It was not a declaration of love—but as she lay in his arms, her body still thrumming with the echo of him, Marianne thought that, for now, it might be enough.
Chapter Nine
The letter arrived at breakfast five days later.
Adrian went completely still as he read it; the colour draining from his face. Without a word, he stood and left the room, the letter crumpled in his fist.
Marianne found it later, smoothed out and abandoned on his desk.
Adrian,
I’m returning to England. I know you’d rather I stay away, but I can’t hide forever. The physicians in Rome say I’m well enough, and I’m tired of being a ghost.
I’ll be in London by month’s end. Please don’t try to stop me. I need to come home, need to try to be your sister again, even if the sight of me still causes you pain.
I heard you married. A merchant’s daughter, they say. I hope she makes you happy. I hope she can forgive what I never could.
Catherine
Marianne stared at the letter, understanding flooding through her. Catherine blamed herself. Not Adrian for his scars—but herself, for causing them. The weight of that guilt haddriven her away, kept her away, leaving both siblings trapped in their solitude.
She found Adrian in the music room, standing before the window, rigid as stone.
“You read it,” he said without turning.
“You left it on your desk.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” She moved closer, carefully, as though approaching a wounded creature. “She’s coming home.”
“She can’t.” His voice was raw. “I won’t—I can’t see her.”
“Adrian—”
“You don’t understand.” He turned, and the devastation on his face stopped her cold. “The last time she saw me—really saw me—she screamed. Screamed and ran from the room. My own sister couldn’t bear the sight of what I’d become.”
“What you’d becomesaving her life.”
“That doesn’t matter!”
“It’s all that matters!” She caught his arms, forcing him to face her. “You threw yourself in front of that carriage for her. You were willing to die for her. And she’s been carrying that guilt ever since—”
“She has nothing to feel guilty about.”
“Neither do you.”
He pulled away, laughing bitterly. “I haveeverythingto feel guilty about. Do you know what I did in India? The things I became capable of? The monster everyone thinks I am—they’re not wrong.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Adrian—”
“I said no!” He rounded on her, eyes wild. “You want to know what your husband really is? I was a weapon, Marianne. The East India Company’s convenient shadow. They pointed; I obeyed. Men, women—anyone deemed a threat to British interests.”
The words fell heavy between them, brutal and bare.
