Page 98 of Dangerous

“Ah, Lady Exley.” He stood in the middle of the narrow stairway, his arms crossed, blocking the way out with his big body. “What can I do for you?”

“I wish to speak to my husband.”

Bouchard moved closer, forcing her to back down the stairs until they were at the bottom, their bodies almost touching in the narrow hallway. His behavior told her Adam had left; he would never behave so familiarly while her husband was on board.

“We will talk down ’ere, eh?”

“When did he leave?”

“Just a while ago, my lady. ’E said to give you dis.” He handed her several sheets of folded paper.

She snatched them out of his hand and saw there was no seal. “You did not read them?”

He smiled, an odd twist to his lips. “No, I did not read them. Now, if you would go back to your cabin?” Mia allowed him to herd her down the hallway. He opened the door to his cabin and waited until she went inside. “I will ’ave food sent to you in an hour if that is convenable?”

Mia gave him a look she’d seen Adam use to intimidate those around him.

It didn’t work. Bouchard just smiled and shut the door in her face. She heard the scrape of a key in the lock and grabbed the handle, but the door was already locked.

“Bouchard?” There was no answer. “Bouchard!” She pounded on the door. “You bastard!” She swore like a fishwife and beat the door until her palm stung. She collapsed against the door and slid down, only recalling the note in her hand as she landed roughly on the floor. It was crumpled. She straightened the two sheets and opened them, recognizing her husband’s neat, compact hand.

Darling:

I’m sorry to leave you after such a terrible row. I am sorry to leave you, ever.

I can’t regret my decision to make sure you had at least this much protection. You are my wife, and it is both my duty and my honor to keep you safe. As much as you wish to protect your son, I wish to protect you. Bouchard will take care of you if Assad presents us with any surprises, something both he and Ramsay have warned me about.

Stay in your cabin, darling. There is no point in risking you and our child. You know Assad will kill you if he gets the opportunity. Please don’t make my decision meaningless.

I’ve left you one of my pistols. It is loaded and it is inside the wardrobe. Point it away from you and pull the trigger if you have need of it. I hope it does not come to that.

Try not to shoot Bouchard with it, even though he is provoking.

If all goes well, we will bring your son to you in only a few hours. If not, well, know that I love you, even though I have never spoken the words. Maybe that will cause you to feel kindly toward me after you read what follows.

I should have told you this long ago—certainly before we married—but I told myself I couldn’t share the information for my daughters’ sakes. It is, after all, their secret and they do not deserve that it be shared without the certainty it would be held sacred.

But somehow, after I came to know and love you, it was even more difficult to tell you. I will not beat about the bush any longer. The truth is my first wife was not only reckless, she was mad.

It wasn’t until after her death that I learned the truth. Her only sibling, a brother named Dennis, came to the funeral and told me about his sister. He had been out of the country when we married and returned far too late to tell me the truth about her past and their family history. He apologized for not telling me after we’d married, but I cannot find it in me to blame the man. He told me their grandmother had killed herself when their own mother was just a child and that she had been mad for years before she took her life.

Dennis and his mother escaped the taint, but Veronica showed her madness from a young age.

You must see now why I can’t allow my daughters to go into society, to take spouses, to have children and spread this stain to another generation. At the same time, what if they are like their uncle or grandmother and have avoided madness? It is a situation which has, I’m ashamed to say, driven me to avoid my own children.

Eva, especially, reminds me of her mother. Her passionate outbursts, sudden rages, and violent attachments are far too like Veronica’s.

I wish I could tell you I have devised some solution, but I have not. And now I have brought you into the midst of potential tragedy, and you have formed attachments to all three girls. Three attachments that might one day yield heartache.

I deeply apologize, Mia, for not telling you sooner—for not telling you face-to-face.

That first night, as you grilled me at your father’s dinner table, you recognized my cowardice regarding my daughters and attributed it to male arrogance. The truth is, I was a bad husband out of ignorance and I’ve been an even worse father out of fear. I’ve stayed away not because I don’t love my daughters, but because I love them too much. When I am with them, I find myself watching, and watching, and watching. Ever watchful for signs of madness. Childish tantrums make my blood run cold—girlish arguments cause me to hold my breath in terror. This was not what my children needed—to be observed with the calculating eye of a jailor. What they needed was you, Mia. You and your friendship and love. You showed me how selfish I’ve been to allow my fear to paralyze me. More importantly, you showed my daughters what it is like to have a mother figure who loves them.

In a way, you gave my daughters back to me. In the weeks since we returned to Exham I have felt a joy in their presence I haven’t experienced since that day Dennis shared the secret of their heritage.

I hope to repay you the only way I can—by giving you back your son.

Yours always,