The prick of tears came to her eyes, filling them. She blinked them away lest she made a fool of herself. The butler’s words were everything she wanted to hear. She wanted to believe them herself so badly she ached with it.
Yes, she wanted to be good for her husband.
Good enough to make him stay.
Good enough to win his love.
She swallowed down the knot of emotions clogging her throat. “Thank you, Johnstone. I consider that the highest of compliments. You pay me a great honor.”
“The honor is all mine, my lady.” The butler bowed.
Another loud crash echoed through the hall then, reminding her she had an irate husband to attend to. Exhaling on a sigh, she thanked Johnstone again before excusing herself and making her way to the source of the sound.
The study.
During her tour the previous day, she had discovered a great deal of dust, along with heavy, outmoded furniture carved with Greek deities. A handful of paintings had decorated the walls, along with some shelves and curiosities. The carpet had been faded and in need of repair, she had noted.
Aside from that and the chair behind the desk, the chamber had been fairly unremarkable. The chair bore a carving of a god she did not recognize, though she had noticed the nose appeared to have been lopped off and then reaffixed with glue, as perfectly imperfect as the rest of Marchmont.
As perfectly imperfect as her husband was.
She reached the closed study door to the dissonant music of another thud sounding within, followed by a curse she did not recognize. Spanish, no doubt. On a deep breath, she opened the door and crossed the threshold.
As the portal clicked closed behind her, she took in the panorama before her.
The study had turned into a battlefield. The floor was littered with ledgers. A chair was upended and broken glass glittered from the hearth. An entire sideboard, complete with decanters and glasses, had been left on its side, the crystal shattered.
In the midst of it all stood the man she loved, hands clenched, fury emanating from him. His dark gaze lanced hers. And she understood one fact. Her husband was livid.
“Alessandro,” she said softly, hoping to blunt the swell of his rage. “What are you doing?”
“Where have you been?” he asked instead of answering her question.
His voice was low and guttural, a blade sheathed in velvet.
“To the village,” she said, daring to close the distance between them by taking another step closer to him. “You did not answer my question.”
“You do not have the right to ask me questions when you hide things from me,” he said, his lip curling. “There will be no secrets in my household. Do you understand me, Catriona?”
She stiffened, for she understood quite well. She understood him better than he could imagine. Her beautiful husband was hiding more scars than she could count beneath his perfect exterior. And she was paying the price for every blade that had inflicted its mark upon him.
Losing his wife.
His son.
The battles he had fought.
Returning to his estate to discover it pillaged and on the brink of ruin.
Secrets.
It was a waterfall. Or perhaps, more precisely, a flood. But she was not about to allow either of them to drown in it.
“I understand,” she said, crossing the chamber to him. “But you must, in turn, understand this, I did not keep anything from you.”
He clenched his jaw. “The squatter is a female, which you neglected to tell me. You went to the village to procure her a dress, also without telling me. I learned these facts from the butler.”
“You told me your duty to me was finished for the day,” she reminded him bitterly. “Just before you walked away from me. Have you forgotten that, husband?”
