Page 141

He dropped his gaze to their joined hands. “When I pled Neville’s case the other night in Asquith’s stables, I used my new horse—the horse Hampton gifted me, though he asked me to imply otherwise—as a ruse to get her away from the others.”

She sucked in.

“You are right,” he said. “The horse could change our fortunes, but only in the best of ways. Hampton assured me that he would tell Scott and only Scott that no bank notes had changed hands.”

Her gaze softened. “Ah, Simon. The horse was a gift?”

He nodded. “I would have told you first, about the horse and about my past, if Willard had not attacked Millie. What had happened to her was, in part, my fault. I had to explain why I believe Neville is deeply trustworthy and would never hurt her. She needed to understand so she could make her own choice.”

“Your gift to Millie was a secret you’d held close.”

Just a hint of a smile touched his lips. “You understand.”

He closed his eyes and savored the brief kiss she planted on his cheek.

“Oh, I understand.”

The rest of the chasm seemed crossable now. “I told Millie as much of the past as I’ve just told you. But there’s more, and this part is only for your ears.”

She traced his pinky with a light hand. “I’m listening.”

He knew she was listening.

She was listening to him as no one had ever listened to him before. And he was confiding in her the way he never had, and never would, confide in anyone else.

He allowed the rise of sentiment to pass. “Only the people present that night, Willard, Neville, and me, know the rest. But even Neville and I have never discussed what happened.”

She shifted, nestling closer. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do, darling. I do.” He stared down at his scar as he spoke. “Late one night, Willard cornered me in a privy. But this time something in me rebelled.” He shrugged and moved his head, as if casting Willard’s hand from the back of his neck. “In my mind, I grew suddenly strong. I was iron. I was fierce. I was not any of the things he’d called me.”

“No.” She leaned forward as she pressed his hand. “No, you weren’t.”

He met her gaze. “I was freed.” His eyes dropped. “But I was also wild—as if Willard and I were horses in tandem, and the tongue between us had simply snapped.”

The memory had soaked so long in guilt and shame and rage, all the distinct parts had fused.

Examining them now was like taking out a flood-soaked book and separating the pages.

He came to the last chapter.

“I beat him. And beat him. And beat him.” He lifted his brows and shook his head. “I didn’t even know if the crunching bones were his or mine. By the time Neville opened the door, I had bludgeoned Willard bloody and unconscious. But I wouldn’t have stopped, if I hadn’t been interrupted.”

Her gaze held nothing he feared. No pity. No horror. Just somber, attentive patience. Holding that gauge, he forced himself to finish.

“I would have killed him, Lenora. I would have killed Willard if Neville hadn’t walked in.”

Her eyes were red, her breath shallow.

“If you cannot trust me, I understand.” He closed his burning eyes. “For a long time, I had trouble trusting myself. I believed that, if pressed, I would become violent again. But now, I am certain I will not.”

She was silent for a long time. Then she tentatively asked, “What makes you sure?”

“Willard attempted to provoke me again using the people dearest to me, and I did not violently respond. I found another way to render him incapable of harming Millie or you.”

Again, she fell quiet. Silently, she drew her finger up and down his pinky until light tingles skittered up his arm.

“Do you still want to kill him?” she asked.