A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(25)
Author: Tessa Dare

“But the fact that we don’t know the song doesn’t mean anything,” Lark said. “We never would have met your mother at all.”

Kate’s shoulders relaxed. “It would be nice if that could have been the link. The proof. But I suppose it was too much too hope.”

“Nothing is too much to hope.” Aunt Marmoset patted her hand. “And dear, we really must decide what to call you. If you’re family, ‘Miss Taylor’ just doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s not even my name at all,” Kate admitted. “The surname Taylor was assigned to me at Margate. Really, I’d love it if you’d call me Kate. All my friends do.”

Even though her full name had been listed as Katherine, she’d always gone by Kate. It simply fit. “Katherine” sounded too refined and regal. “Kitty” brought to mind a flighty young girl. But “Kate” sounded like a sensible, clever young woman with lots of friends.

She was a “Kate.”

Except to someone, somewhere, she’d once been “Katie.”

Be brave, my Katie.

And today, when Thorne had pinned her to the ground, acting with courage to guard her life with his own—even if the threat was a wayward fruit, rather than a mortar shell—he’d called her “Katie,” too. So strange.

“Will you show us the local sights?” Lark asked. “I’m dying to explore that old castle on the bluffs.”

Kate bit her lip. “Perhaps we should save that for tomorrow. The militia are undertaking some drills. But I’d be delighted to give you a tour of the church.”

“Hold that thought.” Lord Drewe held back the curtain. “I believe our things have arrived.”

Kate watched, amazed, as a caravan of one, two . . . three carriages pulled up before the Queen’s Ruby, all of them bursting with valises and trunks. They must have contained enough belongings and supplies to launch a small colony.

“Thank the Lord,” said Aunt Marmoset. “I’m down to my last three spice drops.”

Chapter Nine

Thorne was a man of habit.

That evening, after all the men had left, he returned to his solitary quarters—one of the four turrets that comprised the Rycliff Castle keep. He brushed the dust from his officer’s coat and polished his boots to a fresh shine, so they’d be ready the next day.

Then he sat down at the small, simple table to review the day’s events.

This, too, was routine. In the infantry, he’d served under then-Lieutenant Colonel Bramwell, now Lord General Rycliff. After every battle, Rycliff would sit down with his maps and journals to painstakingly recreate the order of events. Thorne would help him to recall the details. Together, they laid it all out before them. What had happened, exactly? Where had key decisions been taken? Where had ground been gained, lives been lost?

Most importantly, they asked themselves this: Could anything have been done differently, to achieve a more favorable outcome?

In most cases, they arrived honestly at the same answer: no. Given a chance, they would do the same again. The ritual dampened any whispers of guilt or regret. Left unchecked, such whispers could become echoes—bouncing off the walls of a man’s skull. Growing louder, faster, more dangerous over weeks and months and years.

Thorne knew the echoes. He had enough of them rattling around his brain already. He didn’t need any more. So tonight he poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and reviewed the events of his most recent conflict.

The Melon Siege.

Could he have reasonably predicted the danger to Miss Taylor?

He didn’t think so. The trebuchet had been firing reliably seaward, if with varying degrees of strength. Sir Lewis had said afterward he could not have replicated that trajectory if he tried. A freak accident, nothing more.

Had he acted rightly to tackle her?

Again he could not regret his actions. Even if he’d been aware that the missile was a melon, he likely would have done the same. Had the fruit been any less ripe, it might not have exploded on contact. She could have been seriously injured. Thorne’s head was still pounding from the impact.

No, it was everything that came afterward. That was where he’d gone wrong. The shock had rocketed him to some other place. A place filled with smoke and the stench of blood. He’d found himself crawling on his belly toward the sound of her voice. For miles, it seemed, collecting scrapes on his knees and hands. Until he found the source—a clear, calm pool of water amidst the ugliness, with her face reflecting up at him instead of his own. He’d lowered his face to drink from it, lapping up that cool, refreshing peace. But it wasn’t enough. He’d wanted to bathe in her, drown in her.

That kiss . . .

Even when he came to his senses, he hadn’t pulled back. Not immediately, as he should have done. He’d never forgive himself for that. He could have truly hurt her.

But Lord. She’d been so sweet.

He lifted—and swiftly gulped—the tumbler of whiskey. Didn’t help. Even a second dose of liquid fire couldn’t burn her taste from his lips. He let his pounding head fall back until it met with the uneven stone wall.

So sweet. So soft in his arms. Christ, she’d been under him, every bit as warm and alive as he’d known she would be. Stroking his face and his hair, murmuring gentle words. The recollection made his chest ache and his groin tighten.

Good God. Good God.

He sipped the liquor again. As he forced the swallow down, a groan of raw pain and longing rose in his chest. All the whiskey in the bottle couldn’t numb this ache.

But he knew one thing.

This lusting stopped here. With these queer, mysterious Gramercys in the picture, she needed his protection. He needed to keep his wits sharp. If he came too close, he risked compromising her and losing his own focus. So there could be no more closeness. Only the bare minimum of contact. Handing her down from carriages and the like. Perhaps he’d be pressed to offer his arm on occasion.

But on this, he was resolved—

There would be no more kisses. Ever.

Someone pounded on the door.

“Corporal Thorne! Corporal Thorne, come out.”

Thorne’s heart kicked into a gallop. He thrust his feet into his boots and punched to a standing position. As he made for the door, he snagged his coat from its hook.

“What is it?” He flung open the door to view a red-faced, out-of-breath Rufus Bright.

The young man’s eyes were serious. “Sir, you’re needed down in the village at once.”