His favorite plaything out of sight, he turned his attention to her face, cocking his head. “Noo jist haud on,” he said with a severe look and several sharp clicks of his tongue.
She sighed. “I cannot slow down and take my time. For then I shall be forced to think about every aspect of this mess I’ve found myself in. Of course I did not think it would be easy. But I believed any difficulty would be from how much Iain would vex me, not because…”
“Gie it laldy,” Phineas squawked when her voice faltered.
She glared at him. “You wish for me to be passionate about it then, you devilish thing? Very well. I thought this trip would prove difficult because of how much Iain vexed me, not because I would want him again, so much I can barely breathe.”
Phineas ruffled his feathers, giving a particularly high-pitched squawk. She rolled her eyes at his bit of attitude. “You were not around when we were young,” she scolded him. “You would not know how wonderful what we shared was. Why, he was my very dearest friend. And then, later, the very first man I ever loved.” She gave a humorless chuckle. “Or, rather, the only man I’ve ever loved.”
And just like that she was awash in memories: when she’d snuck from her rooms at midnight and met him in the woods behind the house; when they had let her sisters ride ahead and he had kissed her behind the hedgerow; when he had left small bouquets of wildflowers on her windowsill. And the one that brought the most painful ache to her chest, when they had met at the peak of the highest hill on her father’s property at sunrise and he had dropped to one knee in the dew-covered grass and had asked her to share her life with him always.
Fury and grief and a pain so bitter she could taste it on her tongue filled her again, even more potent than before. Damn her father for tearing them apart. She could have been happy with Iain, could have made a life with him and had children with him. Her breath caught in her chest at thatif only. She had believed the heartache was well and truly behind her. Now here was Iain, come back into her life like a hurricane of regret and grief and hope and want. And she was cruelly reminded of that loss all over again, all that had been stolen from her. Fromthem. And she wanted to curse and howl and, yes, even sob. But she could not. No, she had to remain strong, ever unwavering and steady in the face of adversity and hardship.
But she was so tired of it all, of the constant need to remain aloof and resilient. For once in her damned life, she wanted to let down her guard and lose herself in passion. To give a proper farewell to that poor, naïve girl who’d had such hope in her heart for the future, instead of leaving her unceremoniously buried in the dank cells of that asylum among the cries of the other inmates.
She was on her feet before she knew what she was about, gathering a quieting Phineas up and helping him into his cage in the corner for the night. Turning, she looked at the door to her bedroom, imagining Iain in his own room across the way. Then, heart beating madly in her chest, she made her way to him, knowing that, for tonight at least, she would gladly lose the battle to stay away from him.
Iain put aside the latest issue of theGaia Review and Repository, heaving a sigh and running a hand over his face.
As he’d sat silently across from Seraphina in that blasted carriage—which had suddenly felt so much smaller than in the previous days of travel—a disturbing idea had begun to take shape in his head that he had not been able to shake. Something horrible had happened to her in the years since they’d married and parted, a trauma that had her shrinking back from an unexpected hold on her arm, that had her crying out in terror in her sleep and begging to be released from some place only she could see. Though with how closely Seraphina guarded her inner self, he could not see a way to learn what that thing might be.
But after they’d retired to their suite of rooms at the inn that evening and he had opened his bag to extract his things for the night—and spied the pile of periodicals he’d carried the width and breadth of England as he’d searched for her—he’d begun to realize that the answer to all of his questions might very well be right under his nose.
He’d never thought, however, that he might come away with more questions upon skimming through Seraphina’s writings as the mysterious author S. L. Keys. Yes, those very same writings had led him to her. There had been too many similarities between the story and what they’d shared all those years ago: the disparity between their stations in life; the cruel guardian and sweet younger sisters; the dawn-bathed proposal on a hilltop; the secret marriage and dreams of a simple life in another country.
But now that he read with new eyes, he found even more similarities. Could the bits of her life that she remained stubbornly close-lipped about be there as well?
He focused then on the rest of the tale, the dark ribbons that wrapped around and through the hints of Seraphina’s real life. Yes, the story had all the typical gothic hallmarks,with a distressed heroine and an atmospheric castle and moody weather and spine-tingling suspense. Yet there was something altogether too real in the descriptions of the dungeon the heroine was kept in, a sense of panic and hopelessness that permeated the pages.
It could be fiction, of course. Seraphina was a talented writer and had the skill of drawing a person in and making them feel all the emotions of a story.
But something deep inside him told him it was not all fiction, that she had experienced these things herself, that she had taken the details from real life and fairly bled them onto the page.
He remembered last night, her wild thrashing, her panicked words, which haunted him even now:Please, I swear I’m sane. Let me out!And then her desperate plea for her sisters. Those same words jumped out at him now from the prose before him, almost identical to that moment of terror. His heart had shattered for her, and he’d had the disturbing feeling that the dream had been an echo of a very real event, a passing thought he could not begin to comprehend and had quickly dismissed. But was it possible he’d been right all along? Was this serial of hers, a popular story printed out to titillate the masses, drawn from very real events that tormented her even now?
His heart heavy, he rose from his seat before the fire, taking up his copies of theGaia Review and Repositoryand carefully replacing them in his bag before firmly closing it up tight. He ached to ask her what had happened to her. But he knew that if she didn’t wish to reveal it, there was no amount of begging that would entice her to. Clenching his hands into fists, he went to the fire and stared down into the glowing depths, aware of a latent fury snakingunder his skin. If she so much as asked, he would burn down the world for her. And that burning would start with Lord Farrow. Her father had separated them in the cruelest way, causing them unimaginable grief. Worse, if Seraphina’s writings held a grain of truth, that man had also tortured his eldest child to such a degree that she had stolen her younger sisters from his care in order to protect them. The image of her terror-filled eyes flashed in his mind, her babbled pleas when that nightmare had held her in thrall ringing in his ears, and he suddenly wished Lord Farrow was within his grasp so he might show the man the full scope of the severity of his mistake in hurting Seraphina.
But it was not his place. Nor would it ever be. He closed his eyes, breathing deep to control the wild sense of loss that stole through him, overshadowing his fury until it was all that he was. Seraphina was right; no matter their nostalgia for the past, no matter that they mourned their old selves and what they had shared, they could not reclaim that time. It was gone for good, swallowed up like an unwary traveler in a peat bog, never to be seen again. He was not the same naïve, rash man he had been. And she was not the same wide-eyed, hopeful girl she used to be.
Though wasn’t the woman she had become more amazing than ever before?
He closed his eyes, clenching his back molars tight. God yes. She was incredible, even more fierce and strong and tender than she had been. That girl from his youth had been the other half of his heart. Now the woman she had become felt like the other half of his soul. And in a matter of days, he would have to give her up.
Why?a voice demanded in his head. Why did he have to give her up? Why couldn’t they start over again?
Because, he told himself severely, yanking his shirt over his head in sharp, angry movements before beginning to work on the belt that fastened his kilt, even if he wished it, she did not. It was there in the tension of her body if he startled her with his closeness, in every cautious glance she threw his way. It did not matter that she had kissed him and run her hands over his body and straddled him with those strong, smooth thighs of hers. Like she had told him in no uncertain terms, physical desire did not necessarily have anything to do with emotional connection. No matter that those things were becoming inexorably entwined within him where she was concerned.
Naked, he padded on bare feet over the smooth wooden floorboards to the washstand in the corner, taking up a washcloth and dipping it in the basin there, scrubbing it hard over his body in the hopes it might wash away the remembrance of her from his skin. Could he convince her that they might have a chance at something new together? Perhaps if they had enough time. But Edinburgh was but two days away, and then she would be out of his life for good. Two days was not enough time to heal the hurt of nearly a decade and a half.
A slithering idea of a thought crept through the dank halls of his mind like a clinging fog: What if he told her of the dukedom? What if he revealed to her that he was a duke and she was a duchess, that she and her sisters would never have to worry about money again and he could give them all lavish lifestyles safe from any fear of her father?
But even before it finished circulating in his skull he knew that would be the wrong thing to do. For one, Seraphina had never held much store in titles. In his youth, of course, his pride had led him to believe that she did, and shewould never be able to overlook the disparity in their stations. It was why he had so readily believed her father’s lies.
Now that he was older, however, and hopefully much wiser, he saw with the clarity and pain of hindsight that she had never cared for those things. She had even left the comfort and security of station and wealth in order to protect herself and her sisters and to forge a new life for them. She would not care that she was a duchess and he a duke. In fact, it might turn her from him completely. And besides, he did not want to win her that way, even if she could be won. No, he wanted her to love him for himself, just as she had before.
Love.He let loose a humorless bark of laughter, throwing the washcloth back in the bowl with a splash. He’d thought he was incapable of love, that he’d lanced it from his heart. But it appeared he’d not been as thorough as he’d hoped. The small sliver of emotion remaining in his chest had begun to grow again, filling him up, transforming into something strong. And, he feared, something that would not be so easily gotten rid of this time around, not now that he knew the truth about her part in their past.
Frustrated, heartsick, he doused all the light save for the low fire and headed for the overlarge and lonely bed, climbing between the sheets. A bed that was all the lonelier for how he had held Seraphina the night before and woken with her in his arms. It was something he had never experienced in their tragically short marriage, and it was something he would never experience again.
