The boy frowned. “The Enforcer cut off your ring finger because you kept insisting you were the Marquess of Kilgore.”
Callum’s jaw slipped open, and he stared dumbfounded at where his ring finger used to be. Bone-deep pain radiated from the wound. He inhaled a steadying breath and forced himself to continue to unwind the bandage. And then there it was. Or there itwasn’t.
He didn’t know how long he sat there staring. It could have been five minutes. It could have been five hours. His mind was having difficulty comprehending that they had truly cut off his finger.
The boy crept closer and motioned to Callum’s hand. “I can wrap it for you…”
Callum didn’t respond, but the lad moved still closer, picking up the clean bandages and carefully beginning the work of wrapping Callum’s hand. The pain made Callum’s eyes water, but he made no sound. The boy spoke, his gaze down as he worked. “If the Enforcer says you are Mr. Selkirk, then be Mr. Selkirk. I’ve seen a man lose his tongue for his unwillingness to quit claiming he was someone else.”
“Who are you?” Callum asked, his own tongue feeling thick and his words sounding slurred.
“I’mBoy,” the boy answered.
“No.” Callum shook his head, the movement making his brain rattle. “Who areyou?”
“Boy,”the boy said again. “Who I was is dead, and Boy wants to stay alive. If Mr. Selkirk wants to stay alive, then you are Mr. Selkirk always.” He finished with the bandage and then sat back on his heels, still crouched.
“How did… How did Boy come to be here?” Callum asked, lowering his voice.
The lad stared at him long and hard before answering. “Boy had a father who thought himself cuckolded by his brother and wife. Boy’s father killed his wife and brother, and Boy saw it. So here Boy is.”
“How long?” Callum asked, his head spinning, but at least his thoughts seemed to be coming together.
The boy pointed to the wall, and Callum’s stomach heaved when he saw the lines of dark, old, dried blood. Lines, from all appearances, that appeared to mark time. Lines that had taken years to make.
Good God.
Beside the first line, Callum could see a name—Peter—written in blood, but several lines of blood had been smeared over the name. It was as if someone—Boy—had tried to erase who he once was.
“You’re Peter,” Callum said quietly.
The boy flinched, and Callum knew it was so. “No,” Peter said. “I’m Boy. Peter is dead.”
Callum looked at the barred window, freedom just beyond it, and his mind went numb. A tap on the shoulder made him turn his head to Peter once more. “Become Mr. Selkirk,” Peter said, scratching at his head.
Callum’s mind started spinning, thoughts tripping frantically over one another. How did someone so young come to sound and look so solemn?
“It’s the only way to survive,” Peter continued. When Callum didn’t respond, Peter asked, “Don’t you want to survive? You can’t escape if you don’t survive.”
“I want to survive,” Callum said, thinking immediately of Constantine and their wedding night when he’d left her alone, of the plans he’d had for the night to show her with tenderness and passion just how she affected him. And later—sennights, if he was lucky, or months, if he was not—when she once more trusted him as she used to five years ago, he had intended to reveal the contents of his scarred heart and the unending depth of what he felt for her.
He swallowed a pulsing knot in his throat. “I have to survive.”
“Me too,” Peter said, offering a tentative smile. “For my mum. It’s the last thing she said to me before she died.Survive.”
The last thing Callum’s mother had said before she’d died was that he had broken her heart. His mother had been a casualty in his war with his father. “For Constantine,” Callum whispered, his chest tightening at the thought of her. They had not promised anything of love to each other before their wedding day. They’d had a nice, tidy bargain—his seed for her inheritance—and he’d gone along with it, thinking there would be time to prove himself to her after they were wed and she was bound to him.
He took a deep breath. None of his jailers gave a damn if he was really insane or not. This—all of this—had been by Ross’s design. Callum was as sure of that as he was that no matter what it took, he would get revenge.
Chapter One
January 1839
One year later
London, England
“Are you nervous?” Constantine’s mother asked from beside her in the carriage.
