Her Every Wish (The Worth Saga 1.5)

In the time since that night, Daisy had examined her response over and over.

“That depends,” she had said teasingly. “Precisely how many checks does your past have?”

“Maybe one or two.” His eyes had glinted wickedly.

“You can’t fool me.” She’d leaned in and kissed him. “There must be dozens. I know about the gambling.”

“That? That’s not really a check at all—just illegal.” He had given her a cocky smile.

Daisy had heard this from him a great deal in the last months. In some ways, it had felt like Crash had suspended her good sense.

She’d started arguing his side to herself.

Who do I hurt if I kiss him? If I let him put his hand there? It can’t really be wrong, not if it feels so right.

She’d told herself that so often that she’d almost completely believed it. Almost. She was already making excuses for him.

That had brought her to this moment, naked in bed with him.

“Really,” he mused, “the only true check in my past was the time Jeremy and I robbed Mr. Wintour. But he deserved it, and everyone does stupid things when they’re young…”

All Daisy’s explanations had failed her at that moment. Her stomach had roiled uneasily, and the almost she could not quite dispel returned with a vengeance.

“You did what?”

“Oh, did I not tell you about that?” He’d given her a brilliant, unashamed smile. “Actually, it’s an amusing story. Mr. Wintour, see, was Jeremy’s employer at the time—you recall Jeremy, yes? In any event, he accused Jeremy of thievery. Which was…” Crash had shaken his head. “Stupid and wrong, and in any event, Jeremy was sacked without his wages. Taking matters into our own hands was a matter of justice…”

Daisy had scarcely heard the account that followed.

Who does it hurt? He had always asked her that question. He’d given her his magical smile, and she’d gone along. His magic had finally failed.

Who does it hurt?

Here, there was an answer. Never mind his earnest confession. Never mind that it wasn’t that much or that Mr. Wintour had deserved it. Crash could only alter Daisy’s sense of right and wrong so far, and stealing was wrong. Under all circumstances. It was wrong, demonstrably wrong.

Maybe he’d been wrong about everything else.

“It was nine years ago,” he finished. “I was seventeen and stupid, and, well…”

And he was sorry now. She clutched at that. It had just been the once. Boys did stupid things.

Her thoughts might have been rationalizations, but she held tight to them. She had reached out and taken his hand impulsively.

“It doesn’t matter,” she had said. “I love you. I forgive you.”

He’d frowned down at her fingers twining with his.

“You forgive me,” he had finally said in a low tone. “Why do you forgive me? I didn’t steal from you. What are you forgiving me for?”

“For everything,” she had said earnestly. “I forgive you for everything you’ve done.”

“Everything.” The pleased animation had slipped from his face. The next words came slowly. “You forgive me for everything. Not just the one-time theft. Pardon me; I should like to have your everything spelled out.”

She’d felt confused.

He pulled his arm from her. “Do you forgive me for taking wagers?”

“Of course.”

“You forgive me my former lovers, I assume.”

“Naturally.”

Instead of appeasing him, each answer of hers made his face even more dangerous. “You forgive me for being a bastard, I suppose.”

“You know I do.”

His voice was low and cutting. “Next, you’ll forgive me my aunt and my mother. You’ll forgive me for not having English features, for the color of my skin, for—”

In the months since, she’d come to understand that she’d misstepped. She had said the wrong thing, precisely the wrong thing.

At the time, she’d thought she was reassuring him.

“Yes,” she had said desperately. “I do. All of it.”

“Then you surely forgive me for having the stones to believe I’m worth something.”

She’d stared at him in confusion. “How can you doubt it?

He had pulled away from her, standing up, hunting in their clothing piled together for his trousers. “Very well. Do you want me to forgive you for your mother? She’ll be a burden, that’s for sure. Shall I forgive you for working in a shop? I know you flirt with the men who come by.”

“Only a little—it doesn’t mean anything, just enough to puff up their esteem—”

“Don’t worry.” He made the next words sound ugly. “I forgive you.” His voice dropped. “I forgive you the fact that you were raised to think yourself better than you are.”

She had gasped.

“I forgive you your impertinent and unwomanly desire to be more.”

She had been beyond gasping.

“I forgive you your utter ignorance in bed,” he had continued, “and your maidenly qualms. Hell, I’ll forgive you your very existence in return. Even though, as these things are reckoned, you are a complete waste of a woman.”

She felt as if she’d been flayed alive. As if she were as sore in her spirit as she’d been between her legs. She’d pulled the sheets about her.

“What are you saying?”

“What does it sound like I’m saying? I forgive you, Daisy. I forgive every miserable thing about you.”

She had choked back tears, but his words hurt. Not because they were lies; they were all the truth. The truth she’d hoped he didn’t see. The simple facts of her, laid bare.

She was ignorant about lovemaking. She was impertinent. Her mother was a burden.

“I’m only saying what you said,” he told her. “I forgive you.”

“Maybe I didn’t say the right thing the right way.” She’d struggled to understand. “But there’s no call to hurt me like that. Good heavens, Crash, it’s not like I wounded you.”

Even now, even months later, it still hurt to remember his words. So she had said the wrong thing. What should it have mattered to him? She’d seen him shrug off worse insults, and her remarks had at least been kindly meant. His response… Now that had been truly unkind.

“Of course you didn’t wound me,” he had said. “I never feel pain. Wh

y should I care if you do?”

She had been too devastated to think. “Get out.” She’d scarcely managed those words.

“These are my rooms.”

“I don’t care.” She turned away from him. “I can’t look at you. I can’t talk to you. Get out.”

He’d hesitated. Perhaps at that moment, he realized that he’d said too much. “Daisy.”

“Don’t.” If he talked to her, she would remember all the lies she told herself. She’d remember thirty minutes ago, when he had said he loved her, when he’d kissed her and entered her and talked to her and made her laugh. She’d remember that, instead of what he had just said.

“Daisy. Wait.”

She had looked over at him. “For what?” she had said viciously. “For me to forgive you?”

He sat beside her. “I lost my temper. I have a— Oh, God, I have more than a little chip on my shoulder about some of this. And, well…” He had looked over at her. “I know everyone thinks I don’t care. I can’t let them know when I do. But I thought you understood me.”

She had thought she had, too. “Did you mean it? Any of it, somewhere—did you mean it?”

He had inhaled. He’d looked away. There had been a long moment where she’d scarcely been able to breathe. His knuckles had turned almost pale, clenching so hard. Very quietly, he’d spoken. “Yes.”

One word, and it had ended everything. All her lies. All her wishes. All her dreams.

Crash had been the lie she told herself.

Who does it hurt?

Her. It hurt her. It had stabbed her so deeply she thought she might weep blood.

“Don’t wait two months.” She had shut her eyes. “Go to France.”

“But—”

“There are telegrams,” she had told him. “If I have need of you, I will let you know. Go to France. We shouldn’t see each other any longer. Now get out.”

He had left the room. She’d dressed, her hands shaking, and let herself out.

Part of her had hoped that something would come of that single time together. She’d woken at night, her fingers probing her stomach, not sure if she feared a pregnancy or wanted one. If she’d been with child, she would have been forced to speak with him again, forced to lie herself back into love. But that wish, too, hadn’t come true.