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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“ I t is a beautiful day, is it not?” Teresa called out, grinning from ear to ear.

She could not have imagined herself being so happy, her mood perpetually cheery, her days filled with loveliness. It was not the dramatic romance that she had daydreamed about for so long; it was something far, far better.

It was real.

“Be careful you do not burn,” Cyrus called back from his horse, a short distance away.

Despite his insistence that she would not notice his presence, that he was only there to protect her at a distance, he had not yet ventured out of her sight. She did not mind; it was rather nice to have company on the walk, even if he was not quite near enough to converse with, without shouting.

“It is not at all hot enough for that!” she protested with a laugh.

Still, it was a relief to know that she would not return to a place where her mother would be there to scold her for freckling. Cyrus had already told her that he admired her freckles.

It had been three days since that life-altering kiss in the carriage. There had been a few echoes of it since, stolen moments on garden wanders and at the dinner table, and in the mornings when they awoke together, but there had been nothing more. They had been sharing a chamber, solely to sleep.

I have no need to rush anything. She smiled at her husband’s consideration, imagining the horde of children they might have in the future.

It was a precious thought, but she had learned from her sister that children changed a great deal about life itself.

With that in mind, she had decided not to be impatient, but to enjoy her freedom to do as she pleased while she was still able to.

Besides, she could not imagine anything more wonderful than to kiss, and be kissed by, her husband.

“Perhaps, we ought to find some shade for a while!” Cyrus said, his horse snatching up tufts of grass.

“Not yet!” she replied, eyeing a crag in the near distance. “I will climb to the top of that first, and then I shall rest.”

The view across the countryside would be extraordinary; she could feel it in her bones. More to the point, she had barely walked more than a couple of miles, if her legs were correct in their guess. She had plenty more to do before she stopped.

Cyrus shook his head. Evidently, it was not the answer he had hoped for, but he did not argue as he waited for her to catch up.

“You should wait for me on the other side,” she suggested. “I will not be long.”

He raised a dubious eyebrow. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I am trying to get you to do as you promised, remaining at a distance where I would not even know you were there,” she teased, patting the horse’s neck. “Otherwise, it is not at all like one of my usual walks.”

“I am not keen to let you out of my sight.”

She chuckled. “I can see that.” She gestured to the crag, where lopsided chunks of rock pierced the grassy hill like crooked teeth. “But Merryweather will thank you for going around, rather than over.”

The horse nickered in agreement.

Cyrus puffed out a strained breath. “Very well. I shall wait for you on the other side, but if you do not reach me within the half- hour, I will climb up to fetch you myself. And I will not hesitate to throw you over my shoulder.”

“Now, now, that is more likely to make me wait at the top of the crag.” She flashed him a mischievous grin, thoroughly enjoying this new, funnier, more tender version of him.

It was particularly pleasant when combined with his immense strength; the novelty of being carried by him would never wear away.

“Half an hour,” he said pointedly, before clicking his tongue to get Merryweather to begin moving again.

She watched him go, marveling at the majesty of him against the backdrop of the rolling hills and the blue skies.

The wild wind whipped at his riding jacket, tousling his hair, making him look every bit like one of her beloved heroes…

only he was actually hers. He was solid and real and wonderful, occasionally awkward, but doing his best to be a lovely husband.

She waited until he had ridden out of sight before she began her walk again, relishing in the false solitude, secretly delighted that Cyrus was never too far away.

Legs, do not let me down.

It had been a while since she had conquered such a climb, but as the view at the top called to her, she powered onward.

A scream tore through the air, striking Cyrus in the chest like a javelin. Piercing straight through his heart.

He had gotten down from the saddle to wait for his wife, sitting on a rock with his attention split between the landscape and the crag. The moment he heard that awful sound, he was up on his feet, running as he had never run before.

The rocky terrain tried to trip him, rabbit holes tried to take him down, but he kept right on running through every stumble and knock to the shins. His own pain did not matter if something had happened to Teresa.

Scrambling up the crag, weaving around the tall rocks, his eyes searched frantically for her. But it was not until he was at the top that he saw her.

She lay on a grassy ledge below in a crumpled heap, unmoving.

No… no, no…

He clambered down though his grazed hands throbbed, sinking to his knees beside her still body. Her eyes were closed, as if sleeping, her face entirely and unnervingly serene.

“Tess,” he rasped, rolling her over onto her back, cradling her face. “Tess, wake up. Please, wake up.”

Despite his caution, despite the subtle distance he kept between them, history had repeated itself anyway. He was certain of it. He was certain, in that sinking, horrible instant, that she had been taken from him.

Of course she has. You dared to love her.

“Tess!” he roared, gathering her up into his arms. “My love, wake up!”

His heart nearly stopped as her eyelids fluttered open, a dazed expression upon her face. She stared up at him, a weak smile forming upon her lips.

It was then that he noticed the cut to her forehead, in the exact spot where his scars began. The same spot where he had struck his head fifteen years ago, before waking up to find the dukedom now entirely his responsibility. It could not be a coincidence; he would not consider it.

“Did you call me… ‘my love’ just now?” she murmured, her smile strengthening. With a shaky hand, she reached up and touched the side of his face. “I like the way… that sounded.”

He shook his head, fear taking hold. “You must have misheard me.” He swallowed. “Are you well? What hurts? Goodness, I must get you back to the castle, right this minute.”

“There is no need,” she replied, clarity returning to her eyes. “I tumbled, that is all. I think… it is just my ankle. No more than a sprain, I am sure.”

“You could have died!” he snapped, his stomach roiling with the white-hot twist of panic.

Teresa frowned, struggling to sit up. “I am quite well, my darling. It was not such a great height, and the grass broke my fall.” Bracing her hands against his shoulders, she managed to stand. “You see, no harm done. There is… some pain, but I can walk.”

“You will do no such thing.” He shot up, sweeping her into his arms before she could protest.

She tried to speak to him as he picked his way down the craggy hilltop, making his way toward his waiting horse.

She tried to reassure him that she was fine, that it was nothing to worry about, but he could not hear her properly.

His ears roared with the rush of his terror, all the ghosts of his past clamoring the warnings he had ignored.

“You are cursed, boy. You are a demon, destined to kill all that is good.”

“You destroy everything you touch.”

“You are unworthy. You are wretched, and you are doomed.”

“I wish you had never been born, so the world would not have to contend with such a cursed being as you.”

He had thought he had done enough. He had thought that only childbirth was a danger to Teresa, but he had been wrong.

The fates, and his past, did not want him to be happy, and they would take his joy and his love away if he did not heed them.

They would take her if he did not remove himself from her side at once, if he did not cease loving her immediately.

His mind racing with a thousand dreadful thoughts and possibilities, he managed to settle Teresa into the saddle.

Pulling himself up behind her, he seized the reins and, with a squeeze of his thighs, urged Merryweather toward home.

Not at the gallop he might have liked, with peril still weighing on him, but fast enough.

“I am perfectly well, my darling,” Teresa tried to insist, but the wind and Cyrus’ fear whipped the sound away.

He had been delivered an omen; he would not ignore it now, not when there was still time to avert what it heralded.