made no move toward her. He was probably letting her collect her wits. She thought he wanted her, but maybe she’d read too much into a look. Maybe there was no mutual attraction. Charlotte searched her memory, trying to scrounge up some definitive evidence that he was drawn to her. She could find none. She thought she heard something in his voice or saw something in his eyes, but she barely knew him. They’d been together for a mere two days. She could’ve been mistaken.
She had thrown away everything she was taught and willingly walked into hell, where she had murdered countless people. It filled her with self-loathing. She hated what she’d become, and she wanted reassurance that she still deserved to be loved. It was coloring her judgment. Richard had made it clear where his priorities lay. True, he always addressed her with complete courtesy and tried to protect her from harm, but she was a useful tool. Any man with exposure to the Weird’s customs would afford her that courtesy, because she was a blueblood and a woman.