Page 16 of Lord of the Lost

Chapter Six

Nearly two weeks had passed, and Mona was more confused than ever. Each time that she thought she was getting closer to Devlin, that he was beginning to relax, to show her his true feelings, he would withdraw again. If she asked him, as she eventually had done, about his dreams, he would speak bitter words about memories of death and destruction, then apologise, but refuse to speak any further, and a day or more of coldness towards her would follow, as if the burst of anger and despair which the discussion had invoked needed time to be pushed away, deep into his mind again.

They had settled into a routine together, but she would not call it truly companionable – still it was a beginning, one she could live with, one which gave her some hope for the future. Now, that would be put to the test, for they were returning to Grimstoke Castle, and she would have to face the now Dowager Duchess, and Lady Gabrielle, would have to find her balance in her new role as the Duchess of Grimstoke.

They had said little as the carriage bore them away from Deerwood Chase but, after a while, Devlin had slipped his arm around her, and she had leant into him, eventually falling asleep with her head on his shoulder. From Devlin, as he was now, she had come to realise, actions said far more than words – and that embrace gave her more hope for the future.

“Mona… we’re nearly home. Time to wake up.”

Devlin’s voice roused her, and she lifted her head from his shoulder, to find him watching her, his face intent. Seized by impulse, she pushed herself up, and brought her lips to his. It was the softest, lightest of kisses, but it sent heat through her, nonetheless. He did not pull away, as she had feared he might, and after a moment, his lips moved on hers, returning the kiss.

It lasted mere moments, but it filled her with joy, even so.

Not that she expected that joy to last – the time since her marriage had already taught her how fragile everything was…

She moved back from him as if the kiss had never happened, and set about tidying herself, so that, as they drew up outside Grimstoke Castle, she felt ready to face what was to come.

They stepped down from the carriage and Mona felt, yet again, as if she was living a strange dream. Being greeted as ‘Your Grace’ still felt most peculiar, and the thought that she was now, officially, mistress of the great pile of looming ancient stone which she was about to enter just increased her sense of unreality.

As soon as Mona walked through the door, Devlin’s mother and Gabrielle were upon her. They wanted to tell her that she was welcome, that she was a wonderful addition to the family, that she was a lovely, loving woman and would make a lovely, loving wife. They had expressed the same sentiments immediately after the wedding, and Mona heard their words now as if they almost wished to force her to be as they said, to somehow magically make everything wonderful, and easy, because they desired it to be so.

But rather than being reassured, or encouraged, Mona had a distinct feeling of unreality as she endured their embraces and words. She found her breathing coming fast, uneven, and thought for a moment that she might faint. Their hopes and expectations weighed her down, as heavy as the stones of the castle surrounding them.

In the space of a few weeks, she had gone from a woman resigned to comfortable spinsterhood to being the wife of a Duke.

The wife of a man who had been her friend for a long, long time; and the wife of a man who was, it had become clear, broken in several ways. Their two-week wedding trip was over and his… desire… or rather lack of it, in the main - she could hardly think of it. It had been anticlimactic in the extreme and when it was over Mona had felt no closer to him. She had thought that after their wedding night, other nights might be better, might make them closer, but instead, he had been reluctant to approach her in that way…

Her friend, she’d soon realised, was gone, or very deeply hidden. In his place was a man shredded by the claws of war. A man she might never truly know well again. The thought filled her with a sense of hopelessness, for she knew that Devlin’s mother and sister expected her to break through his cold manner, to somehow draw out the man he had once been.

It was all too much to bear.

“If you will excuse me.”

She spoke rather abruptly, then fled up the stairs and to her bedroom – the room in which the footmen and maidservants had laid out her things, the room which, she now realised, had once been Devlin’s mother’s – and sat on the edge of the bed. She felt like a stranger - she was a stranger. She had not been to this house for years. Her father, and now her brother, had not approved of visiting when they were at war with Emilie’s country, despite the fact that Emilie’s son was at war, fighting the French… which she, and her mother, had thought quite unreasonable of them. Now it was her home.

Something warm and wet slid down her cheeks. She lifted her hand and brushed away tears, only then realising that she was sobbing. She told herself to stop. She mustn’t let helplessness overpower her. She mustn’t let dread and hopelessness consume her. She must remember that she was a Lady, and a lady did not despair – at least that is what her mother had always said.

She rose, moved to the looking glass, and regarded herself. Her pale face was pinched, tight, and her eyes were ringed with black. Her hair was still glossy, had yet to age, and shone brightly, bound on her head in intricate braided patterns. Her fingers were long and thin.

All in all, she was the same Desdemona, only now she belonged to her friend, and not her brother.

A knock came at the door, and she rapidly wiped the last of the tears away, taking a deep breath before calling out.

“Yes?”

“It is me.”

Devlin’s voice. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her mind filled with uncertainty – was he angry with her, for running away from his mother and sister so precipitously?

“Come in.”

Devlin entered the room with a pained expression on his face. She could not interpret it – was he angry, or worried, or…?

“I…”

He stopped, looking distressed, as though his words had leapt back down his throat at the last second. Mona wanted to grab him by the shoulders and scream at him, so deep was her own frustration in that moment. The words bubbled up in her mind, but she refused to let them escape her lips. They echoed in her thoughts regardless.

‘You are Devlin, and I am Mona! Do you remember the pond? Do you remember anything about us?’