sister was clever, after all. Even more clever than he’d credited at the start of their dialogue.
“Either way, I’ve not the time to lecture you on how to have a proper conversation. I was the one who insisted Verity go to you, and do you know why I did that?”
“Because you are a romantic?”
Unlike Verity, who’d bristled at having that descriptor applied to her, Livvie Lovelace preened. She sat up all the straighter in her chair. “Precisely. As such, when she recounted what happened that night you met, I heard what she didn’t hear. And I was the one who believed if you could be heroic, then you’d be the one to help us.”
Us.
That was what had set Verity apart from him and how he’d lived his existence. It had marked him different from her or her sister. They saw themselves as a family; they never divorced themselves from that connection.
While Malcom had taken more than fifteen years to own up to such a bond with his own . . . kin.
And with her faith in him, he’d failed to meet those expectations she’d had. Instead, Verity had come to him, and he’d turned her away. Shame pitted his belly.
“Well, do you have anything to say? Speak up.”
Aye, terrifying now, she was going to rule England should she so wish it, come ten years from now.
“What I am trying to sort through, Mr. North, is whether you are actually a good man or not . . . so which is it?”
Decidedly not was the immediate and accurate answer that sprang to his mouth. Mayhap he was getting weak through the years, that he could not bring himself to snarl or even utter that response at the young woman. While they sat, tensely studying one another, Malcom considered his response. In the end, he settled for raw truth. “I’ve not been a good person,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to be better.”
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally. With that she hopped up, and he was saved from any further questioning. Or, he almost was. Livvie lingered at the doorway. “Do you care about Verity?”
That blunt, unexpected question hit him square between the eyes. “I . . .”
“It is just that I never knew my mother. Verity has been the only one I’ve known. As long as I’ve been alive, she’s worked to support me. And she’s always soothed my hurts and allowed me my dreams. She’s protected me.” A warning glint sparked in Livvie’s eyes. “And I’ll not see her hurt by anyone. And certainly not by you. So if you think you can’t care about her, or that you don’t love her, then we’re done here.” She paused. “All of us.”
“I . . .” His mind swam, and he tried to dredge up a reply. Only, Livvie Lovelace had confounded him. What she spoke of . . . loving Verity . . . was foreign to the world he’d built. One that the elder Miss Lovelace had single-handedly dismantled. And yet to open himself so wholly, so completely . . . “Thank you for the talk,” he replied. For whatever he had to sort through couldn’t be done with this slip of a woman, or any observer, about.
“North,” she murmured. She made to go, and then paused once more. “Oh, and I should mention, in the event that you do care, you should be aware that my sister was attacked earlier today.”
With that, Verity’s sister let herself out. Her words echoed in her wake.
Malcom didn’t move. He didn’t so much as blink.
Surely he’d heard Livvie wrong. Surely with the casualness of that deliverance, his mind had simply twisted whatever she’d said.
And then blood went roaring through his ears.
Malcom exploded to his feet and bolted from the library, cursing the endless, winding corridors. Slightly out of breath from fear and his exertions, he reached the stairs and took them two at a time. The moment his feet hit the landing, he took off running once more, skidding to a halt outside Verity’s room.
Breathing hard, he pressed the handle, and let himself in. And then he found her.
Or more specifically . . .
Them. Malcom found them.
Based on the ominous pronouncement Livvie had dropped, during his endless streak to this very moment, Malcom had conjured all the worst imaginings.
Verity: Unconscious. Bleeding. Broken.
Of all the sights he’d expected after his talk with Livvie, this had not been it. Verity perched at the left side of the mattress with her back to him; she had Bram and