Leah picked up the top-most letter, written in a loopy, feminine hand.
I am in agony until next I see you. Did you mean what you said? That I am the sole owner of your heart? I hope and pray it is truth, as I cannot abide the thought of you not being mine own—
A shriek sounded from outside the window, causing Leah to jump again and drop the letter back to the pile. She slammed the trunk lid shut, heart hammering.
Oof.
Reading Fox’s private correspondence was definitely beyond the pale.
Ye are better than this ferreting behavior, Leah.
Abruptly, she realized one stark truth:
Illicitly prying into her husband’s past was not at all the same as Fox trusting her with it. She wanted his trust just as much, if not more, than the knowledge itself.
A man’s voice drifted through the glass. Hand pressed to her breastbone, Leah stepped to the window, looking out over the stable block and hills behind the castle.
Fox stood with his back to Leah, hands on his hips, head trained toward the stables. Another high-pitched squeal of laughter sounded and Madeline burst into view, racing toward him.
Fox leaned down and held out his arms. Madeline jumped into them, running full tilt, nearly knocking him over. He wrapped her tight and shook his head, pressing his face into her curls and holding her close. For her part, Madeline giggled and clung to him like a monkey Leah had once seen at a fair in Forfar. Leah couldn’t understand what Madeline was saying, but the rapid trill of her voice indicated she was happy and likely had an adventure. Fox looked down into her face as he held her, giving the wee girl his full attention, nothing wavering.
Seeing the two of them together did something to Leah’s chest. It was warmth and agonizing ache rolled into a solitary tight ball.
Warmth . . . because any man who loved a child like this must be blessed with a true and loyal heart.
Ache . . . because Leah harbored no hope that Fox would ever look at her with such adoration. That there would ever be children of their own to love together.
She smoothed her hands down her skirts. The small trunk taunted at the edge of her vision, tempting her to lift the lid again, to open every letter and unravel the story of Fox and Madeline and India.
Leah spared one final glance out the window. Madeline now had hold of Fox’s hand, swinging it merrily as she skipped beside him.
He lifted his head. His eyes unerringly locked with Leah’s.
She froze.
His expression faltered for only a moment before he raised a hand in greeting. Madeline paused and followed Fox’s gaze. She immediately began jumping up and down, waving madly at Leah and drawing a smile from Fox. The two of them appeared ridiculously alike—matching grins and wide eyes.
Despite the weight in her heart, Leah pressed a palm against the glass, smiling in return.
She wanted Fox to confide in her, to divulge his past himself. Reading any more of the letters would be a terrible invasion of his privacy. Not to mention, unladylike, unscrupulous, and dishonest.
She knew this.
And yet . . . Leah had never been so tempted.
12
Fox woke the next morning awash in the stench of shame. He had a sore head and a mound of regrets.
So . . . a typical morning, he supposed.
He had gotten drunk. Again.
And then slept the night in his library chair. Again.
He was now hungover. Again.
The cheery morning light dancing through the library windows mocked him, stabbing into his skull.
