Huge thanks to everyone who has read, commented, or interacted with this story so far—you all are the real MVPs! 🙌 I know things are starting to get a little... tangled, and I'm fully expecting some of you to want to yell at me after this chapter (and honestly, I probably deserve it). But please, bear with me and trust the process. I swear there's a method to this madness, and if there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I'm a hopeless romantic who's addicted to happy endings. So hang in there, and enjoy the ride! 😈✨
Chapter 16: A Series of Unfortunate Revelations
Smee sauntered in, followed closely by the ever-punctual Jukes, His Lordship's first footman. Before Hook, in all its glory, was laid a beefsteak fit for a king, along with his trusty companion—rum. Smee deftly carved into the steak while Emma, who had hoped to attend to this small ritual herself, sat stranded in her chair, fidgeting with a breakfast that tasted suspiciously like sawdust and went down just as smoothly.
For all her reputation as a seasoned interpreter of men's hearts, she found her own husband as enigmatic as a locked chest. Even last night's revelation—that he was not the vain peacock she'd imagined and that women hadn't fallen at his feet as effortlessly as she'd once believed—hadn't prepared her for the deeper layers of his inner turmoil.
She had simply reminded herself, with the quiet resignation of a wife too familiar with male folly, that most men were hopelessly blind to their own reflection. David, for instance, stared into a mirror and saw a genius staring back. Hook, in his own glance, managed to overlook the fact that he possessed the kind of physical allure that would give most men an existential crisis. Rather curious for someone who prided himself on his refined tastes, but then again, men were nothing if not walking contradictions.
As for the love of women? Emma herself had never exactly swooned at the thought of falling for Hook. It wasn't surprising, then, that other women—even those whose hearts were well-guarded or for sale—might decide he was a far too formidable opponent for their liking.
She should have pieced it together sooner that the difficulty lay deeper. His razor-sharp sensitivity, his simmering distrust of women, the barely concealed tension whenever he was at home, the acid resentment toward his mother, the stern portrait of his father hanging like a storm cloud in the background, and, of course, his maddeningly inconsistent behavior toward Emma herself. The clues had been there, scattered like breadcrumbs, but she'd somehow missed the trail.
She knew. Hadn't every nerve in her body screamed it? He needed her, craved something from her, as surely as a drowning man craves air.
He needed what every human being needed: love.
But for him, love wasn't just a pleasant necessity—it was an essential survival tool, the thing he'd been deprived of since his cradle days, a treasure he'd been chasing like a pirate after lost gold.
…he takes her love for granted, never pausing to appreciate it.
Emma should have played it cool, laughed it off, and kept things breezy, like he did. That was the rule, after all—never delve into the deeper waters of "mamas" and the little boys they adored. Had she done that, Hook wouldn't have looked at her with that wounded, childlike gaze. She wouldn't have glimpsed the lonely boy beneath the rogue bravado, and he wouldn't have caught the sorrow in her eyes.
Now he'd think she pitied him. Or worse, that she'd cunningly coaxed him into revealing his vulnerable side, a trap set with a smile.
He was probably livid, a storm brewing behind that too-calm exterior.
Don't, she begged silently. Be angry if you must, but don't turn your back and walk away.
Hook didn't leave.
Still, had Emma been even slightly less seasoned in the erratic arts of male behavior, his antics over the next few days would have crushed any lingering hopes she had of conjuring a "proper" marriage out of this whirlwind. She would have concluded that he wasn't just the Devil's apprentice, but the Devil himself—never a forlorn little boy with a broken heart, but a full-grown fiend who'd sprung, horns and all, straight from the skull of Lucifer, much like Athena's dramatic debut from Zeus' head.
But no, Emma quickly realized, that was precisely the illusion Hook wanted to sell. He aimed to convince her that he was a soulless rake, whose only real interest in her was delightfully wicked, and who saw her as little more than an interesting toy, convenient for passing the time between bouts of debauchery.
By Friday, he had "debauched" her in enough places to make a grand tour of the estate: the window seat in his bedroom, an alcove off the portrait gallery, beneath the grand pianoforte in the music room, and, for good measure, against the door of her sitting room—right under his mother's grim portrait, no less. And that was only the daytime depravity.
At least when they were making love he was nothing if not consistent. Whatever cold, calculated indifference he might feign while in his rational mind, there was no denying that in the throes of passion, he wanted her—desperately. And making her equally unhinged with desire was clearly a central feature of his wicked agenda.
The rest of the time, though, Hook was every inch the villain the world expected him to be. He could be amiable, even charming, for hours—like a cat purring on your lap, only to suddenly swipe at you with claws unsheathed. Without warning, he'd drench her in sarcasm like a slow acid drip, or pat her on the head with patronizing quips, or worse—deliver a casual phrase, perfectly crafted to ignite a raging inferno in her mind.
His message was loud and clear: Emma was allowed to want him, even lust after him, but softer feelings? Absolutely not. Affection or, God forbid, compassion were unwelcome. She could look but not touch the metaphorical dark, twisted depths of his soul—assuming it existed at all. Getting under his skin? Heaven forbid! Sneaking into his rotten, blackened heart? Out of the question.
Which was thoroughly unfair, considering the beast had already burrowed under her skin and was worming his way into her heart like the most charming parasite to ever hitch a ride. He didn't even have to try. Despite her best efforts and every ounce of common sense, she was falling for him—not in a reckless plunge like lust, but a slow, inevitable slide toward the abyss.
Not that this dulled her urge to throttle him. Hook was a genius at being infuriating, a true master of the art. By Friday, she was seriously weighing her options: should she shoot him again, or perhaps get creative and select a body part she could more easily live without?
By Saturday, she had it all figured out. His brain, she decided, was probably the most expendable organ of the lot.
He had woken in the ungodly hours of the morning, randy as could be, and promptly woke her to remedy the issue. As it turned out, the condition required not one, but two vigorous treatments. Consequently, they'd overslept.
Because of their leisurely start, they arrived at the wrestling match just minutes after the action began, missing the prime spots in the crowd. And naturally, it was all Emma's fault. According to Hook's logic, he never would've gotten randy in the first place if she hadn't been innocently dozing with her backside pressed right up against his personal area.
"We're far too close," he grumbled now, his arm slung protectively over her shoulders. "Another few rounds and you'll be positively drenched—in sweat, if you're lucky. Blood, if Sawyer doesn't stop trying to turn Keast's knees into jelly."
Emma wisely refrained from pointing out that it was he who had insisted on bulldozing his way to the front.
"That's what Cann did to Polkinhorne," she remarked casually. "Knee-kicking is all fair play in west country wrestling, as I understand it."
"I wish someone in this godforsaken mob thought soap and water were fair play," he muttered, casting a disgusted look around. "I'd bet fifty quid that not a soul within a mile has seen the inside of a bath in at least a year."
All Emma could detect in the air were the usual male scents—spirits, tobacco, and a generous dose of musk. But even those took effort to register, as her senses were utterly overwhelmed by the intoxicating proximity of her husband. His unique scent had her toes curling involuntarily. Staying focused on the wrestling match was a Herculean task when her body hummed with the memory of their earlier, feverish tryst. His hand dangled tantalizingly close to her breast, and she wondered—just briefly—if anyone would notice if she simply leaned in a bit to close the gap.
She hated herself for wanting to close it.
"This match is an absolute farce," Hook muttered, his irritation simmering. "I could bring Sawyer down with both hands tied and one leg in a splint. Hell, you could take him, love, and you wouldn't even break a sweat. I cannot fathom why Nemo bothered to travel two hundred miles to witness this dismal excuse for sport when he could've stayed home—comfortably, mind you—and busied himself with his wife. Now, if the girl were bracket-faced or had a complexion like a plague victim, one might understand his reluctance. But she's quite decent enough, if you're into those delicate, China doll types. And if she isn't his cup of tea, then why in God's name did the idiot marry her? It's not as though she was carrying his heir. Nor is she likely to, with him gallivanting around the country rather than attending to his husbandly duties."
It was classic Hook—everyone and everything existed solely to irritate him, even poor Nemo, who was being roundly condemned for the crime of not… well, staying comfortably at home with his wife.
Comfortably? Emma blinked in mild astonishment. Good grief, had she actually made progress with her thickheaded husband? Had he inadvertently admitted that staying home with one's wife was a pleasurable experience?
Suppressing a smile, she glanced up at his scowling face. "My lord," she said sweetly, "you don't seem to be enjoying yourself."
"The stench here is intolerable," Hook growled, glaring past her as though the air itself had personally offended him. "And that blasted swine Rufio is leering at you. The man is practically begging for me to relieve him of his head."
"Rufio?" Emma craned her neck, trying to spot the culprit, but with the mob packed so tightly, every face looked the same.
"You needn't bother," Hook snapped. "If you so much as glance in his direction, he'll mistake it for encouragement. Oh, brilliant—now Nottingham's at it. And Pendragon, too."
"Perhaps they're looking at you, " Emma said with a calm that completely betrayed her soaring spirits. Hook, jealous? Glorious. "They likely had bets on whether you'd show up, and Rufio isn't leering, but gloating because he's won."
"If that's the case, I wish I'd stayed home. In bed," Hook grumbled, frowning down at her. "But no, my wife's entire existence would crumble to dust if she didn't get to see a wrestling match, so—"
"So, like the gallant knight you are, you sacrificed your comfort for my amusement," Emma interrupted smoothly. "And now, after all that effort, it's turned out to be a pathetic excuse for a match. Naturally, you're vexed because you wanted to treat me, and you think it's been ruined."
Hook's frown deepened, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Emma, you're humoring me. I'm not a child, and I have a strong aversion to being humored."
"Well," she said with a shrug, "if you don't want to be humored, perhaps you should stop fussing over every little thing and just say what's bothering you. I'm not a mind reader, you know." She turned her attention back to the wrestlers, though her focus remained entirely on the outraged man beside her.
"Fussing?" he echoed, his voice growing dangerously quiet. His hand dropped from her shoulder like a guillotine falling. " Fussing? "
"Yes, like a two-year-old who missed his nap," she replied, completely unruffled.
"A two-year-old?"
She nodded, her eyes on the wrestlers but her entire being tuned into the ticking time bomb beside her.
Hook took one—two—three furious breaths. "We're leaving," he bit out. "Back to the carriage. Now ."
Killian didn't quite make it to the carriage. In fact, he barely made it past the outer rim of the crowd, which was no small feat given their late arrival and the tangle of carriages cluttering the area. Crested coaches were wedged up against humble farm wagons, while the unfortunate souls left to tend the cattle bickered loudly, venting their frustrations with the world—something Killian could certainly relate to at that moment.
He had vexations of his own—so many, in fact, that he was quite sure he'd combust long before they reached the carriage. With a firm grip on his wife's arm, he veered toward the first unoccupied spot he could find, desperation guiding him as much as fury.
It turned out to be a graveyard—a long-forgotten one, attached to a tiny, crumbling church that looked as though it hadn't seen a congregation since the Spanish Armada was newsworthy. The gravestones, their inscriptions long ago devoured by the relentless salt air, leaned drunkenly in every direction except upright. The ones that hadn't fully surrendered were making a half-hearted attempt at standing, while the others had collapsed entirely, lying sprawled in the weeds like sailors too far gone on rum, with the weeds huddling around them like thieves waiting to pick their pockets.
"It's as though the place didn't even exist," Emma mused, gazing around, seemingly oblivious to the large, furious hand that still had her by the arm as Killian marched her forward. "As if no one's noticed or cared that it's here. How odd."
"You won't find it so odd in a moment," he growled, a dangerous glint in his eye. "In fact, you'll wish you didn't exist."
"And where are we off to, Hook?" Emma asked, one eyebrow quirked with maddening calm. "I'm quite certain this isn't the shortcut to the carriage."
"You'll be very lucky if it's not a shortcut to your funeral," he shot back.
"Oh, look!" she exclaimed, feigning innocence, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
"What splendid rhododendrons."
Killian didn't need to follow her gaze to know what she was pointing at. He'd already clocked the monstrous shrubs, their blooms bursting in shades of white, pink, and purple, like some botanical fanfare. But more importantly, he'd spotted the pillared gateway nestled in their midst. Judging by the overgrown state of things, there might have once been a wall connected to it—perhaps it enclosed the church property, or maybe the estate beyond. Not that it mattered now. All he cared about was that the rhododendrons formed a perfect, impenetrable screen from the outside world.
He dragged her to the gateway and hauled her against the right-hand pillar, where the foliage offered the most concealment.
"A two-year-old , am I, my lady?" His voice was low, dark, as he ripped off his right glove with his teeth, spitting it to the ground. "I'll show you just how old I am." The second glove followed with similar ferocity.
Her eyes flicked to his hands, her brow raising a fraction higher.
Without breaking eye contact, he swiftly unfastened the buttons of his trousers, his movements sharp and decisive. The flap fell open.
He heard her breath hitch—just a little—and a slow, wicked smile curled his lips.
His shaft, straining impatiently against the confines of his French bearer, demanded release with each pulse. Nine buttons stood between him and the inevitable, but they didn't last long—seconds later, his throbbing need sprang free, rigid and eager.
Emma leaned back against the pillar, eyes fluttering closed, as if bracing for the storm she knew was coming.
With a growl of pure frustration, he yanked up her skirts. "I've wanted you all damn day, curse you," he rasped, his voice thick with desire.
There was no time for the delicate unraveling of drawer strings or even a pretense of restraint. His fingers found the slit in her drawers, and without hesitation, tangled in the soft curls between her thighs.
The moment he touched her, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them—the heat of her skin, the urgent rhythm of her breath quickening beneath his fingers. It only took a few rough caresses before she was pressing against him, her body giving him all the permission he needed.
He drove into her, a scorching rush of pleasure shooting through him at the slick heat of her welcome. Her moan—a low, sensual sound that echoed in his bones—only fanned the flames further. With one swift movement, he gripped her bottom and hoisted her up.
Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, and she clung to his shoulders, her head falling back as she let out a throaty, teasing laugh. "I've wanted you too, Hook. I thought I'd go mad."
"Fool indeed," he grunted, his thrusts hard and demanding. Only a fool would want a beast like him, and she must be half-crazed.
"Your fool," she whispered, tightening her grip on him.
"Stop it, Emma," he ground out, his breath ragged. She wasn't anyone's fool, least of all his.
She leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "I love you."
Her words hit him like arrows, each one aimed straight at the walls he'd so carefully built around his heart. He couldn't— wouldn't —let them in.
With a growl, he pulled back, almost all the way, only to slam into her again, harder, trying to drown out the sound of her voice with the sheer force of his body.
"You can't stop me," she gasped, her breath hitching. "I love you."
Each thrust was fierce, relentless, but she met him word for word, her defiance matching his intensity. "I love you," she whispered again, and again, like a chant—a spell—determined to break through, as though her love could pierce him deeper than his body ever could hers.
"I love you," she murmured, even as the world tilted on its axis, and pleasure ripped through him like a storm. The heavens seemed to crack open, rapture shooting down his spine like lightning, but still, she wouldn't stop.
Desperate to silence her, he covered her mouth with his hand, but the words were already seeping into him, flowing into the dry, empty spaces of his heart even as his seed spilled into her. He couldn't stop his heart from drinking in those words, couldn't stop the way it throbbed with the awful, dangerous hope they carried. He had tried to shut her out—tried to need nothing more from her than he could control. But it was futile.
He had never been—would never be—safe from her.
Femme fatale.
But, as he sagged against her, spent and breathless, he thought there were worse ways to meet one's end.
Carpe diem , he told himself with a weary smirk. If he was going to die of love, he might as well enjoy every moment before the fatal blow.
As fate would have it, no sooner had Killian stepped out of paradise than he stumbled straight into Hell.
By the time they left the churchyard and began the search for their carriage, the absurd wrestling match had come to an equally absurd end—caught in some sort of technical dispute that had the crowd buzzing like a disturbed hive. Spectators swarmed in all directions, some trudging back toward town, others jostling their way through the throng of wagons and carriages, grumbling as they went.
Not far from their carriage, Arthur hailed him.
"I'll wait in the carriage," Emma said, slipping her hand from his arm with a faint smile. "I can't be expected to engage in any sort of civilized conversation at the moment."
He chuckled knowingly, though his own grip on coherence was tenuous at best. Letting her retreat into the carriage, Killian joined Arthur, doing his best to appear like a man with his wits still intact.
Soon enough, they were surrounded by several others, Rufio among them, and Killian found himself swept up in a sea of animated grievances over the scandalous disappointment that was the match.
Arthur was halfway through an impassioned critique of the disputed throw when Killian noticed Rufio wasn't listening at all. His gaze was fixed elsewhere—somewhere over Killian's shoulder, entirely too intent for comfort.
Certain Rufio was ogling Emma again, Killian shot him a sharp, warning glare.
Rufio, ever oblivious, didn't even flinch. Instead, he turned back to Killian with a wide grin. "Looks like your footman's got more than he bargained for."
Killian followed the Duke's gaze, convinced it was yet another lewd comment about his wife. But no—Emma was safely ensconced inside the carriage, well out of reach of Rufio's wandering eyes.
What had caught his attention, though, was Jukes, their first footman, in a rather undignified tussle with a filthy street urchin. A pickpocket, by the look of him—ragged and wiry, the kind of pest that infested events like this in swarms, much like the whores and gamblers.
Jukes had the scrappy little miscreant by the collar, but the boy was no amateur. He twisted free with all the grace of a greased eel and kicked Jukes hard enough to make him howl. The guttersnipe then let loose a string of profanities so vile it could've made a sailor blush.
Before Killian could step in, the carriage door flew open and out came Emma, her voice sharp with command. "Jukes! What in the devil are you doing?"
Though Killian had no doubt Emma could handle the situation—whatever it was—he was, after all, supposed to be the one in charge, and his friends were watching with barely concealed amusement. A man couldn't let his wife go charging into a brawl while he stood around chatting.
He hurried over to intervene, only to be met with a bloodcurdling scream from behind.
The shriek startled Jukes enough to loosen his grip, and the little pickpocket didn't waste a second. In the blink of an eye, the urchin was gone, darting through the crowd like a bullet, leaving nothing but a trail of chaos in his wake.
But Killian charged forward in a blur of motion, snatching the filthy little brat by the shoulder and yanking him to a halt. "See here, you little—"
The insult died on his lips the moment the boy looked up. Killian froze, staring down into sullen blue eyes, narrowed beneath elven ears, in a dark, scowling face that was alarmingly familiar.
His hand recoiled as though it had touched something scalding.
The boy didn't run. His sullen gaze widened, and his mouth fell open in a silent gasp, mirroring Killian's own shock.
"Yes, lovey," came a shrill voice that cut through the moment like a knife. "That's your pa, just like I said. Spitting image of you, isn't he? Aren't you, my lord? And isn't he just like you?"
Hideously so. It was as if the air between them was not space, but time itself—twenty-five years collapsed into nothing—and Killian found himself staring into a grotesque reflection, as if some cruel devil had conjured a mirror to show him a version of his younger self, twisted by fate.
And the voice… Satan's own whore. Killian didn't need to see her to know. Milah Lydgate. The moment her words pierced the air, he knew she had orchestrated this entire nightmare with the same deliberate malice she'd used to bring this bastard child into existence.
When he finally met her gaze, it was dripping with malevolent triumph. Of course she had planned this. Of course she had brought him here, to this very public stage, to watch the world crack open at his feet.
Killian's mouth opened, a laugh bubbling up from the pit of his stomach—because what else was there to do? When the absurdity of life knocked you flat, sometimes all that was left was the bitter bark of a laugh.
But then, with a jolt, he remembered. This wasn't some twisted purgatory where he and Milah played their endless game. This was real, tangible, and they were surrounded by an audience—an audience that included his wife.
Though it felt as though hours had stretched between heartbeats, mere seconds had passed before Killian was moving, instinctively positioning himself to block Emma's view of the boy. But the brat, apparently cut from the same cloth, snapped out of his daze and bolted into the crowd.
"Harry!" his cursed mother screeched, her voice like nails on slate. "Come back, lovey!"
Killian's gaze darted to Emma. She stood a short distance away, her eyes flicking from the woman to him, and then to the crowd where the boy had vanished like a wisp of smoke. His heart lurched. He had to move fast.
He sent a quick glance at Rufio, who—although was as drunk as a lord, naturally—seemed to pick up on the urgency. "By gad, is that you, Milah, my sweet flower?" he bellowed, swaggering toward the scene with all the subtlety of a cannonball.
Milah, already striding toward Emma, froze mid-step. But before she could react, Rufio intercepted, catching her by the arm in a gallant, if slightly wobbly, motion. "By heaven, it is you!" he declared, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of half the spectators. "And here I thought you were still locked up in the asylum!"
"Let me go!" she screeched, her voice shrill enough to curdle milk. "I've got something to say to Her Ladyship!"
But by then, Killian had reached Emma, positioning himself between her and the growing spectacle. "Into the carriage," he said, his tone low but firm.
Emma's wide, questioning eyes locked onto his, full of understanding yet brimming with unspoken questions. She glanced briefly toward Milah, who was now being forcibly escorted away by Rufio and a few other companions who had wisely decided to involve themselves in the unfolding drama.
"She's not well," Killian said quickly, dismissively. "Nothing worth your attention. Now, into the carriage, love."
Emma hesitated for a beat, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but then, with a grace and composure that unnerved him, she simply nodded and allowed him to guide her into the waiting vehicle.
Emma sat in the carriage like a marble statue—her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her lips a thin, unforgiving line. The wheels groaned into motion, but she remained frozen, silent as a tomb, her frigid posture unbroken by even the roughest jolts of the road.
Twenty minutes of this cold, stony silence was more than Killian could endure. His patience snapped, though he fought to keep his tone measured. "I beg your pardon," he said, voice as stiff as his spine. "I promised you wouldn't be embarrassed in public, and I didn't embarrass you on purpose. Surely, that much is obvious."
Her eyes remained fixed on some point in the distance. "I'm well aware you didn't sire the child on purpose ," she replied, her words sharper than glass. "But I suspect paternity wasn't your first concern while you were tumbling a trollop."
Ah. So much for clinging to the faint hope she hadn't seen the boy's face.
Of course she had. Emma missed nothing. If she could spot a priceless artifact hidden under layers of grime and dust, she could certainly pick out a bastard's resemblance at twenty paces.
No doubt lingered now—she had seen the boy. Emma wouldn't have taken a trollop's accusations at face value. If she hadn't recognized the truth in his features, she would've at least given him a chance to explain, to deny it. But there would be no denying those dark, elfin features, no talking his way out of this when the evidence was as plain as day.
The boy's scowling face had told her everything. Black hair, stormy blue eyes, and ears that could only belong to one person. And the mother? Well, Milah's auburn hair and gray eyes only underscored the damning truth.
"And don't even think about pretending you didn't know," Emma continued, her voice as cold as the North Sea. "Rufio knew, and he moved quickly enough to hustle the woman away, like I'm some half-wit who couldn't see what was right in front of me. Asylum , indeed. It's the lot of you who belong in Bedlam—running around like headless chickens, while the boy slips away. You had him," she whirled to face him, her eyes blazing with accusation. "But you let him go! How could you, Hook? I could hardly believe my eyes. Where in God's name were your wits?"
He stared, momentarily stunned by the ferocity in her words.
She turned back toward the window, her voice vibrating with barely contained frustration. "Now we've lost him. And heaven knows how long it'll take to find him again. I could scream. If I hadn't been dragged off to that churchyard—where, by the way, walking was a challenge, let alone running—I might've had a chance to catch him myself. But no, I mustn't contradict you in public, can't very well shout, 'After him, you idiot!' in front of your friends, can I? Not that it would have mattered. The boy was there one second, then gone the next. I've never seen anyone vanish so quickly."
Her words landed like hammer blows, but it was the force of her unspoken plea that struck him hardest.
Find him. Catch him.
She wanted him to go after that… creature —the living proof of his sins, birthed by that wretched, scheming woman. She wanted him to chase down the vile mistake he'd made in a fit of lust and madness. She wanted him to…
To look at it. To touch it.
"No!" The word ripped from Killian, a primal roar of denial that echoed off the walls of his mind, where shadows and ice reigned. In that instant, his world collapsed inward, the small, dark face he'd seen twisting his insides into a maelstrom of fury and loathing that threatened to consume him. Emma's words had cracked open the dam, but now the familiar cold came rushing in, smothering the chaos before it could swallow him whole.
His next words were eerily calm, as though carved from the ice encasing his heart. "No," he repeated, his voice measured, controlled—dangerously so. "There will be no 'finding.' That child should never have existed. Milah knew damn well how to handle such… inconveniences. She'd done it before. Likely many times after."
Emma's eyes widened, her face paling as she looked at him, shocked into silence. The last time he'd seen her look like that was when he'd told her about his mother. The same look of disbelief, as if she were seeing a part of him she'd hoped didn't exist.
"But," he continued, his voice hardening, "Milah was no fool. Wealthy aristocrats don't cross her path every day. And when she realized she was carrying, she didn't care whether the child was mine or Rufio's. Either way, she saw a plump little pigeon ready for the plucking. As soon as the boy's cursed ears gave the game away, she wasted no time contacting my solicitor—offering to disappear quietly for a mere five hundred a year."
"Five hundred?" Emma's face flushed with indignant color. "To a professional? And not even a proper mistress, but a common trollop you shared with your friend?" Her tone sharpened. "And one who had the babe on purpose, no less—not some unfortunate, respectable girl caught in the family way."
Killian's expression darkened. " Respectable ? Did you imagine , even for an instant, that I—good God, what?—seduced some naive, wide-eyed innocent and left her with child?" His voice rose, though he reined it back quickly, his fist clenched at his side. "You know full well I avoided such entanglements until you detonated into my life."
"Certainly I never imagined you'd bother with the effort of seducing an innocent," she replied crisply. "I simply hadn't considered a woman might scheme to have a child purely out of greed. Even now, it's hard to fathom. Five hundred pounds," she scoffed. "I doubt even the Royal Dukes maintain their by-blows in such luxury. No wonder you're outraged—and no wonder there's such bad blood between you and the mother. She must have gone out of her way to embarrass you. She must have known you'd brought your wife along."
"If she tries again," he growled, "I'll have her—and that guttersnipe she spawned—transported. If she dares come within twenty miles of you—"
"Hook, the woman is one matter," Emma interrupted firmly. "The child is another. He didn't ask to have her for a mother, nor to be born into this mess. She was exceedingly unkind to use him as a pawn today. No child should be subjected to such a scene, but I strongly doubt she cares for anyone's feelings but her own. I noticed she was dressed far better than her so-called 'lovey.' Dirt is one thing—little boys can't stay clean for more than two minutes—but rags? There's no excuse for it, not when she's garbed like a London high-flyer." She looked up at him pointedly. "How much are you giving her?"
"Fifty," he bit out. "More than enough to feed and clothe him, while she spends everything else on herself. But the rags were part of her act—to make me look like the villain of the piece. Too bad I'm well-accustomed to the role. What fools think doesn't trouble me in the slightest."
"Fifty a year is more than generous. How old is he?" Emma asked, her tone softening only slightly. "Six, seven?"
"Eight," Killian muttered. "But it makes no—"
"Old enough to notice his appearance," she interrupted. "There's no excuse for dressing him so shabbily when she has the means to do better. He must feel mortified. No wonder he lashed out at Jukes. But this isn't about his mother's lack of care—it's about the boy himself. All you've told me only convinces me she's an unfit mother. And, Killian, you must set aside your feelings for her and consider your son. He is your son , by law and by blood. You can take him away from her."
"No," he said again, the word a cold shield against the storm inside him. He had smothered the feelings as best he could, but his head pounded like a drum, and his useless arm throbbed in mocking sympathy. If only physical pain could be frozen and stifled like emotion. He could barely think beyond the ache, and even if he could, no amount of calm reasoning would ever explain his actions to her in a way that would make sense.
He shouldn't have tried. He could never make her understand. And frankly, he didn't want her to understand—not what he'd felt when he'd looked into that boy's eyes, not the nauseating recognition staring back at him like some grotesque reflection in the devil's mirror.
"No," he repeated, more firmly this time, hoping to squash the conversation before it dragged him any further into the abyss. "And stop fussing , Emma. None of this would've happened if you hadn't insisted on going to that blasted wrestling match. By God, I can't so much as move a foot when you're around without—" he waved a hand wearily, as if gesturing to the chaos of the universe—"without everything exploding in my face."
He rubbed his temple, wincing. "No wonder I have a headache. It's always something. Women everywhere—wives, mothers, whores, Madonnas—and now you plaguing me to death with it all. Honestly, how is a man meant to survive?"
His words were biting, but underneath them was an undercurrent of exhaustion and helplessness, as though he was not so much railing against Emma as he was against the entire absurdity of his life.
By this point, Arthur Pendragon had deftly taken over the Milah situation from Rufio and the others, marching her toward the seedy inn where she claimed she was staying. She shouldn't have been anywhere near Devonport. She was supposed to be tucked away in Ashburton, where he'd left her two days earlier—without a single mention of Hook or Hook's bastard.
Back in Ashburton, all she'd done was slink into the public room, sit herself down at a table with a man who clearly knew her, and exchange a few casual words before he wandered off. Arthur's comrades had dispersed for their own carnal pursuits, and before he knew it, Arthur found himself buying Milah a tankard of ale and sharing her company. One thing led to another, and they'd adjourned for a few hours of what Will had insisted Arthur "badly needed."
Will, as usual, had been right on that front. The man had an irritating habit of being right about many things.
But Will wasn't here now to point out the obvious: what Milah badly needed was to be throttled within an inch of her scheming life.
The inn, blessedly far from respectable, was full of patrons who didn't so much as blink when Arthur stomped up the stairs after her. The moment they were in her room, he slammed the door and grabbed her by the shoulders, giving her a violent shake.
"You lying, sneaking, troublemaking little strumpet!" he exploded. His hands tightened instinctively, but he wrenched himself away, worried he'd snap her neck if he didn't. As much as he wanted to throttle her, he wasn't quite ready to hang for killing a tart.
"Oh, my," she laughed, completely unbothered. "Not the welcome I was hoping for, Artie, darling. I daresay you're not happy to see me."
"Don't call me that, and I'm not your darling, you daft cow! Do you want me dead? If Hook finds out I was with you in Ashburton, he'll think I put you up to that little scene today. You know what he'll do then, don't you?"
He flung himself into a chair. "He'll rip me apart, limb by limb, and save the questions for dessert," he groaned, raking his fingers through his hair like he might yank it all out for good measure. "And hoping he won't find out? Ha! That's a fool's wager. Nothing ever stays quiet where he's concerned. It's like I'm cursed! Twenty thousand pounds—slipped through my fingers—didn't even know it existed until it was gone. And now this? All because I didn't know you were there. And that brat— his bastard. Who knew he had one? But thanks to you, now everyone does—including her —and if he doesn't kill me first, she'll shoot me dead on sight."
Milah slinked over, all sultry smiles and mischief. "Did you say 'twenty thousand,' darling?" She perched herself on his lap, sliding his hand against her ample cleavage.
"Get off," he grumbled. "Not in the mood."
Arthur Pendragon's mood was one of black despair.
He was neck-deep in debt, with no hope of clawing his way out, all because Dame Fortune had decided to make him her personal chew toy. And as Will had wisely pointed out, she was nothing if not fickle. One moment, she's handing priceless icons to men already richer than Croesus; the next, she's leaving Arthur, who had barely two pennies to rub together, with even less. And as if that weren't enough, she couldn't even give him a simple tart without making sure the same woman would eventually be the death of him.
Pendragon, truly, was a man on the brink. What little common sense and confidence he'd once had had been thoroughly pillaged—torn to tatters by a man whose chief joy in life seemed to be ensuring the misery of others.
Arthur was utterly incapable of seeing that his situation wasn't quite the apocalypse he'd convinced himself it was—no more than he could see Will Scarlet for the crafty puppet master pulling his strings and whispering poison into his ears.
With his mind thoroughly tainted, Arthur had come to believe that his friendship with Hook was the root of all his misfortunes. "'He who sups with the devil needs a long spoon,'" Will had said, and Arthur, in a fit of sudden clarity, realized his spoon had been far too short. He was in the same sorry state as David Nolan, whose association with Hook had likewise ruined him—or so Arthur believed. Dining with the devil had left them both damned.
And now, thanks to Milah and her sharp tongue, Arthur wasn't just ruined—he was inches from a violent end. He needed to think, or better yet, flee. But it was hard to do either with a voluptuous woman draped across his lap like a blanket of temptation.
Despite his simmering anger at her, he wasn't quite ready to shove her off. Her ample curves were warm, and she was stroking his hair in that soothing way, as if he hadn't just nearly strangled her minutes ago. Even the touch of a brazen wench had its comforts, and under her skillful hands, Arthur's righteous fury began to melt.
After all, Hook had wronged Milah too, hadn't he? And at least she had the nerve to stand up to the man. Plus, she was undeniably pretty— very pretty—and delightful company in bed. With a sigh of resignation, he squeezed her breast and kissed her.
"There now," she purred, a teasing grin curling her lips. "You've been ever so naughty, haven't you? Acting like I wouldn't look after you." She ruffled his hair, playful as a kitten. "Silly boy. He's not going to think anything like what you're saying. All I need to do is tell them how Mr. Pendragon generously gave me twenty pounds to stay out of the way and not trouble his dear, dear friend, Lord Hook. I'll even say you insisted I not spoil their honeymoon!" She winked, clearly pleased with her own ingenuity.
Milah, ever the cunning vixen, knew exactly what she was doing. Arthur, lost in the softness of her ample bosom, couldn't see past the luxurious curves that now seemed to cradle all his woes.
"But I came anyway," she purred, stroking his hair, "because I'm a wicked, lying whore, aren't I? And you were so vexed with me that you beat me—oh, how you beat me!" She punctuated the tale with a kiss to the top of his head, her voice as sweet as poisoned honey.
Arthur, face still pressed to her bodice, groaned. "I wish I had twenty pounds. I'd give it to you, I swear. Milah, what am I to do?"
Milah, possessing the kind of expertise that made her profession an art form, didn't miss a beat. She showed him exactly what to do—both with her and, as it turned out, with his entire pitiful situation. Arthur, bless his gullible heart, mistook her well-honed craft for genuine affection. By the time the night was through, he'd spilled more than just his emotions to her. All of his troubles, every tangled mess, poured from his lips like cheap wine, and Milah, ever the opportunist, drank it all in.
While Arthur drifted off to sleep, his worries temporarily soothed by her warm embrace, Milah lay wide awake, her mind working like clockwork. The gears of ambition turned and clicked as she plotted, each plan more devious than the last. Arthur might have thought he'd found solace, but Milah was already mapping out how to turn his misfortune into her grand fortune.
