Part 38 (2/2)
He had rigidly followed rules for the first part of his life. But oddly, he seemed to have been born to make his own laws. He'd done it the first time he'd stolen a waltz from Cambersmith.
She had, in some ways, set him on this course. She smiled slightly at this thought.
She waited, thinking she ought to decide how to feel about this revelation. But she already knew.
A surge of fierce, possibly unseemly, happiness took her.
”And yet no one ever knew it was you?” she said on a hush.
”As I said, merchants in Europe have come to know me under a different name. And they know me as a trader who drives a hard bargain, but who is fair and reliable and very, very prosperous indeed, and committed to making others prosperous as well. As well as a dazzling conversationalist, a fine dancer with exquisite manners, catnip for women, and a welcome addition to dinner parties all over the continent.” He smiled faintly at this, and gave her hand another squeeze. ”Only two men and one woman ever suspected the truth, and they in fact nearly cornered me. Two of these people are married to each other-my sister Violet and the Earl of Ardmay-and the third owes his life to me.”
”Violet?”
”Oh yes. My sister is so much more than anyone realizes. Of my crew, only Digby and my first mate know I am Lyon Redmond.”
She tensed as she recalled something.
”You said five s.h.i.+ps . . . but more were said to have been destroyed by Le Chat . . .”
”Ah. A pirate, and not a very good one, decided to impersonate Le Chat and seized a few s.h.i.+ps and caused some havoc. A bad man, indeed. He had nothing to do with me. And I know this strains credibility indeed, but my sister shot him to save the life of her husband.”
She rolled over to stare down at him. ”Violet shot a pirate? A real pirate?”
He smiled at this. She suspected he was enjoying, just a little bit, startling her.
”A story for another time. Everyone underestimates my sister. Then again, perhaps it's what families are for, and we all have to battle our way out of preconceptions, and some of us have to fight harder to be seen than others. And if we're fortunate, we find someone who sees us for who we are.”
And that's where they both fell silent.
Olivia didn't need to say anything.
Because this is what they were for each other. And as he'd said earlier, it was a rare, rare luxury. She'd always wondered whether she even deserved to be loved the way he loved her. But now she knew he simply needed her.
They were quiet. She traced that white musket ball scar on his abdomen gently, then pressed her lips against it.
His chest rose and fell in a sigh, and he threaded his fingers through her hair, gently, stroking.
”I have, in fact, learned that people see what they want to see, and that context is everything,” he said. ”I said I was a merchant, and no one thought I was anything other than what I purported to be. As the Redmonds do not yet own the world, I've never been recognized. I've of course also been very careful. Interesting, but everything I ever learned, from shooting to fencing to investing, turned out to be very useful indeed.”
He flashed a wicked little smile.
She absorbed this thoughtfully. ”And so the houses, the land, the . . . you paid for it by . . .”
”We took the cargo the s.h.i.+ps were carrying and intending to convert into slaves,” he continued calmly. ”We dispersed it, selling and trading it so that its origins couldn't be traced. After that, I paid my crew-very, very well, I might add-invested the money in legitimate cargos and other ventures, all quite orthodox and above-board . . . and anonymously donated the rest to the likes of Mr. Wilberforce and anyone else committed to abolitionism and reformation of laws.”
She was frozen with what was likely an inappropriate admiration. She simply could feel only two things: she was glad he had done it, and she was glad he'd survived it.
”And now?” she said softly.
”And now I am done. I will be selling The Olivia to my first mate, and my crew and I . . . we shall all go our separate ways. I doubt I'll see any of them again.”
She propped herself up on her elbow again so she could look down into his face. They were quiet for a time, his fingers tangling idly in her hair.
A question haunted her. She thought she knew the reason, but she needed to say it aloud.
”Why did you do it?” she whispered.
He was silent a moment, thoughtful.
And then his mouth quirked at the corner.
”Because you couldn't.”
He said it gently. But deliberately. Ruefully. Laying those words out as if delivering a truth.
Just the way he'd done the night he'd left: What if loving you is what I do best?
It was indeed what he did best.
He had gone and proved it.
Her breath snagged in her throat.
She saw herself reflected in his eyes. And that was how both she and Lyon had seen the world for years: through the lens of each other.
He held her gaze evenly. She knew how she probably ought to feel.
And then there was the truth.
”Thank you.” She gave him the words, slowly, fervently. Her voice frayed and thick. Tears burning at the backs of her eyes.
The hush that followed was profound and soft and humbling.
They remained silent, honoring a love so immense and pure and unapologetic words would have seemed like a desecration in the moment.
It had belonged to them once.
But she still didn't know whether it belonged to them now.
IT SEEMED A terrible pity to put their clothes back on, but they did, in order to walk to the house. But Olivia carried her shoes, so she could feel the sand between her toes all the way.
And then, just for fun, Lyon carried her on his back up the hill to the gate.
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