For their honeymoon, they had traveled to Germany. And she had been happy, so happy. The recollection returned to him. Had it truly been years? Yes, it had, and he had been so young and foolish, incapable of understanding how fortunate he had been to have been given a small glimpse of paradise. Alessandro had thought his happiness would last forever, but instead, it had been devastatingly short. He had spent more years alive since her death than he had with her.
How could time have been so cruel, passing by so quickly without her?
Disgust sliced through him, mingling with despair. He had been so enamored with the notion of staking his claim upon Lady Catriona, he had failed to realize how greatly dancing with her would affect him. Perhaps he had been wrong about himself. He was a shell, but sometimes, even a shell could still feel.
“My lord,” Lady Catriona pressed, her expression anxious as he mindlessly led them in another series of steps. “What is wrong? You look troubled.”
Troubleddid not begin to describe him.
He forced a smile to his lips. This cursed waltz could not end soon enough. “I am well, Lady Catriona.”
Her lips compressed. “If you do not wish to tell me, I understand. I do hope, after our marriage, you may confide in me, my lord.”
“There is nothing to confide,” he bit out.
What would she have him tell her? How much he missed his wife and son? What it had felt like to hold his lifeless infant in his arms? To watch the woman who owned his heart die before him while he was helpless to do anything to save her?
Or would she like to know how he had been spending the time since his wife and son’s death, throwing himself headlong into war? He was not even a soldier. Never had been. He was merely a man who believed in defending his home, in taking a stand for what was right.
But blood was on his hands. Staining his soul. His men had committed atrocities under his watch.
“I am sorry,” Lady Catriona whispered to him.
Their ill-fated dance was coming to an end. Inside, Alessandro was beginning to unravel like a ball of string which had been poorly wound. “You need not feel sorry for me, my lady,” he told her coolly. “If anyone is in need of compassion and sympathy, it is you, for I am to be your husband.”
Her gaze was stoic, unwavering. “Until you leave.”
“Until then,” he agreed, wishing he knew why the words felt so damned hollow as he spoke them. They ought to have filled him with a sense of reassurance. The knowledge he would soon be back where he belonged.
Her smile was sad. “You could always choose to stay, Rayne.”
Bitterness sifted through him. She did not understand. But he did not expect her to. No one ever had.
“Neither one of us would want that, Lady Catriona,” he said, his tone harsh. “Trust me on this matter. I am no good for anyone, yourself included.”
He could not bear to live in England. The longer he lingered, the more desperate he became to break free. Undoubtedly, it was part of the reason he was so eager to wed and bed her. The sooner he did both, the sooner he could find the relief of emptying his ballocks and returning to the land he loved. Returning to the war he was determined to win.
“You are hurting,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes.”
More than she could ever comprehend.
“Do not pretend to know my anguish.” He gritted his teeth. “If you think your life was difficult, being exiled to Scotland by Montrose, you know nothing of life, my lady. I have spent the last few years living in a hell from which I cannot escape.”
Her brow furrowed as they concluded a final turn. “In Spain? I do not understand. Why would you return there if it is a place which has caused you great misery?”
“Because it is my home,” he answered. “Sometimes, my lady, we cannot undo the ties which bind us. I am inextricably bound to Spain.”
“Is there someone else in Spain?” she pressed, determined to have her answers when they were not the answers she would want.
When they were not the answers he was prepared to give. But there was freedom in honesty, if not a cure.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“A woman you love?”
He did not miss the stricken expression which had come over her lovely face. Nor did he allow it to keep him from telling her the truth. “Sí.”
Of course, he loved Maria. He always would. Death did not extinguish love, for love was not a flame, quick to sputter out and dissipate. Rather, love was a hot coal, always ready to form a spark.
