Chapter 15
Gareth stared after Perry in dismay. The baby was still screaming. His new wife was standing on the pavement trying to calm the infant, her mouth tight, her eyes flashing with the first anger Gareth had yet to see in them. His friends had all deserted him, he had cut himself off from Lucien's help —
And he hadn't a clue what to do next.
He stood there helpless, Crusader's reins knotted in his fist and that saddle looking terribly inviting as he resisted, with everything he had, the urge to go galloping off after Perry, and the rest of the Den, and leave this problem far behind him.
This problem that he had rashly inherited.
An instant wife and daughter.
Whatever were you thinking of, man?!
The devil only knew, because he sure as hell didn't. And he had no idea what on earth to do with either of them. He was deep in the suds now, and there was no one to get him out but himself.
Bollocks.
He looked at his wife. She had turned her back on him and moved a few steps away, perhaps embarrassed that she'd lost her temper, perhaps just giving his a chance to cool. She was bent over the baby, who was finally — thank God — beginning to quiet, her piercing screams fading to choking, hiccupping sobs. Gareth raked a hand through his hair, trying to think, trying to steady himself. Then, leading Crusader, he came up behind her.
"Juliet?"
She didn't turn, and Gareth was suddenly filled with shame. Shame at the way he'd behaved in front of her. Shame that he was so unprepared to deal with this situation. And shame that he had regretted, even for a moment, that he'd married her and now had full responsibility for both her and Charlotte.
Responsibility.
'Sdeath, it was the worst word in the entire English language.
"Juliet." She still did not turn around. Her head was bent, and he could just see the pale curve of her nape beneath the upsweep of dark hair. Gareth swallowed — hard. Then, bowing his head, he said awkwardly, "My apologies. Perry's right, you know. I've got a temper, and sometimes it gets away from me."
She turned then and gave him a level, unforgiving stare. "I don't mind your temper, Gareth. What I do mind is the fact that we don't seem to have a place to stay tonight. I suspect we don't have a place to stay tomorrow night, either, let alone next week, next month, or next year."
He shrugged. "We can go to a hotel or something."
"Yes, and how long will our money last if we live like that?"
He flushed and looked away.
"Didn't you even think about any of this before you asked to marry me and took on the responsibility of caring for us?"
"Juliet, please."
She looked suddenly weary. And disgusted. "No, I didn't think so."
And now she was moving away again, as though she couldn't bear to be near him, much less look at him.
"Juliet!"
He swore and hurried after her, Crusader trotting behind him. This scrape was getting worse by the moment.
"Juliet, please —"
"I wish to be alone for a few minutes, Gareth. I need to think."
"Everything will turn out just fine, I'm sure of it!"
"I'm glad that one of us is."
He picked up his pace. "Look, I know you're angry with me, but I am rather new at this husband-stuff. I'll get better at it. Just takes a bit of practice, you know? Why, even Charles would surely have made a few mistakes along the way —"
She kept walking. "I doubt it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, I doubt it."
He halted in his tracks, Crusader's broad head crashing into his shoulder blades as he watched her walk away. The words had cut deeply, and he could think of nothing to say in his defense. The truth was, of course, that the incomparable Charles probably wouldn't have made any mistakes.
She took a few more steps before she, too, paused. Her shoulders slumped, and she gave a heavy, tired sigh. She stood there for a moment, her back to him as though she was fighting some inner battle, and then, slowly, she turned and faced him, her face haunted by sadness.
"That was unfair. I'm sorry."
He looked away, his jaw hard. "There's no need to apologize."
"No, really. You and Charles are — were — two different people, and I should never have compared you to him."
"Whyever not?" He tried to laugh it off, but his anger showed in his voice, and the words were out before he could stop them. "Everyone else always did."
Immediately, her eyes darkened with sympathy, with understanding, with pity. She took a step forward.
Gareth raised his hand, stopping her. "I told you when we first met that if there's anything I'm good at, it's making a mess of things. And I've made a fine mess of this, haven't I?"
Her heart in her eyes, she took another step forward, slowly reaching out to lay her hand on his sleeve.
"You didn't make this mess, Gareth."
"No. Charles did, didn't he? My brother the saint, who never put a foot wrong, never gave anyone cause to blush for him, never made a mistake, never earned himself a caning, a whipping, a bad reputation. By God! Who would've thought."
She merely stood there, her hand burning a hole through his sleeve. He glanced sullenly at her, expecting — maybe even wanting — her to react, to snap back at him, so they could have it out right then and there and start their marriage with the air cleared between them.
But she did not.
"Aren't you even going to defend him?" he asked hotly. "Start proclaiming his virtue, his perfection, his god-awful sinless glory?"
She flinched, sadness filling her eyes. "No." Then, softly, she added, "Besides, he wasn't perfect."
"Wasn't he?"
"Of course not. As my grandmother always said, there was only one perfect person to ever walk this earth, and God took him back."
Gareth stared at a railing on the other side of the street, his eyes hard. He felt her let go of his sleeve and slowly pull away. They stood there awkwardly, neither saying a word.
A moment passed.
Another.
Carriages went by in the street.
"Well ..." she said at last.
He gave a humorless little laugh. "Well what?"
"I guess we'd better find a place to stay for the night."
"I suppose."
They said nothing, each wanting to mend the rift between them, neither one knowing quite how. Juliet bit her lip, frustrated by her thoughtless words of comparison, by her inability to mend the hurt she had caused. Then she looked down at Charlotte, who had blown herself out and now whimpered in heartbroken misery in her arms.
She handed the baby — a peace offering — to her husband.
Charlotte immediately hushed and looked up at him through her tears, her blue eyes wide and imploring as she reached up to touch his chin.
And Juliet knew the exact moment when Gareth's kind, bruised heart melted into a puddle at his feet.
"Ah, hell," he murmured, and as the baby smiled up at him, he reached down and thumbed the dampness from her cheeks, a reluctant smile already tugging at one corner of his mouth. Looking at this tender scene, Juliet was undone. How large and powerful his hand looked against Charlotte's tiny face. How little she looked in the cradle of his strong, capable arm.
And what a wonderful father he already is, despite his shortcomings.
Juliet's own gaze softened — and in that moment her husband glanced at her and caught her odd expression. He went still, and something deep and unspoken passed between them.
"Well, I guess we'd better go," he finally said, tucking Charlotte's blanket around her shoulders. "It'll be tea time soon at this rate."
"Am I forgiven, then?"
"Forgiven?" He grinned, slowly, like the sun breaking through a bank of clouds. Out came the dimple. Out came the sparkle in his blue, blue eyes. When he smiled like that, it was impossible to be angry at him for anything.
Anything at all.
He took her hand and rais
ed it to his lips before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. "Only, my dear, if you can forgive me for not being Charles."
"Oh, Gareth," she said, shaking her head and sidling close to him. "Let's just go and make the best of it, shall we?"
With that, they moved off down the street.
And neither noticed the tall figure that kept to the shadows just behind them.