Burning it would be nice. And it only sounded nicer when Arthur was the one saying it, voice drawn low into a whisper.

Malachi did not care about the money, in the end. Not any farther than it related to ensuring that he was not a burden on Arthur, now that he would be staying with him. Even without selling the estate, he had more than he knew what to do with – an amount that would not last forever if he was careless enough to buy frequent gifts, but still a larger sum than many in Whitby would ever see.

Some of it had come from his father, but a good portion of that he had left to Miriam and his brother. Most of it, now, came from several other inheritances he had worked himself into over the years.

That Arthur was so willing to give everything he had, even after seeing the estate…

Swallowing thickly, Malachi set the candleholder down and exchanged it for Arthur’s other hand.

“All that’s mine is yours,” he whispered, a soft fondness in his gaze.

“If you are up for it, Arthur… after you kill her,” Malachi squeezed his hands. “Let’s burn it. Destroy any evidence that we even touched her. I don’t ever want to come back here again, once I go home with you.”

Now that Arthur was his home, wherever he went.