Page 42 of The Duke's Improper Bride
It was a small stone house in the Everton district, the door nearly off its hinges. The air reeked of filth with sewage running down the cobblestone street. A woman slumped against the front stoop, sound asleep. He shoved the door open and stepped inside to the musty, darkened interior. He advanced from room to room of the makeshift boarding house, sweeping back curtains that divided rooms to house families and children. A rat scurried at his feet as he headed for the second floor.
Nothing. The same for the damned third floor.
Until something caught his eye.
A small access way in the ceiling was left slightly ajar. It was too much to hope, but hope elbowed its way into his chest. Isaac quietly slid the door open and jumped, pulling his body up through the opening. He crouched, hand at his waistband and ready to pull his gun if confronted. He rose slowly, studying the small dark room before he caught the sliver of light at the corner—a single candle, its flame flickering below an open window.
A boy was curled into himself, covered with a blanket and sleeping on a patched jacket. He could barely make out the face—a boy of maybe ten years. But his features were sunken, his breathing was labored, his skin the palest white Isaac had ever encountered.
He reached forward, wishing to stir the boy to check if he had long to live. Isaac wouldn’t let him go unseen by a doctor. He wasn’t heartless, even if the boy wasn’t his purpose for being here.
A gun hammer clicked behind him, and he froze. With a steadying breath, he raised his hands, his back to the stranger behind him.
“I’ve never shot a man before, but you can be my first.” The man’s voice sounded weak, as though he had been running for weeks.
The polished syllables didn’t escape Isaac’s notice.
“No need. Only looking for someone.”
A second hammer sounded.
Fucking hell.
“Not interested.”
Isaac smiled then, no matter that he had two guns loaded and aimed at his back. It certainly wasn’t the first time he was on the opposite end of a gun.
But this was the first time his wife had ever aimed to shoot him.
“Nora.” He closed his eyes on her name, relief washing over him. He had imagined all sorts of horrible ends for her in the time they had been apart. Liverpool was certainly no place for her, and sure as hell not a house such as this in the slums of Everton.
“You found me.” She waited a beat, then, “Put your g-gun down, Danny.”
Both guns uncocked before an uncomfortable silence collapsed upon them. Isaac examined the boy on the roughhewn floor. He reached for a pulse, but a hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him backward.
“He’ll scream if you touch him,” Daniel said. “It took hours to get him to sleep.”
Isaac didn’t want trouble. What he wanted was to kiss his wife and apologize for making an arse of himself. He wanted to plead with her to let him make it up to her every day for the rest of their lives. But when he turned to face her, he was met with a scowl.
She wrinkled her nose at him and picked at the side hem of her dress before whispering, “Your Grace,” and dipping into a curtsey. Her eyes narrowed, and those dark sapphire eyes of hers, so often full of life and light, were only full of steel and anger.
Isaac fought back the admiration that bloomed within him at his warrior. If he smiled, he didn’t doubt she would pull the pistol on him again. And maybe he deserved it.
No, not maybe. He most certainly did.
Goddamn it. So, there would be a lot of begging, and possibly a puppy or two, and new dresses. Anything his wife desired. Anything, if she came back to him.
Isaac swallowed his pride, extending his hand to the man standing behind Nora, the man she had bravely freed herself. “Pleased to meet you, Daniel.”
“Your Grace.”
Isaac dropped his hand when the man didn’t return his handshake. “Barnes will do. No need for formalities. Especially not here.”
Daniel Carrier was tall, with golden hair swept back from a face that might have once been considered handsome in London’s ballrooms. Now he appeared wolfish, his features sunken, heavy stubble growing in patches on his cheeks, his lips chapped. A man who had suffered at the hands of others.
Isaac turned his focus back to Nora, quickly scanning her for injuries or wounds. His fingers ached to touch her, but she stood there as if she were in a world just beyond the flickering shadows thrown from his candle.
Isaac wanted to believe he hadn’t been wrong about his wife being in love with him. He wished for it. But she made no effort to come close, nor did she acknowledge what he had done to find her in this small, rat-infested boarding house.
