“But—”
“Go,” Harlowe barked.
The door latched shut on Casper’s exit, leaving the chamber in a hush.
“How did you know?” Harlowe said.
“Know what?” Maeve’s hand flew to her hair. She was appalled to realize the plait she’d fallen asleep with had long since unraveled. A frequent outcome after a nightmare of near drowning.
His hand fluttered to his still exposed leg. He pulled it beneath the coverlets.
“Oh, yes. My late husband, of course.” She smoothed her hair back as casually as she could under the circumstances. “He had frequent leg cramps, though not from the overuse of laud—I mean—”
“Do not concern yourself with niceties, my lady. We both know I spent months in an asylum in which they doused me repeatedly. It’s a wonder I’m not dead, though half the time I feel so.”
Four
D
o you remember much of your time there?” Maeve asked softly.
More than any of the horrors Harlowe experienced over the past year: the pockets of black mass in his head; screams of madness; echoing against stone walls; the smell of unwashed bodies; and dank human depravity, hearing her pity was the worst. “Not much. Some,” he said gruffly. “Certainly, nothing I can speak of in mixed company.”
Lady Alymer rubbed her palms over her upper arms as if taken by a sudden chill.
He waited for her to say something, anything, but she remained quiet. He narrowed his gaze on her, but the embers in the grate did not give off enough light for him to read her expression. Not that he could have regardless. There was much beneath Lady Alymer’s practiced facade that would take a lifetime to discern. “Perhaps, you wouldn’t mind enlightening me as to what it is I’m missing? At least this time.”
She rose from the chair, leaving a soft scent of roses in her wake as she moved to the hearth and took up the poker. She stabbed at the embers then tossed in a piece of wood. “I’m not certain I comprehend you, my lord.”
“And I’m sure you do.”
“Would you like me to close the window?”
“God, no.” He drew in an embattled breath. “I would like for you to tell me what it is you believe I am too feeble-minded to know,” he bit out in a frustrated huff. How could he explain how not knowing was more terrifying than the blank canvas in his head?
She stalked back to the chair next to the bed and plopped down in a most undignified manner.
He found the motion promising. What he did not find reassuring was the amount of time it was taking her to speak. Or if she would. She was just stubborn enough, he thought, but he managed to restrain himself from saying anything that might discourage her.
After an interminable time, she inhaled deeply. “There was a woman, my lord.”
“Surely, you are speaking of my… wife.” The word was an unexpected punch to his gut. Assorted memories then assaulted him. Those of strong hands, holding his head as he retched uncontrollably, forcing broth down his raw throat. Cool, soothing water on his fevered brow, weeks of ill-health and ax-splitting headaches. Afternoon walks to the sea, a young woman fetching him sketch paper and pencils, then paints. Only… he couldn’t remember what she looked like. If she was tall, or blonde, or voluptuous. Strong. She was strong, with an iron will. That, he remembered. “Not my wife,” he rasped in a voice he didn’t recognize.
“Really, my lord. Now is not the time—”
He reached up and grasped her wrist. It was silky smooth. Slender. Delicate. He could snap it in a single twist if the notion took him. The thought appalled him, because he was sure the action was familiar.
“I can think of no better time, Lady Alymer. You will tell me. Now.” He never raised his voice, he couldn’t have if he’d tried. It was a graveled purr inside his throat. He would settle for that rather than the begging resting on his tongue.
The blaze in the hearth took hold, highlighting the stubborn tilt of her jaw and the glint of steel in the gaze she lifted to his. Slowly, he released her wrist, desperately wanting to put his lips to her soft skin to ease any pain he’d caused.
“She was found alongside a road near Colchester.”
“Found? I don’t understand. Who was found?”
She ignored the question of ‘who’? “Murdered, my lord. The earl—Griston—he was hosting a house party when the news came about. It was quite a shock.”
“Griston,” he bit out. “That whoreson. Didhekill her?” He remembered Griston. A man whose attractive facade that hid the evil that lurked beneath his Byron-like appearance. Still, relief hit Harlowe with volcanic force.
