Page 52 of Go, Rogue

And how even Esmee—the only balm in his lonely childhood—had abandoned him. She married far too young and beneath her station, just to escape the poverty they’d been forced to endure.

Catherine reaches for his fingers, there under the cover of darkness, and he lets her. He cradles her hand in his own.

“Menace,” he says finally, “You broke my heart that night.”

She squeezes his hand, and he turns to her, so he can see her face in the moonlight. “And it’s not so easy to unbreak it.”

He pauses, gathering himself. “But I will try if you tell me why you invested in my company after that night. Because I won’t be bought. Not by you nor the East India Company nor the Queen of England herself. My grandmother was bought by the slave trade. And my mother was all but bought by my father. And I will not do it. Not even for you.”

“No,” Catherine says. “I wouldn’t expect you to. What I realized when you asked me if I’d told Violet I invested in your company—what I realized was that I’d done it as a way to stay close to you, I think. Even though you wouldn’t have me, it was a connection, even if I was the only one who knew about it. Do you understand what I mean? I just wanted some chance, perhaps, to see you again. And I didn’t know how else to do it.”

He wants to hold her when she says that, finally understanding that she didn’t want control over him. She just hadn’t been able to let go. That, he understands. That was the same reason he’d gone to Surrey to see her one last time before she married. Whatever this thing is between them, it’s as hard to untie as a fisherman’s knot.

But he knows, too, that no matter how badly he wants to wrap her up in arms and never let her go, he can’t. Not tonight anyway, for a great many reasons. The least of which is that the woman has a head injury, for fuck’s sake. So he just cradles her hand instead and brushes his thumb against her palm.

“Does that make any sense to you, Andrew?” she asks.

“Aye,” he says. “I understand it. I was the eejit who showed up at your wedding, after all. I just wanted to see you there, one last time.” He squeezes her hand. “Now go to sleep, Menace.”

“I will,” she says. “But I’ve one more thing to say. Because I’ve heard you go on about how you’re a bastard and a by-blow and worth less than nothing. I’ve heard you speak of how your family treated you, and I can only imagine how the rest of the world did too. So I’d like to tell you, if you’ll let me, why I think they’re wrong. Because someone ought to. And because I’m grateful to be here with you now.”

She goes on when he doesn’t reply, “Andrew, you’re a kind man, even though you try to hide it. You’re a man who listens and watches and then makes right what he’s heard or seen gone wrong. A man who draws baths and makes shoes. Who still fills his ship’s hold with his sister’s whisky, even while carrying so much of his own hurt. A man who is thoughtful and sweet but doesn’t want anyone to know because he thinks those things make him vulnerable.

“But I think that’s what makes you stronger. Impenetrable to all those corrosive forces in the world, the ones that make other people greedy and cowardly. The ones that make them turn away instead of watching or listening or helping.” She squeezes his hand. “You are worth a thousand heirs to a viscountcy. A million.”

She presses herself against him, and he lets go of her hand only to gently stroke her hair. His heart is expanding uncomfortably in his chest and he’s a cockstand you could hang a flag from.

Head injury, he reminds himself. The lass has a head injury.

“So,” she asks quietly, “what do we do now?”

“We go to sleep, Menace,” he says, but he knows that something has changed between them tonight. Something that might even be monumental.

He holds her more tightly in his arms, there on the deck floor, and he closes his eyes. He hasn’t told her everything, and he isn’t going to do it tonight. They both need to sleep. And, he thinks, there’s no reason to hurry.