Page 53 of Project Duke

He looked at her and the pain and guilt in his eyes broke her heart in two.

And then the shock froze her into an ice statue when he said, “Me.”

20

Nathaniel felt the word escape his mouth, hardly able to believe he had said it.

He had thought it countless times over the years. He’d lived it. Breathed it. He’d gotten himself where he was because of that dark secret.

But saying it out loud was like releasing a demon he had kept under lock and key.

It was terrifying. Painful.

And yet completely liberating.

She’d never again look at him the way she had when she’d seen the terrace, the lanterns, and the irises. The way he wished she’d look at him every day for the rest of their lives.

His confession had wiped the tender look off her face. Instead, confusion and hurt distorted her features.

“You?” she asked. “Whatever do you mean?”

He inhaled sharply, fresh night air cutting through his clenched throat like knives. He looked away from her, into the darkness of the city. “I was fifteen, the twins were one, and Hazel was three. We were on our way to London from our country estate, Kelford Manor, and it was late at night. Papa had summoned us to London because he wanted to throw a ball for the king and queen and required my mama to do it. We rode through the darkness but planned to stop at an inn shortly, where we would retire for the night and resume our way to London the following day. The twins were sleeping, cradled in Mama’s arms, and Hazel was nestled against me. The carriage suddenly stopped. I heard the horses neigh and male voices. Then the shots of pistols.”

He felt Calliope tense against him, her arm wrapped around his shoulders, although she couldn’t encompass the whole width of them.

“The smell of gunpower was acrid even through the glass windows,” he resumed, reliving his memory of that dark night. “Then there was silence. They killed our coachmen and our footmen, who were also our guards. Mama’s eyes were so white against the darkness. I was terrified. There were muff pistols under the seat of the carriage, I knew, and I told her to stand up so that I would get them. She did, and I grabbed them, hiding them behind my back.”

A painful knot gathered in his neck, his chest feeling like it was going to burst.

“Then one of the highwaymen appeared in the window staring right at us and opened the door. He told us to get out and give them all our gold, jewelry, everything. Mama and I got out, but she left the girls inside.

“There were seven or eight of them, all had pistols in their hands. Mama told them she’d give them everything and started to remove her rings, her necklace. Her purse. When one of them told her to also take off her dress, I took the guns from my waistband and fired. I shot one of them in the leg, but the second pistol missed.”

His throat felt like it had suddenly shrunk and was as dry as the stone under his fingers.

“They became enraged. Started yelling. Cussing. One of them leveled his pistol and fired at me. I knew I was dead. Saw that blast of fire as though painted against the night. The flash of hot, prickly awareness that I was finished.”

He swallowed. It was hard to talk through his tight throat.

“But there was no pain. Nothing pierced me, ripped through me. The bullet intended for me never came. My mother had jumped in front me.”

He looked at Calliope, and saw a tear roll down her cheek, her eyes wide on him.

“I thought I would die. Instead, my mother lay dead at my feet,” he finished.

And finally, the tears he hadn’t allowed himself for fourteen years fell.

Calliope pulled him close, wrapping her slim arms around his large frame, and although she couldn’t reach all the way around him, he felt surrounded by her sweet, gorgeous body like a protective blanket. For the first time in his life, he let go and wept. For the first time, he felt like he wasn’t alone, like there was someone else who would listen and understand.

Since that night in the moonlit meadow, surrounded by dead people, cradling his beloved mother in his arms, he had felt alone every day of his life.

Until now.

“It wasn’t your fault, Nathaniel,” she whispered. Her face was pressed against his, and he felt her tears against his cheek. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was,” he whispered. “I had the pistols, and I couldn’t protect her. I should have died instead of her.”

“No, no.” She shook her head, her breath hot and urgent against his face. She took his face in both hands and made him look at her. She was slightly blurry from his tears. “No!” she said firmly. “You are not to blame for those thugs having ambushed you. Several grown men fell victims to those bandits. You were only fifteen—you can’t expect an adolescent to have fought off a band of killers.”