Had Tramel been acting as a protector and saved Cecilia from Gladstone?
Or almost saved her. Had his cousin done the worst to Cilia?
Was rape not an excuse to want a man dead?
Wouldn’t that brutality transform a dove of peace into a warrior hunting like an eagle?
Everything made sense now.
Why wouldn’t a woman run if her husband accused her of infidelity when she’d been used most cruelly? Why would she return to her doubting husband if she were to have the brute’s babe?
It was hard to breathe.
Then he didn’t want to. Swallowing his own hypocrisy made his mouth bitter.
He forced a smile and held up her knife. “It matters not.” His voice was low and dry like Tramel’s.
Then he wanted to be his father, the man who lived like the devil and still had everything. Almost everything, but not Cecilia.
Felton moved to her and set the torch onto the table. “I’ll welcome this boy. He’s now a part of us.”
Her creamy, perfect brow perspired, very different from her always freezing ways.
With a dip of his head, he kissed her forehead. Then he turned to the window and loosed his hair. “Will you begin with my jaguar painting?”
“There’s no anger in you?”
“I’m a volcanic cone, burning and breaking inside. That man down the hall is full of bitterness. The only reason he’s not dying alone is because of you, and all the relatives angling for something in his will. I can’t be angry at things that cannot be changed. I’d rather accept my part in all this. My negligence has made everything possible.”
She was still, standing as if she posed for him. He marched forward and took up her hand, fluffing the art brush between her fingers. “I’ve lived what felt like an eternity without you. It was hell. I’m not journeying back when heaven is within my grasp.”
“Your mama didn’t birth a fool.”
Hand in hand, like he’d guided her with the flintlock, she whipped the brush over the scars on his shoulder. Up and down, side to side, he let her union their fingers to move the brushes from pox rosette to rosette. “I’m open to you. All of you. Be open to me. Accept my struggles and flaws.”
“Felton.” Her face was a river. “I need to confess all.”
“No more confessions. None tonight. That’s the work of spies. Tonight, we are the work of a lover and his artist.”
Like a man facing his mortality or even the breaking of his sanity, he swept her up into his arms. Spinning her fast, he dipped her, his little dumpling. “No more cross-purposes. Just us, the collective us.”
“Felton, I love you, but—”
He kissed her silent and let the magic of their touch take over. He needed her tonight. He couldn’t think of revenge and love at the same time.
The softness of her bosom had to block out the notions of his cousin, Jane, Tramel, his own jealous nature—all the things that made Cecilia run. The best revenge would be to have a restored life and committed wife.
Easing her onto the chaise, he divested her of her gown and wrapped his makeshift toga about their love.
One touch of her smooth hand on his rough shoulder cooled like lotion, producing a deep shudder in his bones. Her curly braids unraveled from their chignon as their kisses grew. He wove his fingers into the tight spirals, and she did the same to his locks.
Making love to her, his beautiful wife—this was the only freedom he’d truly known. Never, ever would he give her up.
“Wrap yourself, Cilia, about me. Hold on. Don’t think of me without you, ever.”
Burning with desire and revenge, he gave himself over to the perfect fit of her love.
The taste of honey that was her lips.
