He grinned. “So you adamantly said yesterday.”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Then you agree there is no need for us to marry?”
“I didn’t say that.” He smiled and traced the curve of her cheek with a rough fingertip. “I think our marriage is an eminently agreeable idea.”
“Well, I don’t!” she flared, backing away from him.
He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing as he considered her. “Leona, I believe you are aware of my feelings for you.”
“Oh, please!”
“And I believe they are reciprocated. Is that not true?” Leona couldn’t answer him, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth. She wanted to be able to deny her feelings, but the words wouldn’t come. Her heart would not allow her to hear. She stared at him, wide-eyed and helpless.
“Don’t—” she finally managed, the single word a broken plea that caught in her throat.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t ask. Don’t love me.”
“For God’s sake, why not?” he angrily demanded.
“I have nothing to give you,” she whispered.
Silence hung heavy in the room.
“Are you saying you don’t love me?” he finally asked, his voice tight with disbelief.
She whirled away, staring up blindly at the beamed ceiling. Her chest heaved, fighting the tightness lodged there. She bit her lower lip as she fought for some semblance of control.
“Damn it, Leona! Don’t do this to me! To us!” He grabbed her and roughly turned her to face him. His face was dark, a vein drumming visibly in his temple. His eyes were chips of blue ice burning with cold. One hand caught her about the waist, and the other clamped the back of her head. He pulled her close, settling her between his legs. Then his head descended, his lips capturing hers in a punishing, bruising kiss, a kiss meant to stake a claim and call forth the same from her. His lips ground against hers, full of passion and frustration. His lips parted, and before she could react, his tongue thrust between her teeth, exploring the cavern of her mouth, tangling with her tongue ina wild dance as his tongue stroked hers, and she responded in kind.
A small sound, a mewl of satisfaction, rose in her throat as her hands came up to clasp his broad shoulders and spear the thick pelt of hair at the back of his neck. A fine trembling swept through her, churning a thousand moths in her stomach to flight. She rose on her toes, crowding against him to get closer, the evidence of his manhood pressed hard against her stomach through layers of clothing. Her breasts tingled where they pressed against his chest. She writhed against him.
His mouth left hers as he rained kisses across her face, in her hair, in the hollows of her neck. She gasped, knowing she would fall if he let go of her.
“Oh, Leona, my beautiful Leona,” he murmured exaltedly. “You do love me!”
His words shattered her.
She collapsed against him, her face buried in his coat as the tears she fought all morning flowed, cut loose from her soul. She railed against them, against life’s injustice that made her poor, against a love that threatened to consume her soul, against the aloneness she was destined to face all her life. Murmuring repeatedly a broken “No!”, she fought to dam the tears and her weakness.
His body stilled at the sound of that one word, a word repeated over and over with heart-wrenching agony. She couldn’t mean it. Why was she doing this? Her sobs tore at him, and a large, empty cavern formed in his chest. His hands shook as he pushed her away from him, and she slid down onto the bench of a high-backed settle. With jerky, drunken steps, he staggered away from her. He stopped at the door to look back at her. He shook his head in numb disbelief, his eyes twin pools of fathomless blue. Then he lurched out the door.
Leona rose unsteadily, the words on her lips to call him back, but they remained unvoiced as the door closed firmly behind him. She sank back down, never feeling so lost and alone in her entire life. But it was done. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, once again an empty husk.
It was late afternoon when the Nevin coach that first took Leona to Castle Marin rattled into the yard of the Golden Goose Inn. From her spot by the window where she’d spent the day in numbing agony, Leona saw Lady Lucille and Mr. Fitzhugh descend from the carriage. They were both strangely solemn. Even their clothing reflected their demeanor.
Deveraux, who had spent the day apart from her in the taproom, came out quickly. When Lucy saw him, she ran toward him, her cloak billowing behind her. In an instant, before she threw herself into her brother’s arms, Leona thought her face unnaturally pale and pinched.
A sick horror of foreboding churned in Leona’s stomach. Her hand rose to her lips as she saw a white-faced David Fitzhugh hand Deveraux a letter. He clutched it in his hand, staring at it, the color draining from his face. He shook his head from side to side. Lucy backed unsteadily away from him into the comforting curve of Fitzhugh’s arm. Deveraux staggered away from them, turning to stare into the window of the room where Leona sat. She shrank back into the corner of the settle, terrified to know the meaning of the scene before her.
Deveraux ran back into the inn, and a moment later, the door to the private parlor where Leona sat crashed open. He strode two paces into the room then stopped, his body rigid. He stiffly raised the arm that held the envelope. He looked at it, then at her, his expression that of a lost and bewildered soul.
Leona rose to her feet and took a tentative step toward him.
“Help me,” he whispered, his words taut with pain.
She stepped closer. “Deveraux, you’re frightening me. What is it?”
