Vance’s eyes widened and his face reddened. He gripped Rhys’s wrist, gasping.
Leaning closer, Rhys spoke quietly. “When I was a boy, my father sent me in the afternoons to work for the butcher, who’d hurt his hand and needed help dressing the small stock. Most men have a natural distaste for such work. It turns the stomach at first. But soon I learned to saw along the center of a hog’s backbone, cleave through a sheep’s ribs, or break the jawbone of a calf’s head to remove its tongue, and think nothing of it.” He paused deliberately. “If you ever try to communicate with my wife again, I’ll carve you like a saddle of lamb. It will take ten minutes, and you’ll beg for killing before I’m done.” Easing his grip, he released him with a slight shove.
Vance straightened his coat and gave him a hostile, contemptuous glance. “Do you think I fear you?”
“You should. In fact, you should leave England. For good.”
“I’m the heir to an earldom, you lowbred swine. You’re mad if you think you could bully me into living in exile.”
“Good. I’d prefer you to stay.”
“Yes,” Vance said sarcastically, “so you can have the pleasure of carving me like a mutton loin, I understand.”
“Do you?” Rhys fixed a murderous gaze on him. “You’ve spent years proclaiming to the world how you loathe the Welsh. How uncivilized my kind is, how brutal. How savage. You don’t know the half of it. I’ve never been able to forget the sound of Peggy Crewe’s screams as she lay dying in childbed. Like someone was using a fishing line to hook out her organs one at a time. One day soon I’ll try that on you, Vance. And we’ll find out if you can scream even louder.”
As he heard the vicious sincerity in Rhys’s voice, Vance’s smirk vanished. He finally wore the look of real fear: the focused eyes, the tiny spasm of tight facial muscles.
“Leave England,” Rhys advised softly. “Or your life will be very short.”
Chapter 33
AFTER EXCHANGING A FEW words with Ransom, who had waited outside the carriage, Rhys entered the vehicle and thumped the ceiling to signal the driver. He lowered into the seat next to Helen, who had leaned back in the corner with the child in her lap. She was in uncharacteristic disarray, her hair tousled, and she looked dazed and tense.
“Did your errand go well?” she asked uncertainly.
“Aye.” He stroked Helen’s soft cheek, staring into her eyes. “Relax now,” he murmured. “You’re safe with me. He won’t bother you again.”
As his gaze held hers, her brow smoothed out, and she let out a long sigh. Her anxiety seemed to ease into quiet certainty. “Where are you taking us?” she asked as the carriage pulled away from the station and proceeded along Waterloo Road.
“Where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere,” she said without hesitation, “so long as it’s with you.”
Pleased by her answer, Rhys rewarded her with a kiss, and felt the little girl squirm between them.
Drawing back, he took his first good look at the child he’d promised to raise as his own. She bore a close resemblance to Helen, with those innocent round eyes and silvery-gold hair. To his amusement, she turned and hugged Helen possessively while sending him a sideways glance. The maneuver dislodged her hat. It slid from her head, revealing a thatch of short locks that looked as if they’d been hacked off with spring pruning shears.
“We’ll go home to Cork Street for the rest of the day,” Rhys said, returning his attention to Helen. “I’ll make arrangements for us to leave tonight by special train to North Wales.”
“We’re eloping?”
“Aye, it’s a full-time job to watch over you. I can either marry you and keep you safe with me, or hire at least a dozen men to follow you everywhere.” Resting his arm along the back of the carriage, he toyed with a lock of hair that had slid free to dangle at her ear. “You can write a note to Lady Berwick and the twins, to let them know what’s happened.” A rueful smile played at his lips. “While you’re at it, write to Trenear and Ravenel—and try to word things in a way that won’t bring them down on me like the wrath of God.”
“They’ll understand,” Helen said softly, and nuzzled her cheek against his hand.
Rhys would have kissed her again, but the child was turning around in Helen’s lap, staring at him with open curiosity.
“Who is that?”
“He is . . . soon to be my husband.”
Conscious of the little girl’s attentive gaze, Rhys reached into his coat and took out a tin of peppermint creams. He popped one into his mouth, and extended the open tin to her. “Would you like a sweet, bychan?”
Cautiously she reached out and took one. As she nibbled at the peppermint cream, surprised pleasure spread over her face.
Noticing the traces of dirt beneath her fingernails, and the shadows of grime at the inside edge of her ear and the crease of her neck, Rhys asked Helen, “Why has no one given her a proper bath?”
Helen replied quietly, her eyes filled with concern. “A punishment at the orphanage has left her a bit . . . reluctant.”
Wondering what they had done to make a small child afraid of bathing, Rhys frowned. “Wfft.”
A few seconds later, he heard an answering “Wfft.”
He looked down at the little girl, who had imitated him perfectly. His lips twitched. “Have you tried bubbles?” he asked Helen.
“Bubbles?”
“Aye, a bath topped with foam soap to play with.”
Charity spoke to him for the first time. “I don’t like baths.”
Rhys gave her a quizzical glance. “Not even a nice warm bath?”
“No.”
“Would you rather smell like flowers, or a sheep?”
“Sheep,” came the prompt reply.
Rhys struggled with a grin. Resorting to bribery, he asked, “Do you want a toy pipe, to blow big bubbles that float in the air?”
Nibbling at the last morsel of peppermint cream, Charity nodded.
“Good. You can have one if you sit in the tub with water and foam soap.”
She ate the rest of the sweet before saying, “No water.”
“A little water, bychan,” he coaxed. “You can’t have bubbles without it.” He demonstrated a space of approximately two inches, with one hand suspended above the other. “Only this much.”
The child gave him a considering glance. Slowly her tiny hands came to the outside of his and pushed them closer together.
Rhys laughed. “A born negotiator, you are.”
During the exchange, Helen watched them with an arrested expression.
To his surprise, Charity levered off Helen’s lap and began to climb over him cautiously. He remained still and relaxed. “You’re not a pickpocket, are you?” he asked in a tone of mild concern as she reached into his coat. Perceiving that he wasn’t going to stop her, she began to fish inside his coat pockets. Finding the tin of peppermint creams, she pulled it out. “Only one more for now,” he cautioned. “Too many sweets will bring on a toothache.” She took one white morsel, closed the tin, and gave it back to him, every movement delicate and precise.