To see that he’d been pushed out.
To see that they would have never forgiven him. That, in their eyes, he would never have been good enough, strong enough, Baine enough.
Not only in their eyes. His as well.
He did not correct her—did not tell her. Instead, he let the words sting. Because he deserved them. Still.
He always would.
When he did not reply, his sister added, “I have come to tell you that whatever arrangement you have made, whatever deals you have struck with Mr. Knight—I don’t want them. I want you to rescind them. I shall take responsibility for my family.”
The words made him angry. “You should not have to take responsibility. You have a husband. This is his purpose. His role. It is he who should be protecting his children’s futures. His wife’s reputation.”
Her brown eyes flashed. “That is none of your concern.”
“It is if you require protecting, and he cannot provide it.”
“Now you play the expert in familial protection? The perfect older brother? Now, after seven years of desertion? After seven years of invisibility? Where were you when they married me to Dunblade to begin with?”
He’d been counting cards in some casino, trying to pretend he did not know where his sister was. What she was doing. Who she was marrying. Why. Ironically, that casino had likely been Knight’s. “Lavinia,” he tried to explain, “so much happened when Baine died. So much you don’t know.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “You still think me a little girl. You think I don’t know? You think I don’t remember that night? Need I remind you that I was there? Not you. Me. I am the one who carries the scars. The memory of it. I carry it with me every day. And somehow, it is you who has taken ownership of the evening.”
She shifted, and he noticed the flash of discomfort on her face as she leaned into her finely wrought cane. He moved to a nearby chair, lifting a stack of books from its seat. “Please. Sit.”
She stiffened, and when she spoke, the words were like ice. “I am quite able to stand. I may be lame, but I am not crippled.”
Goddammit. Could he do nothing right? “I never meant—Of course you are able to stand. I simply thought you would be more comfortable—”
“I don’t require you to make me comfortable or to make my life easier. I require you to stay out of my life. I came to tell you that. And to tell you that I will not allow you to involve yourself with Knight on my behalf.”
Anger flared, and frustration. “I am afraid the decision is out of your hands. I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself to Knight. Not when I can help it.”
“It’s not your place to step in.”
“It is precisely my place. Like it or not, this is my world, and you are my sister.” He paused, hesitating on the next words, not wanting to say them, but knowing he owed them to her. “Knight came after you to get to me.”
Her brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon?”
He hated himself in that moment, almost as much as he hated the look in her eyes, suspicion and disbelief. “He wants me, Lavinia. Not you. Not Dunblade. He knew that threatening you would be the fastest way to get what he wants from me.”
“Why would he think that?” she scoffed. “You’ve never given a moment’s thought to us.”
The words stung. “That’s not true.”
She shifted again, and he couldn’t stop himself from looking to her cane again, from wishing he could see her leg. He knew how it pained her; he paid her doctors handsomely to keep him apprised of the seven-year-old injury.
He looked up at her. “Lavinia,” he began. “Please. Sit. We will discuss this.”
She did not sit. “We suffer because of you?”
It did not matter that they suffered because her husband was weak-willed. If Cross were not Cross . . . if he did not have a past with Knight . . . they would be safe. “He threatens you to access me. To take from me what he wants. Stay away from him. I will make this go away. I need four days.”
“What does he want?”
My title. My name. Your children’s inheritance. “It does not matter.”
“Of course it does.”
“No. It does not matter because he will not get it. And he will not get you, either.”
Something flared in her brown eyes, something close to loathing, and she laughed without humor. “I suppose I should not be surprised. After all, my pain has always been the result of your actions, hasn’t it? Why should now be any different?”
Silence stretched between them, the words hovering in the room, their weight familiar and unbearable, echoing the cold accusations of his father that night, seven years ago. It should have been you.
And the keening wails of his mother. If only it had been you.
And of Lavinia’s cries of pain as the surgeons did what they could to set bone and clean wounds, and rid her young, frail body of the fever that had raged, threatening her young life.
Threatening Cross’s sanity.
He wanted to tell her the truth, that he’d been consumed with guilt that night, and fear the nights after, that he’d wished over and over, again and again, for years, that it had been him in that carriage. That it had been Baine at home—strong, steady, competent Baine, who never would have left them. Who never would have let her marry Dunblade.
That it had been Cross who had died—so he never would have failed them.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead he said, “I will repair the damage. He will never bother you again.”