When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,148

and my mother taught me about history, languages, and maths. What are these scars from?”

He tried to yank his hand from hers but she held fast.

A muscle was flexing in his jaw. “I was imprisoned for nine years.”

She had heard harrowing stories about London prisons, Newgate in particular. That he had survived nine years in such conditions was as horrifying as it was astounding.

“What happened to your family?” he asked.

“They died.” An unwelcome pang of grief stabbed her. “What were you in prison for?”

King tipped his head back, his eyes sliding from hers. He seemed to be gazing at something only he could see. “For trusting the wrong person,” he said finally.

Adeline wanted to press him further but stopped herself, afraid that he would shut down completely. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Because there is absolutely nothing in this world that can scare me any longer. I lived through hell and survived.” He cleared his throat. “How did your family die?”

Her fingers traced the muscle of his forearms up to his elbow. There were other scars there too, pale white lines mixed with darker ones that suggested defensive wounds from blades. Adeline had a few herself. “My parents lost everything in the Revolution. Their Paris home, and the château and vineyards. They fled only with what they could carry. And me.”

“Where did you go?”

“Italy at first. Spain later. We moved around a great deal over the next decade, staying where we could, pretending to be people we weren’t. But my parents longed to return to Paris. When the nobility was revived with limited privileges in 1805, they immediately returned to reclaim their birthright. I went with them.” She stopped, struggling and unsure why. It had all happened so long ago. “They were killed two days later by a man shrieking, ‘Remember Robespierre, death to aristocrats.’ He shot both my parents in the middle of rue Saint-Honoré while we were walking to the market.”

“Jesus. I hope he paid—”

“He was never caught.”

His forehead creased. “You never got justice.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I never did.”

“Is that why you do what you do?”

“Maybe. Probably.” She bit her lip. “Yes,” she decided. She lay back down beside him, staring up at the ceiling. “I know what it feels like to have no one on your side. To feel lost and helpless and angry. I never got justice for my parents, but I could get it for others.”

“That’s very—”

“Selfish,” she finished for him. “It was selfish. It was easier to focus on others who were suffering so that grief didn’t consume me whole. It started with small things—writing appeals and petitions on behalf of those who couldn’t in exchange for food or clothing. Later, slightly bigger jobs like recovering a set of molds stolen from a chandler in exchange for payment. My…reputation grew from there, as did the gravity of the injustices I was tasked with addressing.”

He shifted, moving his arm from behind her head to slide around her shoulders and pull her close. Her head came to rest against his chest.

“And now?”

Adeline listened to his heart beating steadily, his voice rumbling low. “Now it’s all I know.”

“You can’t keep taking on everyone’s pain and making it yours, Adeline. That is too much to ask of one person. You can’t live like that.”

“Secrets lose their power when they are shared. Grief loses its burden when it is shared.” She hated how defensive she sounded.

“And whom have you shared your secrets with? Whom have you grieved your losses with?” he asked.

You, she almost said. She hadn’t shared any of this with anyone outside of this tiny cocoon of candor. A tear slid down her cheek. Horrified, she wiped it away before it could fall.

“How did you get out of prison?” she asked abruptly.

His body tensed beside her. “I escaped. How did you come to learn how to survive in Litchfield alleys?”

“The same way you did,” she said. “The hard way. My education was swift and brutal. I imagine the streets of Paris are not so different from the streets of London.”

“But surely your parents would have had friends or family who would have—”

“All dead or scattered in the Terror. At the time, raised on stories of the mobs and given what I witnessed, I believed it safer to simply disappear on the streets.” She paused. “How did you escape?”

His hand tightened around her shoulder. “I trusted the right person. Still trust him.”

“Was he a prisoner too?”

“Yes. He saved my life. And I repaid that debt not so long