“No, Ransom bribed the orphanage matron. When I cornered Dr. Gibson to ask about it, she told me to go to hell.”
“Please don’t blame her—she only went because I told her I’d go by myself if she didn’t help me.”
For some reason, that broke through Rhys’s veneer of control. “Christ, Helen.” He turned away, seeming to hunt for something in the tiny office to destroy. “Tell me you wouldn’t have gone alone. Tell me, or I swear I’ll—”
“I wouldn’t have,” she said quickly. “And I didn’t. I took Dr. Gibson with me for safety.”
Rhys swung back to her with a lethal glare. His color had risen. “You say that as if she could provide anything close to adequate protection! The thought of you two skipping along Butcher Row through that crowd of whores and thieves—”
“No one was skipping,” Helen said indignantly. “I only went there because I had no choice. I had to make certain that Charity was safe, and . . . she wasn’t. The orphanage was unspeakable, and she was there because no one wanted her, but I do. I do, and I’m going to keep her and take care of her.”
His temper finally exploded. “Damn it, why? She’s not yours!”
“She’s my sister,” Helen blurted out, and a wracking sob escaped her.
Rhys turned ashen beneath his bronze complexion. Staring at her as if she were a stranger, he sat slowly on the edge of the desk.
“Vance and my mother—” Helen was forced to stop, coughing on a few more sobs.
There was nothing but silence in the tiny room.
It took a full minute before Helen could control her emotions enough to speak again. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to deceive you, but I didn’t know how to tell you after I found out. I’m so sorry.”
Rhys sounded sluggish and disoriented. “When did you find out?”
Helen told him the entire story—God, she was so tired of explaining it. She was hopeless and unflinching, like a condemned soul at her last confession. It was agony to cut every bond between them, one by one, word by word. But there was also relief in it. After this, there would be nothing left to fear.
Rhys kept his head lowered as he listened, his hands clamped on the desk with splintering pressure.
“I wanted just a little more time with you,” Helen finished, “before I ended the engagement. It was selfish of me. I should have told you right away. It’s only that—losing you felt like dying, and I couldn’t—” She stopped, appalled by how melodramatic that sounded, like a manipulation, even though it was the truth. In a moment, she managed to continue more calmly. “You’ll survive without me. She won’t. Obviously we can’t marry now. I think it would be for the best if I left England for good.”
She wished Rhys would say something. She wished he would look at her. She especially wished he wouldn’t breathe like that, with tautly controlled energy that made it seem as if something terrible were about to happen.
“You have it all decided, do you?” he finally asked, his head still bent.
“Yes. I’m going to take Charity to France. I can look after her there. You can go on with your life here, and I won’t be here to . . . to bother anyone.”
He muttered two quiet words.
“What?” she asked in bewilderment, inching forward to hear him.
“I said, try it.” Rhys pushed from the desk and reached her with stunning quickness, caging her body with his and slamming the sides of his fists against the wall. The room vibrated. He glared into her shocked face. “Try to leave me, and see what happens. Go to France, go anywhere, and see how long it takes for me to reach you. Not five fucking minutes.” He took a few vehement breaths, his gaze locked on hers. “I love you. I don’t give a damn if your father is the devil himself. I’d let you stab a knife in my heart if it pleased you, and I’d lie there loving you until my last breath.”
Helen wanted to crumple in agony. His face blurred before her. “You—you don’t want to end up living with two of Albion Vance’s daughters.” At least, that was what she thought she had said. She was crying too hard to be sure.
“I know what I want.” He pulled her against him, his head lowering over hers.
Feebly she tried to twist away, and his mouth landed on her jaw, dragging hotly over her skin. Shoving at his chest was like trying to move a brick wall. “Let go,” she wept, grieving and exasperated, knowing that he had made the decision without thinking. But the force of his will, the strength of his desire for her, couldn’t change facts. She had to make him face them.
He was kissing her neck, his beard scraping her tender skin until it smarted. But his lips gentled as they grazed the hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse was beating.
“You s-said any child of his is demon spawn.”
His head jerked up, his eyes fierce. “I didn’t mean you. Whatever damned evil thing I might say, it never means you.”
“Every time you look at me, you’ll remember that I’m half his.”
“No.” His hand came to the side of her face, his thumb wiping her tears. “You’re all mine.” His voice was deep and shaken. “Every hair on your head. Every part of you was made to be loved by me.”
He bent over her again, and she tried to push him back long enough to say something, but she was covered by at least fourteen stone of thoroughly aroused male, and soon she was too distracted to remember what she’d wanted to tell him. Her struggles slowed, her resolve weakening, and he took advantage, devouring and seducing every tender place he could find. Somewhere in the middle of it he turned gentle, searching her with slow fire, until she sagged against him with a moan. She felt him pull at the little combs that anchored her hat, and he tossed it aside. His hands went to either side of her head, angling her mouth upward, and he possessed her hungrily.