He cleared his throat. That didn’t seem to have any effect on her.
“Cleo?” He lowered a hand to her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “What happened?”
She muttered something unintelligible. He sank down on the settee beside her. Something crinkled beneath his shoe. Bending down, he grasped a wrinkled sheet of parchment. He looked from her to the letter, guessing it had something to do with her present mood.
Scanning the letter, his heart sank. Lifting his gaze back to Cleo, he asked, “Bess? Your sister?”
A long moment passed before she rolled to face him. Her face was wet from crying, her eyes red-rimmed and . . . haunted. “Yes.”
He shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“I should have been there.” She wiped at her face with both hands.
“How old was she?”
“Three.”
He cursed low beneath his breath.
She shook her head, sending loose tendrils flying around her face. “I should have been there.”
He waved the letter. “Your mother said it was consumption.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “It shouldn’t have happened. She was healthy when I left.” She beat a fisted hand to her lap.
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Can’t I?” She wet her lips and looked at him rather desperately, her eyes alive with a wild light. “I should have wed by now. Then I could have saved her.”
“How does your marrying have anything to do with Bess getting sick?”
“You don’t understand.”
His hand tightened on her. “Then explain it to me.”
She released a deep, shuddering breath. “My stepfather did this. Roger barely kept us in clothes. Or warm. Or fed. He certainly would never see that we received the care of a physician.” Her lip curled in disgust. “He agreed that I could take the children once I married. As long as I paid him, I could have them.” Her face crumpled then. “Not my mother though. He won’t let her go.” Tears swam down her cheeks.
He pulled back in horror at what she described. “He’s holding them hostage?”
“In essence, yes.” She sucked in a deep breath and shook her head as though trying to stave off the tears. “I’ve dragged my feet . . . left them in his care for too long.” Her fist beat in her lap with renewed vigor. “Stupid, stupid. He’s never cared if any of us lived or died before. It’s my fault.”
He cupped her face, letting the warm wet of her tears soak into his palms. “She died because she was sick. That wasn’t your fault. Nor is it your fault that you’re at the mercy of an animal.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes as she gazed up at him. The sight clawed through him. “I wasn’t there to carry her.”
“Carry her?” He frowned, angling his head, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. “Where?”
“To the churchyard. It’s my responsibility. I always carry them to the church. I always carry them.”
“What do you mean, you . . .” His voice tapered off, suspicion sinking its teeth into him, making him dread her next words.
“Rose, James, Lottie, and Helen. I carried them all. I should have carried her, too. I wasn’t there for her.”
He could only stare at her, speechless for a long moment, struggling to comprehend what she was saying. “Wait. You mean you . . . take the bodies away?”
She nodded once and his gut clenched thinking about her walking to the churchyard holding the dead bodies of her siblings. His throat tightened up on him, but he still managed to say, “That should never have been your burden.”
“Should it have been my stepfather’s? He wouldn’t waste his time with such a task. Nor would I wish him to.” Her eyes glittered passionately. “They deserved someone who cares to walk them to their final rest. I’m the one who’s supposed to carry them.” Her head bowed and she choked out, “Oh, Bess. I’m so sorry.”
He hauled her into his arms, unable to stop himself, unable to stand her suffering for something that was out of her control. He knew her pain was inescapable. He’d lost both his brother and father. He understood grief. She’d just lost her sister. Nothing would ever take away that ache. But he’d be damned if he’d let her think any of it was her fault. “Don’t blame yourself. You loved her. She had that love . . . she always will.”
Her body trembled against him and he held her tighter as if he could somehow take her anguish inside himself. She pulled back enough to look up at him. He scraped the loose tendrils of hair back from where they clung to her damp cheeks.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “It means a lot to hear that . . . to be reminded of that.”
Noses practically touching, he nodded, his gut suddenly clenching tightly in a way that he’d never felt before. Staring down into her tear-filled gaze, he felt like he was drowning. One thing for certain, he’d never met a woman like Cleopatra Hadley. She was stronger than he could have ever known . . . and he wanted her for his wife with a fierceness that stole his breath.
“Miss!” A maid rushed into the room. “Are you all right?” She eyed Logan suspiciously—as if he were the cause for her distress.
Cleo pulled away, sniffing loudly and wiping indelicately at her nose. He hated to leave her, but knew his presence here, with her, was vastly inappropriate. He read as much in the gaze of her maid. Cleo wasn’t his to comfort, as much as he might like her to be. At least not yet.
And yet a new purpose consumed him. Whether she ever belonged to him or not, there was something he could do for her.
Cleo watched Logan depart, staring hungrily at the broad expanse of his back. The gnawing ache at the center of her chest only intensified as he moved away from her. Somehow when he’d held her, talked to her . . . her pain had felt . . . less.
“Miss?” Berthe brushed a tendril back from her face. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, Berthe,” she whispered. “He didn’t hurt me.”
Quite the opposite. Shaking her head, she told herself that she shouldn’t let herself feel this way. Because she was now more determined than ever to marry Thrumgoodie. She lost Bess. She would not lose anyone else.
Chapter Eleven
Logan stared grimly at the man sniveling in the carriage across from him. Cleo’s stepfather clutched both hands over his nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
“What do you want from me?” he asked in a nasal whine. “I have money in my vest pocket. And I can get more . . .”
From Cleo, no doubt, after he sold her his children. Logan’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
“Easy,” Alexander advised from beside him, well aware of the hostility pumping through him . . . and his overwhelming urge to do more than land the two punches that it took to haul Roger out of the brothel and inside their carriage.
With Alexander’s help, it hadn’t taken long to track him down. Apparently Roger spent most of his time at a seedy brothel in St. Giles. What better way to spend the money Jack had given him than on women of ill repute?
“Who are you? What do you want?” Roger demanded as they rolled to a stop in front of one of Alexander’s ships.
Logan grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him from the carriage. The briney dock air immediately washed over him, mingling with the stench of rotted trash.
“We have a mutual acquaintance,” he growled, cutting through the fog and following Alexander up the rickety ramp, his hand clamped around the cuff of Roger’s coat.
“Who?”
Logan shook his head, unwilling to even mention Cleo’s name to this bastard—as if that would somehow sully her.
Reaching the ship’s deck, he spun Roger around so that they stood face to face. “You like to sell children.”
His eyes widened, and the understanding was there . . . mingled with fear. “What? No! What are you talking about. I never—”
“Your family. You haven’t done a very good job taking care of them, Roger.”
“What business is it of yours?” he railed. “They’re mine!”
“Too many have died on your watch. They’re not yours anymore. Do you understand?”
“Go to hell!”
Logan hauled back and struck him in the face, punctuating his words with the pound of his fist. “Not your children. Not your wife. Understand?”
Roger moaned and nodded, his head lolling before he managed to straighten his neck and focus on Logan. “What are you going to do with me?”
Logan released him. Roger staggered and fell. “You’ll take this ship to South Africa. Stay there. Go somewhere else.” He fished a pouch of gold from his pocket and tossed it on the deck beside the man. Roger dove for it. “I don’t care as long as you never return here. Never set foot in England again.”
Roger nodded jerkily, clutching the pouch close.
Logan bent down and hauled him up by his mussed cravat. Roger fixed unblinking eyes on Logan’s face. “If you ever show your face here again, I’ll see you never draw another breath. Nothing will stop me from making that happen. Is that clear?”
If possible, Roger’s eyes widened further. Understanding glimmered there . . . and defeat. “Yes.”
Logan released him and wiped his hands on his breeches as if he could rid himself of the feel of the man that brought such misery on Cleo and her family.
He looked up at Alexander, who stood beside the ship’s captain. The pair watched grimly. He nodded to them both. “I’m done here.”
“We’ll see him belowdecks and make sure he doesn’t sneak off.” The captain motioned to his men to fetch Roger.
“Thank you,” he murmured, although he doubted it was necessary. Roger wouldn’t attempt to leave the ship. He was nothing more than a bully. Spineless and desperate to feel in control, he wouldn’t dare return where Logan’s threat could become a reality. He’d stay on the ship and sail wherever she took him. He’d never return. Cleo and her family were free.
He turned and departed the ship, his boots thudding heavily on the ramp, his mind already moving ahead to when he might next see Cleo.
“This is rich!” Fiona crowed. “My brother, the darling of every lass within a league’s ride from McKinney, the very one likely to be found beneath a milkmaid’s skirts rather than about his chores, needs advice on wooing a lady?”
“Are you finished, Fiona?” Logan asked, already regretting asking Fiona for her input in winning over Cleo.
She waved a hand at him amid her riotous giggles.
“Fiona, dear, be kind,” Alexander chided. “Can’t you see he’s fond of this one?”
She gasped for breath. “Of course, of course. Forgive me, Logan.” She wiped tears of merriment from her eyes. “I’ll be serious. Especially as this one seems to have captured your fancy.”
He recalled the efforts he had taken to see that Cleo was happy . . . that her family was safe from her stepfather. Yes. She had more than captured his fancy. “I’d appreciate that.”
She nodded, adopting a more somber expression. “Yes, well . . . let me ask you, have you kissed her yet? Back home, every lass claimed your lips to be nectar of the gods.”
Tossing his napkin upon the table, he stood to leave the room.
“No, no, stop! Sit yourself back down.” She waved an imperious finger at his chair, again reminding him of their departed mother. “It’s a legitimate question.”
At her arched eyebrow, he admitted, “Aye, I’ve kissed her and she appeared to like it well enough, but she’s still determined to marry the old man.”
“Hmm.” Fiona tapped her lips. “If you can’t seduce her body, you’d best turn to her mind.”