He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve a library in London.”
London, at a minimum, was four full days away. “Is the estate in debt?”
“I can see why you might think so, but no. Not if you factor in the mines. I wrote Clarissa from New York telling her to do as she wished with the contents.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “Youtrulynever intended to return, did you?”
“Not permanently, no.” He sighed roughly. “Nowdo you see?”
Oh, she saw.
He had not just neglected the Grange. He disdained the Grange. Hated it, even.
“Every opportunity to leave,” he murmured.
His hand felt heavy—a weight she’d never anticipated.Why?
Why had he married her and brought her here when his antipathy ran this deep?
She struggled to control her breath, to convince herself that, yet again, she would find a way.
Because here, a way did not seem possible.
He touched his hand to the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, aware of the subtle flutter in her belly—a small spark, but enough to remind her of the fire that was worth any sacrifice.
“You haven’t shown me any bedchambers,” she said.
“There are two above us in this wing. Three, if you count the nursery. But the master’s chamber is in the tower.”
He couldn’t possibly mean to install her in the opposite end of the house. “And…where will I sleep?”
His cheeks went taut. “With me, in the latter. That is, if you want any hope of warmth.”
Did that mean he and Clarissa had spent their formative years in a frigid nursery? “Might we”—she blushed—“go up?”
With a heavy sigh, he tucked her palm into the crook of his arm. Her heart hammered beneath her chest as they passed back through the Elizabethan hall—the house was a maze of hidden rooms and unexpected staircases she might never be able to unravel. No part connected to any other in a rational way. The only true sign that they’d reentered the tower was when they passed through a doorway with walls an arm’s length thick. She followed him up an internal stair, and then he opened a heavy oak-and-iron door.
“There’s a fire,” she said, startled.
“Our new coachman,” he explained, “was kind enough to agree to light one while we toured.”
The fire did little to cheer the room. Though the room had been aired and dusted and the bed spread with clean sheets—perhaps there was aMrs.Wheeling—the bed set between two thin windows that barely gave forth light could not be described as inviting. As for warmth, she supposed he referred to the heavy bedcurtains.
She turned back to the hearth opposite the bed and glanced up. Her hand flew to her swerving stomach. The largest, most grotesque tapestry she’d ever seen hung over the hearth—screaming children, wailing mothers, and Roman soldiers with spears aloft.
No one in their right mind hung a tapestry like thatanywhere, not to mention at the foot of a bed. She turned back with an accusing glare.
Leaning on one of the bed beams, Rayne crossed one leg over the other. “Massacre of the Innocents. Biblical, if you can believe—as related in the Gospel of Matthew.”
“Didyouhang that—that monstrosity?”
He shook his head. “Never set foot in this room until I inherited.” He half lidded his gaze. “Of course, I’ve used the room for unavoidable visits. Like I said, this is the easiest bedchamber to heat.”
Unavoidable.
She’d done this. She’d brought him here with the force of her will. She’d trapped him in this nightmare.
She turned back to the tapestry, which was barely illuminated by faint light—but still all too visible.
