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“Then Father does know the connection, the reason for your hatred.”
“No.”
“No? But certainly he recalls what he did to you when you were a child?”
“He never even knew my name. Oh, he knows Pierce Thornton grew up in a workhouse. He uncovered that fact when he investigated my background. But he never once associated his lowlife business associate with one of the scrawny bastards he beat senseless. Quite simply, he never knew one workhouse child from another. In his eyes, we were all the same, nameless and unnecessary.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Pierce searched her face, his eyes hard with bitterness.
Slowly, resignedly, Daphne pivoted, dropping Pierce’s shirt from her shoulders and stepping into the path of the morning sunlight as it peeped through the open drapes. Then she swept up her tousled hair, twisting it into a knot atop her head. “Yes, Pierce, I understand,” she repeated simply.
Bile rose in Pierce’s throat as he stared at Daphne’s bare back, confronting the heinous evidence of Tragmore’s brutality—evidence the darkness and his own urgency had eclipsed from view.
Dozens of scars, some faded, some fresh, covered her naked flesh, obscene marks on the delicate satin of her skin.
Never had Pierce felt more capable of murder than at that moment.
“That filthy scum.” Beyond fury, he acted on instinct, wrapping his arms around Daphne and enfolding her against him as if to ward off the pain she’d already endured. “That vile, despicable son of a bitch.” With infinite gentleness, he brushed his lips across her nape. “In my gut I knew something like this was happening. An animal like that could never leave such flawless beauty unscathed. I just couldn’t allow myself to contemplate that he might—Christ, I’m sorry. I’m so bloody sorry, Snow flame.”
“Don’t be.” She turned in his arms, pressed her fingers to his lips. “You rescued me, and I’ll never have to bear his beatings again. I just wanted you to know that I do understand some of what you went through.”
“He hurt you, and for that I want to kill him. But Daphne, he could never truly touch your beauty. It’s submerged deep inside you, in a place your father could never reach, much less fathom.” He kissed her fingertips. “Don’t ever forget that.”
Tears filled Daphne’s eyes. “You’re such a wonderful man,” she whispered. “And you’ve endured so much. Watching your mother die—starving in the streets.” Daphne bowed her head, two tears trickling down her cheeks. “I hate him, too, Pierce.”
Abruptly, her pain was Pierce’s.
“Don’t.” He gathered her against him. “Please sweetheart, don’t cry for me.”
“I’m not crying for you,” she managed, her voice muffled against his chest. “I’m crying for the little boy you were when my father tortured you.”
Pierce closed his eyes, buried his face in the fragrant cloud of her hair. “That boy is gone now.”
She leaned back. “Is he? I don’t think so. I think he’s very much here and very much responsible for the man you’ve become and for his actions. No wonder you do what you do. And that you don’t believe in prayers.”
Prayers.
Fleetingly, Pierce smiled, remembering the occasions on which they’d discussed his lack of faith in prayers: the evening they’d waltzed in Gantry’s garden, and in the privacy of her bedchamber, when the Tin Cup Bandit had robbed her house.
“I’ve endured nothing in comparison to you.” Oblivious to her husband’s tender recollections, Daphne rebuttoned her borrowed shirt. “But I have known the pain of my father’s beatings since I was small. Moreover, I had to endure the even more unbearable agony of hearing my mother’s sobs when he beat her. Lord, how many nights I covered my ears to drown out the sound of her anguished weeping.”
“All that’s over now.”
This time it was Daphne who shook her head sadly. “You, better than anyone, know that certain things can never be over. They’re burned in your memory forever, hopefully haunting you less and less as the years go by.” She averted her gaze, her eyes veiled. “From the day I was born, my father decided I was far too much like my mother, too good-hearted, too compassionate. By the time I turned eight, he ruled that beatings alone were no longer sufficient; firsthand experience was necessary. With that in mind, he dragged me to a workhouse and forced me inside. God, how I fought him. I knew once I entered those walls, my life would never be the same. And not because I’d experience the revulsion Father anticipated. Quite the contrary. I knew I’d never be able to forget the faces, the hopeless futility of those who truly do without. And I was right. Father thrust me in and I’ve never been the same. Nor will I ever forget.”
“You’re astounding,” Pierce replied, his voice unsteady. “You’ve never lived there, and yet, you have.”
“I remember it all. The women scrubbing on their knees, coughing until their frail bodies were racked with it; the smells of disease; the children pumping water, especially that one little girl with the hollow eyes and the tattered doll in her arms—everything.” Daphne’s lips trembled. “And that taunting sign hanging over the building, it’s name the antithesis of all I’d witnessed. Perpetual hope? More like eternal hopelessness.”
Pierce?
?s head snapped around. “Perpetual hope?”
She nodded. “Yes. That was the name of the workhouse. The House of Perpetual Hope.”
“Damn.” A muscle worked in Pierce’s jaw.
