Nightingale strode forward and pressed the gun into Alex’s temple. “Stop bloody laughing.”
Fear was the strangest thing. Having the gun so close and seeing the fury in Nightingale’s eyes only made Alex laugh harder.
“Jump,” Nightingale ordered.
“Excuse me?”
“Jump over, you arrogant fucker.”
Alex sobered abruptly. Nightingale labored under a misapprehension if he thought Alex could be intimidated into a voluntary descent. Clearly he wanted Alex to feel all the terror of his predicament. This was Nightingale’s way of drawing things out, of making Alex suffer.
“No,” Alex said.
Nightingale dug the steel muzzle harder into the side of Alex’s head. “If you don’t go over, I’ll blow your brains out here and now.”
“Then do it.”
Nightingale was nearly incandescent with rage. He should have shot Alex. Instead he placed his free hand flat against Alex’s back and shoved. Perhaps Alex meant to steady himself or perhaps he intended to take the other man over with him. Either way, he flung an arm around Nightingale’s neck. Nightingale struggled, almost dropping the revolver. They both grappled with the gun until it went off with a mighty crack that echoed in the open sky.
Nightingale hit the ground. The last thing Alex heard before he went over was Helen’s scream.
Chapter Twenty
Southampton, three days later
The front page of The Illustrated London News was torn and crumpled but still legible:
Duke of Harcastle Deceased. Sister Weeps.
Evie had trodden it underfoot as she navigated the dirty street. She must have glanced down at her feet, reflexively checking for mud and worse as she picked her way along the pavement. And there it had been. Part of a paper dated from the day before. Old news. She didn’t remember stooping to gather it up but now she held it in the glow of the streetlamp.
She’d been on her way to catch the packet, which was due to leave at first light. Each step had been an effort because each took her farther from where she truly wanted to be. It was like living life underwater with the current against her. Once she was on the boat, she kept telling herself, this feeling would ease. It had to or she’d spend the rest of her life forcing herself not to return to Alex.
The night she’d left Stoney Hey, the train had seemed a safe haven. But the moment it began to pull away from the station, she’d felt panic like a bird flapping in her chest. Ever since, she had been at war with herself.
You shouldn’t be here. You belong with him.
No, I don’t. I can’t.
But here and now, holding on to these old scraps of paper with their grainy sketch of Alex beneath that terrible headline, the war was suddenly and dreadfully over. She uncrumpled the pages and tried to read the words through ink that had been smudged by mist and drizzle. An accident, they said. A fall. Helen had witnessed it. The body—
Bile rose in her throat when she got to that part.
The body had yet to be recovered from the sea but the fall—hundreds of feet—was not survivable.
It had happened the night she left. He must have been searching for her. Why else would he be out there? Had some genuine accident befallen him or had Captain finally taken his revenge?
Dead. Alex was dead.
The tears wouldn’t come. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t cry? What a monster she was. She sank onto the ground, her skirts billowing around her. She wasn’t fainting, had never felt more awake, but her legs wouldn’t hold her upright. She didn’t give a damn that she was on her knees where anyone might see her. A detached part of her mind noted the hard pavement, its scrape against her stockings, the wetness and dirt. A weight settled on her chest and in her stomach. A leaden hardness. This couldn’t be grief. Grief was an empty, aching thing; she was so full she thought she must suffocate.
Only days ago, he’d held her against his chest and she’d heard his heart beating. He couldn’t be dead. It was impossible to imagine a world without Alex even if she never saw him again. And to think she’d left him. Why had she done so when they could have spent every precious last moment together?
Memories flooded in. A rush of what ifs, of things she should have done differently. She’d never told him that she loved him. Hadn’t even shown him. She’d been too great a coward. She wanted those moments back. She’d given him so little when she should have given everything. Even now she couldn’t pay him the meager tribute of her tears.
She had to go back. If she didn’t, she might never know what really happened to him. If it was Captain…
If it was Captain, she really thought she might kill him.
A fine mist of rain began to fall as she struggled to her feet. It didn’t matter. Her skirts were soaked anyway from sitting on the ground. She turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She couldn’t think about what she’d lost or she’d go mad. She needed to be practical.
If she was going back to Yorkshire, she needed her bags, but they were already on the packet. It wasn’t far to the docks but the narrow streets wound back on themselves. Dithering about whether to turn left or right proved an effective distraction but she despised herself a little that she could focus on mundane details at a time like this. His death didn’t feel real yet. She needed to hear Helen say it was true before she could accept it. Despite this horrible weight pressing in on her, part of her still hoped this might turn out to be some terrible mistake. And that was madness, wasn’t it?
The streetlamps were less frequent in this part of town and the alley she’d stopped in was very dark. At the far end, a light shone. If she was where she thought, the harbor should be visible by the time she reached the lamp. She took several deep breaths, and when she was sure she wouldn’t stumble, she started forward.
As she stepped into the circle of lamplight, she hesitated, getting her bearings. Strong arms encircled her from behind. She tried to scream but a hand clamped down over her mouth, smothering the sound. Her assailant yanked her backward into the darkest part of the alley. Spinning her to face him, he pushed her back into the wall.
In that first moment, she almost didn’t recognize him. His beard was gone, revealing the square line of his jaw, his hair was shorter, and he was dressed plainly. But even with these changes, even in near total darkness, even terrified half out of her wits, she knew him. The feel of him. His scent. Even the taste of his skin pressed over her mouth.
“Easy, love,” Alex whispered.
She stilled completely as his breath tickled her cheek, warm and vital. Alive. Her eyes roved every inch of his face, taking in the faint scrapes and bruises. Thank God. Thank God.
Slowly he relaxed his hold. Big mistake.