He shook his head to himself.
Guilt.
Guilt was the only thing in his chest.
Guilt he would quickly rid himself of after bringing her to her family.
Then he could be done with her. For good.
{ Chapter 5 }
Pen stared at Strider sitting across from her in the carriage.
The cushions felt like heaven under her behind. The glass on the doors buffed so thoroughly clean she imagined a bird would try to fly through it. The shine of the black paint on the outside of the carriage had been so bright she’d had to run her forefinger against it as she stepped up into the coach just to make sure it was real.
Luxury.
Luxury she’d never known. Never really imagined existed.
Luxury at Strider’s fingertips.
Strider had sat down opposite of her in the carriage, completely at ease with his surroundings. Taking his coat off and rolling up the sleeves of his lawn shirt. She remembered that about him, how he had always liked his arms free to the warm sun in Belize, no matter that Mama June was forever unrolling his sleeves down. She was raising a proper gentleman, she would always say.
Strider had said very little to her since they’d sat down in the carriage, only noting that it would take two or three days to get to the Jacobson estate inBedfordshire, depending upon how the roads were.
Not that she minded how long the journey would take, for once the carriage had started to roll through the maze of London, she’d been transfixed by the streets getting more crowded before buildings and horses and wagons and people began to spread out, and then they were suddenly in the countryside. A revelation, for she had begun to believe the whole of England was as chaotic as London, but this—this was actually peaceful. She could hear her own thoughts in her head. Not Mrs. Flagton. Not Percival.
It was just unfortunate happenstance that most of the thoughts flooding her mind centered on this man opposite her.
Early in the ride, before they had even left London, Strider had leaned back on the cushions, stretching his long legs out on either side of her skirts, his hands clasped over his stomach and his head tilted back, his eyes closed. Whether he was actually sleeping, she couldn’t be sure. Though she suspected he was feigning the nap in effort to avoid her.
Which hurt, if she was honest with herself.
He’d wanted so little to do with her since she’d found him at his gaming hell. Like he was doing everything he could to hold himself back from physically lifting her and dumping her onto the street.
He didn’t want her anywhere in his life. That was clear.
Pride should have made her walk away that first night, but she couldn’t do it. She would do anything—grovel at Strider’s feet if that’s what it took—to get him to help her find her family.
The alternative—Percival—doing every repulsive thing to her he’d whispered into her ears over the years, was not an option. Where his fingers would be. His tongue. How he would tie her down. Gag her. Whip her. Stick things into her. Turn her into an animal solely for his sick, vile pleasure.
She shuddered.
She’d never been able to forget a single vulgar thing Percival had whispered to her, never been able to block from her mind the imaginings of the things he described.
Perverse to his core, how Percival was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Flagton had always bewildered her. They were the most pious people. Mr. Flagton a priest with a bible always within reach. Mrs. Flagton a paragon of moral indignation. And neither one had ever seen it—or more likely, never chosen to see it—in their son.
Though Pen guessed that, deep down, Mrs. Flagton had always suspected what her son was. A twisted sadist. It had been Mrs. Flagton’s idea to move Pen to sleep in her bedroom years ago after discovering Percival lurking outside Pen’s room late at night after he’d been beaten for walking in on her bathing.
Pen had to get away from the Flagtons, and not just get away—she had to either disappear completely, or she had to land somewhere where she would be protected from Percival and his threats to have her arrested and hanged.
She knew exactly who a magistrate would believe. The son of a highly esteemed priest. Not her.
She had no power. No options.
So here she sat. Scraping for the smallest pity from the man that thought of her as a burden—had always considered her worthless.
Her gaze slipped along the lines of Strider’s face. The hard cut of his jawline, the lines of his cheekbones, his nose that had once been perfectly straight now slightly out of alignment, the creases along his eyes. He was too young to have creases like that. To have hardened to such a state that nothing could penetrate the cold he exuded.