Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,25

thought was to wonder where the wine was.

“The kitchen is scorched by fire and so is the back of the house.”

Nash knew this. He could smell the charred wood when he passed that way. He made a point never to pass that way.

“The roof leaks in a dozen places. Furniture is broken and overturned. The paint is peeling, and I’ve seen more cobwebs than in a crypt in Paris.”

“Let me go.” Nash struggled against Rowden’s hold.

“I haven’t seen any rats, but that’s probably because there’s no food to be had. How Mrs. Brown even warmed this meal in that wreck of a kitchen is beyond me.” He shoved Nash back, releasing him. “Any sane person who comes here will consider it uninhabitable. They will consider you mad, and that is your funeral.”

Nash stood still, heaving with rage, his hand in his pocket on the pistol.

“So if you want to hit me for hiring laborers to make repairs to, in effect, save you from yourself, then go ahead. Hit me.” He moved closer, close enough that Nash could not miss if he struck.

Nash pulled the pistol free and pointed it at Rowden. “I could kill you.”

“No doubt.” Rowden did not sound frightened, only tired. “No doubt you want to kill me right now, but I am not your enemy, Nash. I’ve never been your enemy. If you want me to go, you don’t have to shoot me. Say the word, and I’ll leave. I’ll go back to London, tell Draven I did my best, but that you were determined to ruin yourself. And you can start packing tonight because you’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

Nash held the pistol steady, the barrel aimed directly at Rowden’s heart. It would take just a flick of his finger, a small muscle jerk, to fire the pistol and end Rowden’s haranguing. The pistol might misfire, of course. It rarely did, but there was always that possibility. Rowden didn’t move, though. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. “You don’t think I’ll do it,” Nash said. “You aren’t even frightened.”

Rowden made a dismissive sound. “You were beside me in the war, Nash. You’ve seen what I’ve seen, done what I’ve done. You think my own death scares me?” The question hung in the air like the smoke of a cigar. “Death doesn’t scare me, and it doesn’t scare you. It’s life that scares you. Dying is easy. We can both die tonight. Pull that trigger, and I fall. Turn the pistol on yourself, and we’re both gone.”

The words had appeal. No more pain. No more regret. No more lying in bed, unable to sleep because he couldn’t stop thinking of the way a soldier or a woman or a little boy had jerked and fallen to the ground when he’d pulled that trigger. “I don’t want to see them anymore,” Nash said. “I don’t want to hear their cries, see the blood.”

Rowden sighed. “I know. But there’s no way around it. You live with what you’ve done, we all do. You want to die? I don’t think you’re a coward. None of us will blame you for it. We’ve all thought about ending it. Well, maybe not Rafe. He thinks far too highly of himself.”

Nash smiled despite himself. He lowered the pistol. Rowden clapped him on the shoulder. “The men arrive at first light in the morning. Don’t shoot them.”

Nash put the pistol in his pocket. He was making no promises.

“And Nash?” Rowden said.

“What?”

“Point that pistol at me again, and I’ll break your nose. Consider this a warning.” Pain slammed into Nash’s cheek as Rowden’s fist connected with his face. Nash went down, his hand going to his face. He swore but Rowden was already walking away. Nash lay on the floor, knowing his cheek would be tender and probably bruised in the morning. Rowden could have knocked him unconscious, and he would have deserved that and worse. But Rowden wouldn’t do him any favors, that was clear as the day Nash couldn’t see any longer.

There was only a dark future stretching like an empty maw ahead of him, and he had to decide, every day, if he wanted to fight his way through it.

Six

Pru was sorry she had ever asked Mrs. Northgate for assistance. The woman had very firm ideas about what a dress should look like—in particular, what a dress Pru wore should look like—and she was relentless in her vision. Pru had never had a dress with ribbons or flounces or any