Page 101 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 28

Inside his bachelor’s rooms, Connor tilted Margaret’s head toward the lamplight and looked her over. Reclining on his only sofa, a threadbare remnant of a bygone era, she opened her eyes and watched him patiently, trustingly, open, and with no signs of guile. A smear of blood pointed the way to a cut above her temple. Bruises and streaks of dirt bore further witness to the abuse she’d suffered. Small cuts the size of pebbles riddled one of her cheeks. Everything in him ached to pull her close, to hold her, to do things they might both regret later.

Now was not the time; she was hurt and more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her.

He poured a few drops of water on a handkerchief to dampen it. Careful to avoid apparent injuries, he bathed her face with the cloth, wiping away tear-streaked dirt and blood. He resisted the urge to check her over beyond what was necessary and decent; he’d leave it to the doctor to determine if she’d been wounded elsewhere.

“My heart stopped when I saw it was you in the middle of that mob,” he whispered.

Her mouth moved into the smallest of smiles. Warmth and affection shone through. He probably shouldn’t have confessed his reaction and laid open to her how much she meant to him.

She put a hand over his. “You were there when I needed you most.”

Tension crackled between them. Meg’s soft, feminine scent filled his lungs. Every breath she took vibrated through him.

She touched his face. “What happened to you?”

“A little trouble in an ally.” Briefly, he filled her in about what had happened with Ol’ Dan, finishing with, “Don’t worry, even without Ol’ Dan, we have enough evidence to arrest Finch. As soon as I know you’re safe, that’s what I’ll do.”

He set the cloth down and bumped the box of documents perched on the table next to the sofa. The box fell off, scattering all the papers, the only thing he had left of his mother. Kneeling, he scooped them up and straightened them.

Meg watched him. “I feel I should offer to help you…”

“Not to worry.” He put them back into the box.

Margaret gestured to one that had sailed further away. “You missed one.”

He went to retrieve it, glared briefly at the red sealing wax with a crest on it, and tossed it into the stack with the others. Why his mother had kept so many letters from that man, he had never understood.

“Bad news?” Meg asked gently.

He pushed out a long breath. “I haven’t read it.” He gestured at the stack. “They were at my mother’s cottage. Her solicitor insisted I should have them, but I haven’t the heart to go through them yet.”

“How long since you lost her?”

“Almost four months.”

“I couldn’t bring myself to go through my mother’s things until nearly a year had passed.” She touched his arm, a gesture of comfort and sympathy.

Memories of his mother—her ready smile, her beautiful singing voice, her dream-like expression when she read stories to him as a child, her quiet strength, even her feistiness that bordered on a hot temper when she witnessed some miscarriage of justice or fairness—it all crept over him like the softness of a handmade quilt.

Without thinking, he said, “I can’t imagine why my mother lowered herself to be used by the man who fathered me. She seemed so much more sensible than that.”

Meg considered. “Perhaps she loved him. Love can drive all reason from a person.”

“I suppose.”

“Did he never try to care for you?”

“He paid for my education, purchased my commission in the Army. He even wrote to me on occasion, especially while I served on the continent, but I burned them or returned them without breaking the seal.”

“I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

“Mostly, I feel bitter. Or I did. Now, I don’t really care. I suppose I’ve been avoiding that man for so long that it’s second nature now.”

“And yet you wear his ring.” She picked up his hand and fingered the signet.

He shrugged. “If I die, maybe someone will notify him. Who knows, he might even pay for a decent burial.” Quietly, he added, “I have no other family.”