"You've been carrying this on your own for too long. You need to share your secrets with me." He saw his words hit their mark. She bit down on her trembling lower lip, her chin wobbling. "You know I'll help you, Marianne. Once you tell me everything."
Her chest rose and fell in labored surges. Her eyes slid away. "Let me up first," she said in a small voice. He did, and she sat up, her arms circling her raised knees. With her hair tumbling down her back, she looked young, so very vulnerable. "I—I don't know how to begin."
"Start from the beginning. Who is Rosie's father?" he said gently.
She kept her gaze focused on the coverlet. "A young lad I fancied myself in love with. I'd known him for years, and the summer I turned seventeen, we… acted on our feelings. He and I had planned to marry. But he died." She sighed. "In a carriage accident. Leaving me heartbroken and in an unfortunate condition."
Ambrose's heart squeezed for the girl's pain. Yet he knew the woman well enough to keep any pity from his voice. "Did you have anyone to turn to?" he asked.
"There was no one. Mama died shortly after I was born, and Papa…" She laughed, a scornful sound. "The squire had more interest in cards and horses than his daughter. Out of desperation, I told him about my pregnancy, and he threatened to disown me. To throw me out of the house unless…"
Ambrose took one of her hands, linking her elegant fingers with his own callused digits. He willed her the strength to continue on.
"Papa had a friend. A rich and powerful man," she said.
"Baron Draven."
"Yes," she said hollowly. "He'd offered for me, you see. He'd been willing to overlook my lack of dowry and had promised to pay off Papa's debts in return for my hand. Papa told me to keep my mouth shut, to marry Draven by special license and present an heir eight months hence. Papa said Draven would never know—babes were born prematurely all the time. But I couldn't… I couldn't marry any man under false pretenses."
"Of course you couldn't," Ambrose said, wondering what the hell kind of father would suggest such a deception. "You're a principled little thing."
"You thinkI'mprincipled?" Her eyes searched his.
"Not in a conventional sense. I won't deny that you're clever and capable of trickery when the occasion merits. But you have your own ethics, including a sense of honor and fierce loyalty to those you care about," he said firmly. "I cannot see you deceiving a man about a matter as vital as his offspring."
"Thank you." He was surprised to see the soft sheen in her eyes. "That is the nicest compliment I've ever received."
"Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "What happened with Draven?"
The softness in her eyes disappeared. "He listened to my story. At the end, he told me nothing had changed for him. He meant to have me one way or another. He vowed to look after my child as his own; if that child turned out to be a male, Draven said he'd name him his heir. I was stunned, too relieved and grateful to even question his promises.
"We married by special license, and Draven took me to his estate in Yorkshire. Seven months later, I gave birth to a girl. I named her Primrose. She took after me, you see." With a sad smile, Marianne fingered a strand of her blond hair. "For that first year, Rosie was my world. Motherhood brought me joy, a sense of purpose that I had never known before. I would wake excited to see Rosie's sweet face and go to bed dreaming of the adventures we would have together the next day. And then…" Her voice faltered.
"What happened?" Ambrose said softly.
Silence tautened before she replied, "During my pregnancy, Draven hadn't made husbandly demands of me. He'd explained that he wouldn't touch me while I carried another man's bastard, while I was... dirty. Tainted." Her voice quivered with shame. "I didn't blame him, and, in truth, I was relieved. But after the birth, things changed. He pressed for his marital rights."
Rage simmered in Ambrose's veins. "He forced you?"
"No." Marianne shook her head. "He would not have needed to. After what he had done for me and Rosie, I fully intended to be a good wife in exchange. To do whatever he asked of me. As it turned out, however, he was the one who could not rise to the occasion." She gave a dry, brittle laugh. "He blamed me for his problem. Said I had unmanned him. And from that moment on, my life became a living hell."
Holding his anger in rigid check, Ambrose said, "What did he do to you, Marianne?"
"The name calling, the accusations about my character got worse. I had no defense against any of it." She shrugged, a casual movement that made Ambrose want to punch the wall. Only because the first option—beating Draven to a pulp—was no longer possible. "He was right. Ihadfornicated outside the marriage bed. Ihadgiven birth to a bastard. In truth, Iwasno better than a whore—"
"Stop it." His sharp tone cut her off, made her blink as if escaping a trance. "Stop repeating the bugger's words. You were seventeen, no more than a girl. You believed yourself in love. Yes, you acted impulsively, unwisely. But you're no whore, and I won't hear you call yourself that again. Is that understood?"
She said nothing, her gaze uncertain.
"Go on, then." Steeling himself, he asked, "Did the abuse go beyond words?"
"On occasion," she whispered.
Red flashed in Ambrose's vision. His muscles trembled in his effort to contain his fury.
Let her finish.The poison needs to bleed out.
"Physical cruelty was not Draven's preferred method, however. Whenever he whipped me, he took care not to break the skin. He wanted his possession to appear perfect on the outside." Her pained laugh pierced Ambrose's chest. "In truth, I preferred the beatings to..."
