Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
Page 30She beat him on the shoulder. “You didn’t stop!”
He’d stayed inside her the entire time. Even now she could feel the wetness of his seed between her thighs.
He pulled back to look down at her, his expression slightly dazed. She hit his shoulder again. “Was this your ploy to chain me to you? Get me with child so that you can trap me forever?” she cried.
Comprehension washed over his face. “I didn’t intend—”
“Get off me,” she choked, having no desire to hear his lies.
He rolled off her.
She scooted to the edge of the bed, her shaking hands tidying her garments. “It won’t work. I’m leaving.”
“You’re my wife—”
“I don’t require the reminder.” She faced him, shaking from what just happened—from the possibility that she could now be with child. “I never wanted this.”
He stared at her, his eyes hard pewter again, all the softness gone.
“I’ll return home with my father. I’ll simply explain that I can’t live here. The marriage will still stand, as does the settlement. You’ll get your money. And I’ll keep a portion, as promised . . . for my family,” she reminded.
His expression twisted bitterly. “And if there’s a child?”
Her chest tightened at the notion. “I’ll inform you.”
He nodded. “How very civil.” He pushed off from the bed, his motions jerky as he straightened his clothing. “Have a good life, Cleo,” he declared, striding away from the bed, from her, with a suddenness that left her blinking after him.
“Oh. One more thing.” He faced her. “Whether you want to hear it or not, I’m going to explain. Mary and I grew up here together. Nothing ever happened.” He shrugged. “She looked up to me, may have fancied herself in love with me.” His gaze fastened on her. “I never bedded her . . . there was only ever one kiss. Five years ago. At Christmas, under the mistletoe.”
A breath shuddered painfully from her lips. This time when he opened the door he didn’t look back. He left. He was gone.
And she was all alone.
Precisely what she had asked for—what she wanted from him. Dropping facedown on the bed, she lost herself to ugly, wet sobs that were quite beyond her understanding. Have a good life. At this moment, feeling as she did, her heart a twisting, painful mass in her too-tight chest, she didn’t see how that was possible.
Chapter Twenty-eight
He passed the spot where he’d stood with Mary and resisted the urge to slam his fist into the wall. They’d been children together. He had no idea she still harbored a yen for him after all these years. Even if he hadn’t married Cleo, there would be no future for them. He’d been explaining that to Mary when Cleo stumbled upon them. Hellfire.
What he felt for Cleo . . . damn, he didn’t know what he felt. He only knew it was real. Frightening and exhilarating and like nothing he’d ever felt for another woman. He didn’t want to lose that.
Now what was he going to do? He was married to a woman fully imprisoned by her own demons. He had no doubt she was packing her bag this very moment.
“Logan!” Simon strode down the corridor toward him. “Wasn’t sure if you were going to sleep the day away. I thought we were going to work on the north wing with the men, but if you’d like to idle the day away with your bride—”
“No chance of that,” he grumbled beneath his breath.
“What? Trouble in paradise already?”
At Logan’s look, some of Simon’s levity slipped away. “Sorry. I know you’re fond of her.”
“How do you know that?” he bit out.
His brother blinked. “Aside of the fact that you married her, any fool can see you’re enamored with one look.”
“I had to marry someone,” he replied, even as he knew Cleo was the only female he had ever wanted to wed.
Simon lifted an eyebrow. “Right. I’m supposed to believe she’s of no account to you.”
Logan strode past his brother, in no mood to discuss his feelings for Cleo with him. “Believe whatever you like.”
“Och.” Simon followed in his steps doggedly. “You’re behaving like a lion with the proverbial thorn in his paw.”
He stopped and whirled around. “She’s leaving, Simon.”
His brother stared at him for a moment before asking haltingly, “What do you mean?”
Turning, he continued down the corridor. “She will be returning to Town with her family.”
“Why?”
Why. The word reverberated through him. He swung around. “Because she doesn’t love me, Simon. I couldn’t make her love me.”
“Logan, wait! Where are you going?”
“We’ve work to do,” he called over his shoulder. “This castle won’t repair itself.”
“Are you certain you know what you’re doing, Cleo?”
Cleo walked briskly down the corridor, Marguerite doggedly following in her wake. She worked her gloves onto each finger with an air of efficiency even though inside she felt a wreck. “I’m quite certain of my actions.”
Marguerite grasped her shoulder and pulled her around to face her. “Are you really? Because once done, some things are difficult to undo.” She angled her head and stared at her intently. “I just don’t want you to regret this later.”
Cleo moistened her lips, hating that her sister’s words held such power over her. She already felt nauseated and heartsick. She had ever since Logan left her this morning. She didn’t need Marguerite making her feel any worse. “I already feel regret. What’s a little more down the road?”
Cleo slid free of her sister’s hold and continued down the corridor until she reached the main foyer. The sound of hammers and men at work grew louder once she stepped outside. The tarp had been removed and several men worked on the west side of the castle. A scaffolding had been erected, along with several ladders. Even across the distance of the front yard, she could make out Logan’s shape. He worked alongside other men, without a jacket. Wearing a simple wool shirt and trousers, he looked like any other laborer. Except for his aura of command. His noble bearing. And the way he turned to stare in her direction—with all the alertness of a beast of the woods. It was like he scented her from afar. There was no doubt in her mind that he was staring at her. Another man spoke to him, but he didn’t turn to acknowledge him.
She started to hold up a hand to wave goodbye, but that felt so inadequate. How did one say farewell to the husband you were leaving forever? Forever. The notion rang like a death knell in her heart. Her eyes burned and she blinked rapidly.
“Cleo?” Jack was at her side, his hand taking her elbow. She sent him a sharp glance. He wore one of his ridiculous jackets. A bright shade of purple that seemed to belie his serious countenance. “Are you certain you want to leave?”
“Yes.” Why must everyone ask her that?
Was she certain she must go? Yes.
Was she certain she should never see her husband again? Yes.
Was she certain she loved him?
Turning, she hurried into the waiting carriage, lest she answer that question in her mind. She nodded a tight greeting for Annalise, who stared at her with sympathy. Cleo looked away, refusing to hazard a guess at what she might be thinking—this girl who believed in fairy tales and happy endings.
Her father joined them inside the carriage. He gave a brisk knock on the ceiling and in moments they were moving. Anxiety rode high in her chest, rising into her throat, making it difficult to breathe.
Jack watched her anxiously as if she might swoon. She pasted a smile on her face that felt as brittle as glass—and told herself she simply had to hold on. Get past this. Put distance between herself and Logan. Soon, she’d be far from here and she’d forget. Common sense would prevail and she’d stop loving him.
From atop the scaffolding high along the wall, Logan watched the two carriages wind their way through the village, his heart clenching at the sight. Cleo was in the first carriage. She’d been standing too far away for him to read her precise expression before she climbed inside. Had she wanted him to say something? To cry out and beg her to stop?
“She’s gone,” Simon announced needlessly from the scaffolding beside him.
Simon followed his gaze, his youthful face reflecting all of his bewilderment. “I don’t understand. You like her . . . and I don’t care what you say. I know she cares for you, too.”
Logan continued to look out at the horizon. The carriages were small, no bigger than his thumb in the distance. Soon they would round the turn and be out of sight. Gone for good.
Simon made a grunt of disgust. In his world, husbands and wives stayed together. The only time his father had left was to fight in the Crimea. Wives never left. “Is she ever coming back?”
Logan watched as the first carriage, the one Cleo occupied, took that final turn. She was gone.
“No.”
He turned his attention back to the task at hand, stepping off the scaffolding and onto a jutting ledge. “She’s not. You coming?” He looked back at his brother.
Simon glanced around the scaffolding. “I forgot my pickax.” Shrugging at his forgetfulness, he crouched down and descended the ladder to retrieve the tool he would need for the day’s work.
Logan advanced along what was once a thick stone-fortified wall but was now only a crumbling outer shell, offering no protection to the interior room whatsoever. The entire thing needed to come down. Even if it meant removing each and every stone by hand.
Gripping his own ax, he strode inside the cavernous room. Now empty of furniture, it had once been a bedchamber. Flexing his fingers around the ax’s handle, he joined the other two laborers already at work, attacking the outer wall and sending stone raining down into the yard.
He worked with a fury, taking solace in the labor. By the end of the day he intended to be aching sore and exhausted—too weary to contemplate Cleo and what precisely he felt within himself.
He lifted his ax and took a healthy whack. Stone sparked and crumbled. He grunted, and repeated the motion. The sound of steel hitting rock filled the air.
Arm pulled back, he was in mid-swing when the earth spit up a growl and rumbled all around him. He dropped his tool, arms reaching, stretching out to hold on to something amid his suddenly shifting, shuddering world. But there was nothing to grab. Only air.
One of the men beside him shouted. The other one dove for the ground.
And then there was nothing. Not even that anymore. The ground opened in a great, hungry maw beneath his feet. The floor gave out, disappearing in a fierce cloud of rock and rubble and debris. Taking him with it.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Cleo watched as her father removed his gloves and slapped them against his hands. The small taproom was crowded at this hour, and he eyed their surroundings impatiently, ostensibly hoping that they might be served by one of the harried-looking servant girls sometime soon.
Jack stood up from the table, his impatience getting the better of him. “I’ll go speak with the innkeeper and see when we might expect service.”
Cleo watched him stalk away, feeling as miserable as ever. In fact, with every mile they’d traveled, a pore-deep misery had infiltrated every inch of her.