Yes. That was what he wanted to tell her, but he could not. His anger was beginning to fade, replaced by a hollow acceptance.
“She will not speak to me,” he despaired, thinking of the two times he had dared approach his sister in the West Tower.
Marta’s tear-streaked eyes had met him at first. He thought that was the worst of it, until the day he found her looking numb. Empty. The sketchbook lying in front of her was just as empty. The light that had flickered, if only for a brief moment in Juliana’s company, was all but gone.
“For what it is worth, she will not talk to me, either,” Juliana offered.
Did his duchess think this was a game of comparison? Before he could follow that train of thought, a stabbing pain pierced his leg muscle.
He winced.
“Are you… are you all right?” she asked, her eyes widening with concern. “Should I call a physician? I heard from the servants that Mr. Halloway is the nearest and could arrive in an hour.”
Of course, she knew these things. Juliana had made it her business to know Stonevale—its rhythms, its servants, its particular creaks and silences—through the careful attention of a woman who understood that knowledge was the only currency she had in a house that was not yet hers.
“It is because of the weather,” he reasoned. He did not want any physician coming to Stonevale, making him feel even more of a cripple than he already was. “There is no need for anyone to poke and prod me.”
Cassian tried to regain some of his dominance as a duke, but his leg went into a spasm. He hissed through his teeth, his eyes closing. He often ached, but he could no longer remember the last time he had been in agony. Such torture to the nerve endings felt like it belonged to the early days after his injury, when he was stuck in a field hospital, inhaling the metallic smell of blood and listening to the sound of saws and screaming.
“Stubborn,” Juliana scolded. “You are being foolish, Cassian.” Even as her voice tried to sound stern, he could feel the tremor in it. She walked toward him, slowly but surely, taking the ottoman near his feet. “Let me help you. Please.”
“Nothing can help me,” he rasped. There was no lie in his words. He had given up searching for a cure for the pain. Heat and cold applications, along with tinctures, did nothing to soothe him. Even the strongest offered only brief relief, until the agony slammed back once more. “I have accepted that I am a cripple and that I shall live with this pain until my death. Leave me be.”
Juliana did not look like she would obey him, which was certainly consistent with what she had been doing so far. Instead, she walked to the back of his chair and placed her dainty hands on his shoulders.
“You are allowed to be in pain,” she said, with the matter-of-fact firmness of someone who had decided that gentleness alone would not work with this particular man. “It is not a weakness.”
He was speechless, simply watching what she had planned for him. She pushed him deep into the cushions he had arranged on the chair for his back. Then she sauntered to his front and lifted his heavy, injured leg onto the ottoman. She looked like someone who had done it before, but he suspected that she had never. The surprising care with which she handled him made his chest clench.
“Juliana, there is no need to do whatever it is you are trying to do,” he protested.
She knelt in front of him. The act stirred something else within him. It was servile, yet also quite seductive of her. What was he thinking? She merely wanted to help, and even as she took a submissive stance, there was power in her, immense and undeniable.
“Hush,” she ordered as she began to massage his leg. She could not possibly know where the ache came from, but somehow her small hands knew where to go and were capable of pressing the points he needed to be touched. Massaged. Cared for.
At first, his mind protested. It screamed with all the insecurities he had kept just beneath the arrogant, rakish surface. He did not want her to see him like this. Yes, she knew he used a cane, a product of war and pride. Still, she did not have to know the hellhe had gone through and was still going through. He wanted her to see the Duke who had singlehandedly fought thugs in a dark alley, not the injured man who suffered in silence.
However, her fingers had a way of soothing not only his muscles but also his soul. The deep-seated sadness of hopelessness faded slowly, like a weight lifting with each kneading of knots and cricks. How could a delicate woman like his wife have so much strength to establish a steady, firm rhythm through throbbing pain?
He exhaled, and for the first time, it was not frustration but something closer to relief. He had spent years reaching for brandy, card tables, and the company of women who did not ask questions. None of it had worked as well as this. Juliana had torn away the chains tightening around his heart.
“I want you to know that I am sorry. Terribly, terribly sorry,” Juliana whispered, her voice cracking as her head bowed, her eyes averted from him and fixed on his leg. “For not following any of your instructions. For causing Marta distress. For everything I have done that may have hurt you. While I thought I was liberating her, I can now see it was unwise. There is still so much I do not understand, and I still went and did things my own way.”
Cassian closed his eyes, his mind grasping at the dull pain, but he was willing to push it away. Far from him. Far from her. Far from everything.
“You do not have to apologize. I suppose you were right in your own way,” he murmured, thinking of what he had done or should have done. “All this secrecy. The walls I forced around Marta. The history behind all of this is my fault. All my fault.”
“What do you mean?” Juliana asked, truly confused, her voice too soft even in the quiet room.
She went to Cassian, seeking a way to reconcile with him. She never thought she would want a bridge to mend the rift between them, but she did. Guilt had painted every breath she took after Marta rushed back to her sanctuary, erasing the fragile progress she thought she had made in the few days they were together.
At this point, the fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the room, but Juliana was not cold. Cassian remained in his chair, his leg still on the ottoman. Most importantly, her hands were still on his leg after she had just tenderly massaged it. The massage almost felt like a communion in pain, as she could almost feel every twitching muscle. She heard his groans. She saw his eyes close. Then she felt it as the tension faded, and he achieved momentary peace.
Now, he was looking at her with curiosity, as if he could not believe that she was still there.
“You are my Kit’s sister. My enemy’s sister,” he drawled. “I hate that man more than anyone in this world, and yet here you are, my wife. Not to mention that you are one of the few people who dared to touch my mangled leg.”
“It is not mangled, Cassian,” she corrected, though her voice was strained. “It is proof of what you have endured for the sake of your country. There is no shame in it, only pride.”
