Page 30

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T he rest of the morning, into the early afternoon, passed by without incident.

Teresa had not mentioned the word that Cyrus had written on her palm, and he had not considered it important to discuss, assuming that he had made his point: she was under his protection now, for as long as she wanted it.

Mine…

Indeed, spending a few hours in town with Teresa had been something of a revelation for him, for he had imagined it quite differently.

He had assumed that they would go their separate ways and reconvene when both were done with their respective errands, but her presence had not been at all bothersome.

Rather, her company had been a very pleasant thing indeed.

She joked and laughed and chattered, charming the exceedingly dull men of business who usually had nothing extraneous to say.

His accountant—a notoriously glib and tedious man—had snorted so hard at one of her jests that he had been forced to excuse himself to find a handkerchief.

The lawyer, only marginally less boring on an ordinary day, had regaled them with a story of his time as a soldier, making Cyrus wonder if the man was more interesting than he had first thought.

Indeed, how Teresa could ever believe that she was not capable and confident was beyond him, when even the dressmaker had added a bonnet and some ribbons for free. Enchanted by the Duchess of Darnley, as keenly as everyone else seemed to be.

“That was… exactly what I needed,” Teresa said, resting her head against the squabs. “It reminded me a lot of a town near Grayling that I used to visit now and then. The people here are nicer, though.”

Their adventures had come to an end, and now they were back in the carriage, making the return journey to Darnley Castle. Back there, he hoped she would not be bored, now that she had experienced the outside world again.

“Must I visit this town and have a stern word with its inhabitants?” he asked, his own mood rather cheerful.

Teresa chuckled. “No, I think they can be forgiven. I was not well known to them, after all.”

“You were not well known to those people,” he pointed out, gesturing vaguely.

She tilted her head from side to side, her bonnet slipping.

“A fair remark. In truth, I do not know where all of that chatter came from. I am not usually so verbose.” A mischievous glint flashed in her extraordinary, golden-blue eyes.

“I think it must be the flowers in the hallways. Their cheer has passed to me.”

“I had no idea that flowers could be so influential,” he said, suppressing a smile.

“Oh, then you must speak with Mr. Brewster. He will tell you that flowers are extremely influential, and I have come to agree with him.” She smiled to herself, as if she had a secret.

A smile that slowly began to fade, her radiant glow dimming as her face fell into something akin to sadness. And when her eyes met his, they did not glimmer with merriment, but with the damp shine of sorrow.

“What happened in your nightmare, Cyrus?” she asked in a quiet voice.

He would have said it had come out of nowhere, if he had not just watched her face transform.

“I do not remember,” he replied brusquely, his own mood darkening.

She sat up straighter on the velvet squabs. “You said you did not want to die. You kept repeating it.” She paused. “Was someone trying to kill you?”

“I would rather talk of what you purchased in town,” he said, as invisible hands slithered through his ribs and grasped his lungs in their clawed grip, squeezing.

With a determined breath, Teresa moved herself to his side of the carriage and took hold of his hand, writing a word that he understood immediately: Please.

“I want to understand you,” she urged. “You know of my torments. I would know yours.”

She wrote the word again with her fingertip, her expression so sincere, so earnest, that he did not know how he was supposed to refuse. Indeed, she had given no indication that she would ever use his past against him, or that she wanted to know so she could gossip about it.

“Have you heard any stories about me?” he asked, sliding his fingers into his collar to loosen the strangling thing.

She shook her head. “My brother said there were stories about you, but he told me none of them. He mentioned they were worrisome, nothing more.”

Then, I truly have no choice now. He knew of those awful stories well enough. The thought of her hearing a corrupt version from someone else and believing he was dangerous or worse was not something he could bring himself to tolerate, even if it meant she would willingly put distance between them.

“For a time, it was alleged that I had killed my father and grandfather in order to gain the title of Duke of Darnley for myself,” he began stiffly, the old story rusty on his tongue. “What was not written, or was cleverly altered, was the fact that I was three-and-ten. A boy.”

Teresa had grown very still at his side, but her hand remained in his. A good sign, if she had not jerked her hand away yet.

“A boy who would have exchanged everything he possessed to not be the Duke of Darnley,” he continued. “It was my father who desperately longed for that title, but it was not just greed that turned him into a monster.”

“Tell me of him,” Teresa encouraged, shuffling a little closer.

“He was the second cruelest man I have ever had the misfortune of knowing,” Cyrus replied, no small amount of bitterness in his voice. “My grandfather was the first. Together, the boy I was stood no chance against them.”

“What of your mother?”

Cyrus turned his gaze out of the window, so his wife would not see the pain in his eyes.

“I never knew her, except in dreams. When my father and grandfather had beaten me particularly badly, she would visit me—I know that sounds absurd, but she did.” He paused.

“She died giving me life, you see, and I suspect that she was… like heavenly chains around my father and grandfather, holding them back from being the true devils that they were. When she was gone, they were set loose and, my goodness, they hated me.”

“Both of them?” Teresa asked, her voice trembling.

He nodded. “For different reasons. My grandfather hated me because I was another unworthy heir to outlive. My father hated me because I took my mother from him.” He shrugged.

“It is strange, because I can never recall anything that I did wrong, and they never explained, but I was always being punished for one thing or another. The slightest look or word or action that they did not like, and I would be struck. And I did everything to be good, to be diligent and dutiful and respectful, to avoid that. It never worked.”

“Did they…” Teresa’s fingertips touched his scar, his body rigid at the unexpected tenderness. “Did they do this?”

He closed his eyes, smelling phantom smoke in the air, his throat tightening as it had done on that terrible afternoon, fifteen years ago.

“My father was beating me for visiting my mother’s grave,” he rasped.

“It was her birthday. He called me things that I would not dare to repeat for your delicate ears.

He beat me so viciously that I think he wanted me to join my mother that day.

I vaguely remember a shout, and being grateful for it, because my father stopped hitting me.

“This was in the tower, where he executed all my punishments,” he went on haltingly, his voice reluctant to remember.

“My grandfather never saw the need to conduct my punishments in private, preferring to strike me where all the servants could see. Anyway, there was a shout, and my father left the tower. He locked the door, as he always did when he wanted to truly punish me.”

He stopped, his breath ragged. All at once, the carriage was too hot, the air too dense to inhale, his mind ablaze with a series of memories that would never cease to haunt him. As much as he hated his father and grandfather, he still wondered if there was more he could have done to save them.

“My grandfather was in the other tower; he had fallen, I think,” Cyrus continued, sifting through the fog of his mind for the glimmers of fact.

“A servant had shouted that my grandfather needed help, and my father had gone to see what the matter was.

Somehow, a fire had started in the other tower—I think my grandfather was cleaning his musket, and some black powder ignited, but I do not know for certain.

“My father tried to get my grandfather out of the blaze, but it caught too quickly, engulfing their escape, spreading so swiftly through that far end of the castle. The ruined part,” he said with a dry, tight smile.

“To this day, I do not know why my father tried to help my grandfather, when not helping would have gained him everything he had ever wanted.”

Teresa stroked his scar again, her breath warm on his cheek. “People do strange things for family.” She paused, her voice catching. “How did you get out of the tower? My goodness… you were still locked in there!”

“Ironically, it worked in my favor,” he replied.

“It was the last thing to burn. I must have been aware of the fire, because I dragged myself up to the window and looked out.

I saw it, and… I knew I had two choices: I could throw myself out of the window entirely, or I could try and climb down and across to the old battlements.

Beaten as I was, and so dazed I should not have been climbing anywhere, I still chose the latter.

“I made it out of the window and onto the ledge well enough, and I remember the flames rising higher as I dared myself to jump across to the battlements. It was still a fair fall.” He frowned.

“I think I stayed there on the ledge until the flames devoured the door and caught on the drape beside me. Something burned me; I know that for certain. I jumped shortly afterward, but when I landed, I must have toppled over. The last thing I recall is hitting my head and then… it was all black, until I woke up in bed with a burn on my head and a dukedom to manage.”

“Oh, Cyrus…” Teresa whispered, her voice choked. “I am so very sorry.”

He swallowed thickly. “As am I. A lot of people died that day. My father and grandfather, of course, but a number of servants who were trapped in that part of the castle. I mourn them more than I shall ever mourn those devils.”

“You were a child,” Teresa mumbled, shaking her head. “I cannot… I cannot fathom it. It is too awful. All of it. Oh, Cyrus, I… I am so very, very sorry.”

He forced himself to turn and look at her, bringing his hand to her face, brushing his thumb across the unblemished apple of her cheek. “Do you understand me better?”

“I think so,” she replied, meeting his gaze.

There were tears on her cheeks. Tears for him.

Something he had never experienced before, for though there were still servants at the castle who had been there at the time, it was silently forbidden for it to be mentioned.

There were, of course, tears shed on the anniversary for the fallen servants, but he had never seen tears shed for him. His story.

“It is not so thrilling as Captain Frostheart’s past,” he managed to tease, “and I fear there is no happy ending, but… the story is mine.”

She shook her head, her hand sliding up his chest to grasp his lapel. “Who says there is no happy ending?”

“I do,” he replied, his other hand coming up to cradle her face. “It is impossible.”

“Well, I do not believe you can decide that until you reach the end of a story, and we are nowhere near the final chapter,” she told him fiercely, her fingertips reaching up to lightly caress his scar once more. “ Our part is just beginning, after all. You have me now, and I am yours.”

Gently, she wrote the same word he had written, upon the ruined skin of his scar: mine.

Before he could consider the risks, and the danger he was putting them both in if he got too close to her, he bent his head, claiming her as his, not with fingertip-words or the spoken kind, but with a kiss.