They’d made the discovery after he’d fashioned the remnants of the captain’s fire into a makeshift pencil and marked a picture upon his cramped quarters.
“They expected me to become a cartographer for them.” A harsh laugh burst from him. “As if I ever could.”
“And the British would never have simply taken that,” she said, her voice strained.
“Made me a prisoner.” He paused, lost in his mind’s eye, transported back to the hell of those years of suffering. “If I wanted something—food, water, sleep. Peace,” he managed, mangling that last word. “All those”—his lip peeled in an involuntary sneer—“comforts were contingent upon what I gave.”
The past plucked at the corners of his memories, and he fought their pull, resisted the way in which they wanted to drag him under, back to his days upon that ship…
Everything comes with a price, and this is but a small one to pay, and the comforts you’ll know will be great, and the discomforts you’ll also discover will be greater if you prove noncompliant, Mr. Gray.
He flinched, his body recoiling.
I won’t do it. I wo—noooooo…
The hiss of a lash cutting across the air and slicing his flesh plunged him into the everlasting hell of torture. The past melded with the future as he was transported to those darkest days, until his mind couldn’t sort out the past from the present, and where he was left wanting only to find himself in the future so he could be away from either those moments he’d endured, or the memories that lingered.
A hand came to cover his own, bringing eyes he’d not even realized he’d shut flying open.
Sweat wound a path down his cheek, and Claire lifted her spare hand.
He flinched, his mind playing the tricks it liked to sometimes play where he saw another or a different action than what was truly happening.
She hesitated, but then completed that movement, lightly stroking her knuckles up his cheek and wiping away the moisture.
And this time, Claire, always ready with a question or a retort, offered him… silence. There was a peace in it, born of her patience, and that, coupled with the soothing tenderness of her touch, chased away those demons.
“I was eventually freed. A French ship took command of the one I was on, and I found my way back home. When I got there, I found my fiancée had married my brother.”
Claire gasped, her touch falling away from his cheek.
Odd that the memory, and the telling, didn’t this time usher in the crushing weight of betrayal and hurt that had gripped him for so long. Now, it was more of a distant tale that might as well have belonged to some other man. The sudden absence of her touch felt like the greater void in this moment.
“Oh, Caleb,” she said, her voice catching.
“It’s fine.” Strangely, as he gave that assurance, for the first time ever, it felt like it was.
“It’s not. It’s the greatest of betrayals and…” Her words trailed off. “And that is why you are so revolted by the prospect of us…” Claire raised her palms to her mouth, but not before he caught the trembling of her mouth. That hint of weakness lasted a moment. “The audacity of them.” She seethed. “To betray a sibling so?”
Claire’s eyes burned with a ferocity and fury… on his behalf. All sentiments he didn’t deserve because of how he’d treated her in the past.
“I found solace in my work.” The last good art he’d been able to create.
Everything he’d done after that had been empty shells of vapid color and emotion that the world had been even more vapid not to see for what it was—glittering garbage.
“And I found solace in mine after I learned of… what my father and mother had done. But I also know”—her hand found his again, curling so very naturally, her fingers locked with his—“nothing makes the darkest sadness we carry go away. Not really. It’s always there, with us. But y-yours?” Her voice again broke.
“Heyyy.” He murmured soothing, nonsensical assurances and cupped her cheek.
Claire leaned into his palm, her long dark lashes drifting down, and then as soon as they formed an inky dark blanket, they came flying open.
She gasped, jerking away from him, her cheeks going pale once more.
“And then,” she whispered furiously, “I made you do those things with me.”
Made him?
Caleb tossed his head back and barked with his hilarity.
Bristling, Claire presented him her shoulder and angled away.
“Here, sweetheart,” he said, reining in his amusement. Leaning down, Caleb touched his brow to hers. “Claire, none of what happened here was your fault. You didn’t make me do any of what we did. It’s precisely what I wanted.” And what he wanted more of…
She edged out of his arms. “No! No, it’s not. I mean…” A fiery blush lit her cheeks red. “You clearly did want to… to do… those things,” she stammered, endearingly sweet in her innocence. “But only after I pressed you to.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she lifted both her palms, urging him to silence.
“However, given everything we’ve shared, I need also share details about my… fiancé and engagement.”
He’d been so very certain nothing could steal the magic and joy that had existed these past moments in this carriage.
Only to be proven so very wrong as she resurrected talk about her fancy English gent.
Magic?
What a farcical thought. It wasn’t magical. He didn’t believe in magic, not where two people were concerned, anyway. Where Claire was a romantic, who spoke of giving her heart and earning someone’s heart in return, Caleb didn’t have time for such sentiments, because he didn’t believe in them.
He grunted. “No need to talk about the fellow.” The one whom he was escorting her to, and soon, at that. A man who’d have the opportunity to make love to her in all the ways Caleb already had and in all the ways Caleb desperately wanted to. Whomever the bastard was, there was one surety—the man wasn’t good enough for Claire Poplar.
He knew it.
When her family learned about her flight, they’d know it.
And they’d come for her, and he could be free of this unexpected responsibility he’d taken on.
“But I want to speak about him,” she said softly.
Of course, she did.
“It.” Claire’s lips scrunched up in a way that would have been endearing if she weren’t insistent on speaking about some fancy English fellow she intended to marry. And it was only Caleb’s loathing of British men that accounted for that vitriolic response. “My betrothal, that is. Us.”
Us. Not Caleb and Claire, but Claire and another. There was such an intimacy to that lone syllable, one he’d wanted absolutely no part of. And still didn’t.
“I get it,” he snapped, more sharply than he intended.
Claire frowned. “You don’t want to hear this,” she said and presented him her shoulder.
Actually… he didn’t. Not, however, for the reasons she thought. Oh, hell. So maybe his reluctance wasn’t solely about his dislike of Englishmen. Selfishly, he hated thinking it applied to Claire and her still-nameless-to-Caleb bridegroom. “No.”