But he could love her well, and out loud. He could mend what he had broken. And that might be enough.
Would. It would be enough.
It took him longer than it should have to find the tavern he sought, The Bell in Hand, through the twisting, turning labyrinthine streets of the unfamiliar city. It did not help that his accent and clothing revealed his home country; it seemed many Americans were uninterested in aiding an Englishman—and so Haven was grateful they did not immediately identify his title.
He’d traveled half the world for her—older, more venerable, more powerful countries. He was not about to let America keep him from her.
He pushed into the smoky tavern, assaulted immediately with dim lights and the din of men on their way into their cups. Not only men. There were women, too, laughing and drinking deep of their tankards, and Haven tracked them with eager eyes, searching for one woman in particular. His woman. His wife.
It was a full room, and poorly lit, and he could not be immediately certain she was not there. There was a woman, he’d been told. Voice like a summer songbird. Dark hair and a perfect face that had the rumor mill thinking she was French—weren’t all beautiful women French?—but it was possible she was English. She’d appeared from nowhere three months after Sera had left him. They called her The Dove.
He’d imagined her just inside this door, alone, frozen in time and space. Close enough for him to capture her by the waist, toss her over his shoulder, get her back to the boat, and spend the entire journey home apologizing to her. Winning her back. Loving her to distraction.
But dreams were not reality. Seraphina was not in this room. Haven purchased an ale and, putting his back to the bar, considered the assembly. The timing was right. Perhaps he was desperate. Perhaps he was mad. But the timing was right, and it seemed right. She was dark and beautiful, tall and elegant, and she sang like an angel.
His gaze fell to a doorway at the back of the room, hinting at more space, promising more people. Promising her. He headed for it. Might have reached it, if not for the heavy hand that came to his shoulder.
“Looks like you’ve lost your way, toff.”
Haven shrugged off the hand and turned, one fist curling at his side, ready for a fight. An American stood inches away, an inch or two shorter than Haven, but an inch or two broader. It had been a few years since Haven had felled someone of this size, but he had been a top fighter at Oxford, and had little concern for the skill returning if necessary.
Before he could speak, the American added, “You aren’t welcome here.”
Haven’s brows rose. “You disapprove of men with funds to drink?”
Something flared in the American’s gaze. Something like recognition, tinged with something like loathing. “I disapprove of Brits who don’t know their place.” The American nodded to the door. “Find somewhere else to drink.”
Haven emptied his tankard and set it on the bar, then extracted his purse and removed several coins. Extending them to the other man, he said, “Give me five minutes in the other room. I shan’t break anything.”
The American stared long and hard at the coin before taking it. Haven resisted the urge to smirk. Every man had a price, and it seemed as though this man’s was rather low. The American flashed a row of straight white teeth. “Well, if you’re paying for it. What are you looking for?”
Haven looked toward the door. “A woman.”
The American grunted. “We’re not a brothel.”
“I’m looking for a specific woman,” Haven said. “A singer. I’m told she sings here.”
The other man nodded. “You’re talking about The Dove.”
“She is here.” The words came on a wave of relief. Haven’s heart beat stronger and faster. It was she. He knew it without hesitation. He turned to the doorway, his only thought getting to her.
The hand again, at the same shoulder. This time firmer.
This time, Haven swatted it away with force, turning again. “Touch me again, and I will not hesitate to touch back.”
“With that response, I’m not letting you get near her.”
Malcolm took a deep breath. Willed himself calm. Failed. “Where is she?”
“What do you want with her?”
“To—” He stopped. To bring her home. To start anew. To find what they had once had. To find more. “To talk.”
“Who are you?”
I’m her husband. How long had it been since he’d said that word? It felt, somehow, unwelcome until she’d returned it to him. He hesitated over his reply.
The American did not hesitate. “Cat got your tongue, Red?”
A collection of laughter followed the words, and Haven imagined he’d been insulted, as though it hadn’t been half a century since the redcoats fought in Boston.
I’m a goddamn duke! he wanted to scream, but he knew it would do him no good. There were few doors such a statement could not open in Britain, and yet here it would likely make things worse.
“I’m a friend.”
The American’s unsettling green eyes narrowed. “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
The words were low enough that they should not have been heard by any but Haven, but they seemed to silence the room nonetheless.
And that’s when he heard her.
“When I remember all the friends, so link’d together, I’ve seen around me fall, like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one who treads alone.”
He’d know the voice anywhere. The way it curled like liquid smoke through the room, sad and soulful, touching minds and hearts and making men sit up and pant. He remembered her singing in his arms once before. Before she’d betrayed him. Before he’d betrayed her.
He met the American’s gaze, the other man’s green eyes flickering away the moment they met him. Past him. To the door to the back room. Haven saw the nervousness in them, even as he saw the barely-there shake of the other man’s head.
She was there.
And he would tear the place down to find her if he must.
Curse on his lips, he turned and started for the room, the crowd suddenly thicker, less fluid. He threw shoulders and elbows to get men out of the way.
“Wait!” the American shouted from behind, catching him by the sleeve, then the arm, leaving him no choice.
Haven turned, the punch already flying. Connecting with a wicked thud, the other man’s nose giving way beneath his fist.
“Christ!” The other man buckled, hand flying to his nose, blood immediately covering his hand.
Haven had broken it, and he had no regrets. The American could hang, for all he cared. Shaking the sting from his hand, he said, loud enough for the room to hear it, “Anyone who gets in my way receives the same.”
He turned on his heel, and the path to the back room opened, bodies eager to clear it. He had to get to her. He would apologize. Make her believe him. Make her believe that they could start anew.
But he had to get to her.
He pushed through the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, finding the poorly lit stage at the far end of the room as applause and whistles rang in his ears. It took him a moment to see the woman standing there for what she was—pretty and dark, with a wide, welcoming smile.