splash of brandy into a glass, then raked his fingers through his hair, disordering the neat queue. “Forgive me for what I’m about to say, Jessamine, but obviously you already know something of him or you wouldn’t have so casually uttered his name.”
The captain took a sip of the brandy, then stretched out the hand he’d clenched into a fist. “That man—if you could call him that—was the vilest, lowest… A soulless bastard who preyed on children. Children! My God, there is a special place in hell for his kind.”
He tore at his cravat as if it were strangling him. A vein throbbed at his temple. “They say he was run out of every brothel in London, when even the most obscene and corrupt of the madams grew sickened by his disgusting tastes.”
“Dash—Captain—” Jessa fought back the bile burning in her throat. “Marcus Wilkerson was Marguerite’s first husband. Lily’s father.”
There’d been no way to soften the blow. Violent color rose on his cheeks, then receded as he blanched, swaying back to lean upon the desk. The crystal glass dropped from nerveless fingers, landing with a small thud, spilling brandy across the patterned carpet.
“The law, and his creditors, were closing in on him,” Jessa said. Blast you, Marguerite, for leaving it to me to be the one to tell him this . She pitied him, but he’d asked for the truth. “Word of his predilections had finally reached even Marguerite’s willfully ignorant ears.”
She could no longer look at Dash, who clutched the edge of the desk as if it were the last solid piece of deck on a ship that foundered in storm-tossed seas. “He stole his daughter—he stole Lily away with him when he was forced to flee the country. She was four years old. He had sole care of her until his death, when she was sixteen. No one knows for certain what happened, but, given his tastes…” She met his eyes.
Eyes etched with horror. And unmistakably, fury.
11.
…a fey woman-child…
DASH CLENCHED HIS FISTS, his blood roaring in his ears. His heart slammed against his ribs as if trying to escape. He strode across the room, snatched Jessa by the shoulders, and shook her, snapping her head hard enough that pins flew from her hair. Gold tendrils tumbled down her back as she stared up at him.
“What kind of foul, unnatural mother is Marguerite,” he shouted, “that she’d allow her child to be carried off by an animal like that? And don’t tell me she was some feather-brained schoolgirl, taken in by a handsome face. There was never anything feather-brained about Marguerite.”
Jessa’s jade eyes swam with tears, but his shock was too great for him to be moved by them. Lily had cried too, great crocodile tears, whenever he refused to give in to one of her whims. The tears in Jessa’s eyes meant no more to him than Lily’s had. Raw animal fury clawed at his belly.
“And then,” he continued, the rage in his voice resounding against the walls like thunder, “when she has her daughter back, instead of protecting her, Marguerite tarts up her broken child in fancy clothes and trots her off to town to sell her off to the first man rich enough—and gullible enough—to be taken in by her beauty.” God, he’d been such a fool. That red hair. That lusty figure. He’d paid too high a price for a passing lust.
Marguerite had no excuse. What the hell had the woman been thinking?
“God knows I hated Lily at the end,” he said, “hated her tantrums. Her lies. Her utter lack of discrimination or discretion. If Marguerite had only been honest with me in the beginning—” He flexed his fingers on Jessa’s shoulders, unwilling to release her.
“I was besotted by Lily, in the beginning. If I had known—if they’d told me— I would have done more. Protected her. Was Marguerite afraid if she told me the truth, that the fat, titled fish she’d just landed for her daughter would wriggle off her hook?”
Though his chest was heaving, he
The captain took a sip of the brandy, then stretched out the hand he’d clenched into a fist. “That man—if you could call him that—was the vilest, lowest… A soulless bastard who preyed on children. Children! My God, there is a special place in hell for his kind.”
He tore at his cravat as if it were strangling him. A vein throbbed at his temple. “They say he was run out of every brothel in London, when even the most obscene and corrupt of the madams grew sickened by his disgusting tastes.”
“Dash—Captain—” Jessa fought back the bile burning in her throat. “Marcus Wilkerson was Marguerite’s first husband. Lily’s father.”
There’d been no way to soften the blow. Violent color rose on his cheeks, then receded as he blanched, swaying back to lean upon the desk. The crystal glass dropped from nerveless fingers, landing with a small thud, spilling brandy across the patterned carpet.
“The law, and his creditors, were closing in on him,” Jessa said. Blast you, Marguerite, for leaving it to me to be the one to tell him this . She pitied him, but he’d asked for the truth. “Word of his predilections had finally reached even Marguerite’s willfully ignorant ears.”
She could no longer look at Dash, who clutched the edge of the desk as if it were the last solid piece of deck on a ship that foundered in storm-tossed seas. “He stole his daughter—he stole Lily away with him when he was forced to flee the country. She was four years old. He had sole care of her until his death, when she was sixteen. No one knows for certain what happened, but, given his tastes…” She met his eyes.
Eyes etched with horror. And unmistakably, fury.
11.
…a fey woman-child…
DASH CLENCHED HIS FISTS, his blood roaring in his ears. His heart slammed against his ribs as if trying to escape. He strode across the room, snatched Jessa by the shoulders, and shook her, snapping her head hard enough that pins flew from her hair. Gold tendrils tumbled down her back as she stared up at him.
“What kind of foul, unnatural mother is Marguerite,” he shouted, “that she’d allow her child to be carried off by an animal like that? And don’t tell me she was some feather-brained schoolgirl, taken in by a handsome face. There was never anything feather-brained about Marguerite.”
Jessa’s jade eyes swam with tears, but his shock was too great for him to be moved by them. Lily had cried too, great crocodile tears, whenever he refused to give in to one of her whims. The tears in Jessa’s eyes meant no more to him than Lily’s had. Raw animal fury clawed at his belly.
“And then,” he continued, the rage in his voice resounding against the walls like thunder, “when she has her daughter back, instead of protecting her, Marguerite tarts up her broken child in fancy clothes and trots her off to town to sell her off to the first man rich enough—and gullible enough—to be taken in by her beauty.” God, he’d been such a fool. That red hair. That lusty figure. He’d paid too high a price for a passing lust.
Marguerite had no excuse. What the hell had the woman been thinking?
“God knows I hated Lily at the end,” he said, “hated her tantrums. Her lies. Her utter lack of discrimination or discretion. If Marguerite had only been honest with me in the beginning—” He flexed his fingers on Jessa’s shoulders, unwilling to release her.
“I was besotted by Lily, in the beginning. If I had known—if they’d told me— I would have done more. Protected her. Was Marguerite afraid if she told me the truth, that the fat, titled fish she’d just landed for her daughter would wriggle off her hook?”
Though his chest was heaving, he
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