Page 33 of Her Wicked Highwayman
“The truth is... I was too much of a coward to ask Rafe what really happened that night with our father. And Rafe bore too much guilt for me to think him blameless. Mother still won’t speak of it to me or anyone. She only said that Rafe was involved in the incident, and she only said it the night I returned to bury my father. After that, we used that silence as shields and flung barbed arrows over them.
“All I know is that my father was killed leaving a gambling hell, run over by a carriage. There’s more to that night, but I cannot bring myself to ask either my mother or Rafe. I allowed my own weakness to break my family apart, even as I struggled to save it.” Ashton held his breath, waiting for Rosalind to pass judgment. But his wife continued to run her fingers through his hair, soothing him.
“Rafe needs that little child in his life, but he is still broken,” Ashton confessed. “I cannot see a way to fix him.”
Rosalind smiled, the expression soft and tender. “You do not fix those you love. You help them heal. Tend to the wounds of his heart, Ash. Tell him all that you’ve told me. Apologize. Ask for his forgiveness. You might be surprised how far that alone will go.”
Ashton pulled her head down to his, cupping the back of her head. “What he truly needs is a wife like you.” He nuzzled her nose with his and then kissed her, letting her feel all that lay within his heart, a heart that belonged fully to her.
Rosalind made a little sound of pleasure against his lips and chuckled. “Wicked rogue.” She pressed her forehead to his. “You do realize how fortunate you are to have me?”
He laughed, showing her the smile meant for her and her alone. “I do. You are a gift I shall never deserve but will endeavor to earn every day.”
She kissed him, her tongue flicking playfully against his in a way that always set fire to his blood. But he still had more to say.
“Does that mean you agree to help me play matchmaker?” he asked.
She bit her lip, pretending to consider it carefully. “We need to find a very clever,verybright young woman who can handle a former highwayman.”
Ashton groaned. “Do not remind me. I am lucky you didn’t kill him that night you first met.”
“I certainly tried,” she admitted. “And at the time, I was more than happy to shoot someone who I was convinced was you.”
Damn that uncanny resemblance to Rafe. Despite the difference in years, they had been teased by many for being able to pass as twins.
“At least he’s pursuing more respectable activities these days,” Ashton said.
“Indeed.”
Ashton’s thoughts returned to matchmaking. “I was thinking. The Merton girl. Mother was always trying to match me with her. She might do well for Rafe.”
Rosalind’s dark brows arched in surprise. “Rachel Merton?”
“Yes. From all accounts, the young woman is intelligent, self-possessed, pretty, and possesses quite the fortune. I met her two years ago but didn’t give a damn for marriage then and therefore I paid her little heed. Now I wish I had.”
“Oh?” Rosalind arched a dark brow and gave him a mock frown.
“For Rafe, of course.” He chuckled and squeezed her bottom.
“Hmmm.” His wife finally smiled as if she approved of where his hand was and what it was doing.
Then Rosalind considered his suggestion. “I met her a few months ago when I was in London. She is very amusing, but kind too. I would certainly enjoy having her as a sister-in-law.”
“Then it’s settled. We will push them together at the ball tonight.”
Rosalind stroked a hand down Ashton’s chest, her lashes lowering. “Our son won’t be up for another hour. I believeyoucan entertainmein the meantime, my wicked baron.”
“Wicked wife,” Ashton said with satisfaction as he kissed her again.
He stood and carried Rosalind into the house. He most certainly would entertain his little Scottish hellion, until she was hoarse from screaming his name and had left nail marks all down his back.
The sweet symphonyof screams was interrupted when Mr. Phelps opened the door to Andrew Caddington’s private pleasure room.
Phelps’s eyes were carefully averted from the young man strapped to a rough-hewn cross with iron chains. “My lord.”
Andrew scowled as he lowered his birch rod and waited for Phelps to explain his interruption. He knew better than to do that unless it was important.
“There’s been another robbery. Three gentlemen were traveling on the same road where our coaches keep getting waylaid. It was by all accounts the same three highwaymen: Tyburn, Oxford, and Cambridge.”
