Page 53 of The Dravenhearst Brides

She spoke about shame and blame, how both rotted inside her.

Festered. How it was her fault her brother died.

How she couldn’t save him from Cerberus’s hooves.

How it was her fault her mother faded, slipped away pining for her dead son, unable to see the living daughter right there beside her.

How it was Margot’s fault, yet again, her baby died.

How loss simply followed her like a storm cloud.

Battered her over and over again. Made her afraid to live, afraid of what came next.

Finally, she told her about Merrick. How he wouldn’t look at her. Couldn’t stand to be in the same room as her. How, by dismissing her grief, he dismissed her as a person.

“Where is he, Evangeline?” Margot wailed, swiping at her tear-streaked cheeks. It was fruitless—more simply fell in their place. “Why isn’t he here with me?”

Evangeline produced a handkerchief and wiped away the tears. “He’s sad too, dearest. And alone.”

“He doesn’t have to be alone.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s just trying to deal with it in his own way. The way men do.”

She sniffed. “Well, his way is stupid.”

“It is, isn’t it? Men are like that sometimes. They do very foolish things that we—enlightened creatures we are—can’t possibly hope to understand.”

Margot cracked a smile. It felt like the first ray of sunshine breaking through a rainstorm.

“There you are.” Evangeline wiped away one tiny tear that escaped.

“Thank you.” She took a shuddering breath. “For listening.”

The air was clearing; Evangeline’s herbs had burned to ash.

“I think you need to tell Merrick. You need to tell him all the things you told me. It helps. Don’t you feel better, sugar?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“You need to talk about it. These kinds of things, Margot…they either bring couples together or push them apart. I would know.” She nodded. “We’ll go outside now. It’ll help. You need a clear head. And tonight, you’ll talk to your husband. You’ll figure out a way through this. Together.”

Before they departed the room, Evangeline placed a bundle of herbs beneath Margot’s pillow.

“Rosemary,” she explained. “To keep the dreams—those women—away. It’s not a long-term solution—everything wild dies in this house. But for tonight, it’s a start.”

Margot was waiting for Merrick when he finally crested the hill at dusk, returning from the distillery.

“You’re out of bed,” he said. His face was blank.

“I am.”

Silence.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Like horseshit.”

Heavier silence, positively thunderous. Merrick looked at his feet.

“You look like horseshit too,” she said. “Shall we go inside and talk about it?”

When he looked up, his expression said no. His lips were thin and tight, his eyes guarded.

That was fine. She would just have to be brave enough for both of them. She turned and walked into the house. He followed. She chose a side parlor for no reason other than it was nearest.

The room had the cluttered feel of a house that had lived too long, seen too much.

Filled with the bric-a-brac of generations, bursting at the seams the way stuffing spools out of a torn cushion.

Ceramic vases on the mantel. Crystal bowls on the sideboard.

Taxidermy on the walls. Porcelain cats on the sill.

Ornate plates on pedestals, a collection of antique glass bottles…

trinkets upon trinkets upon trinkets. All covered in the dust of centuries.

Positively suffocating, this old house.

When she turned to Merrick, his arms were crossed. He looked like he was gearing up for war.

“I’ve missed you.” She wanted to start with earnestness. She hoped it would dent his armor.

It didn’t. He didn’t even blink.

“It’s been really hard,” she tried again. I’ve lost track of time. I’ve lost track of you. Of myself. All of it.

“I’m sorry for that,” he said.

Silence. A quartz clock ticked on the mantel.

Margot searched for words. “I’m sorry you can’t bear to look at me.” It’s where her pain lived, in his dismissal. “I’m sorry you can’t stand to be around me. It must hurt when you see me. You blame me. I blame myself. I’m sorry I lost the baby, Merrick. I’m sorry for all of it. But I—”

“Margot, stop.” He raised a shaking hand. “Please just…stop. I cannot bear to hear you apologizing.”

“I need to say it,” she insisted.

“Then say it. Say the things you came here to say but leave the apologies out of it. Go ahead, break my heart. Do it properly. I can assure you, I’ve withstood worse.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t look at you because I cannot bear it.

I cannot bear to see you in pain, knowing I am the cause.

I…” He gripped the top of an armchair, the press of his fingers denting inward.

“I owe you my life. I was incapacitated, and you saved me. You were brilliant and strong and a little bit harebrained—all the things I love most about you. But it came at a terrible cost.” He blinked and looked away.

“That’s not why I lost the baby.”

“You overexerted yourself for me. You stayed in this house for me. The fault lies with me. My family. My house. My wife. My child.”

“Ours,” she whispered, correcting.

“Mine,” he huffed.

She swallowed hard. Even now, he refused to let her in. He was locking her out of her own loss. Removing her autonomy from her own choices. It was maddening.

“If I knew how to fix it, I would.” He spread his arms, plaintive. “I would give anything to fix it, Margot, but I simply don’t know how.”

Her temper flared. There was that horrible word again, fix. It wasn’t what she needed from him. Not in the slightest. And to hell with every man who had ever looked at her and tried.

“I am not broken,” she murmured, her tone deadly. “I do not need fixing.”

She picked up a crystal bowl on the sideboard and dropped it to the floor. It shattered magnificently, breaking into a thousand shards all over the floor, glittering like diamonds. Like the first frost upon the earth.

Merrick inhaled sharply.

She moved to the mantel, lifted a single finger and flicked. A ceramic vase wobbled once. Twice. It tumbled over and cracked into pieces.

“What are you doing?” He didn’t move to stop her, only watched.

“You want to fix something?” She pointed at the floor. “Go ahead, fix it.”

He furrowed his brow.

She picked up a ceramic cat. Lifted it overhead, smashed it to the floor.

“That is broken.” She pointed again. “I am not. I’m not broken because I feel, Merrick.

Because I hurt. Because I have a past that haunts me…

the same as you. I am not broken, and I do not need fixing.

” She lifted a second cat and tossed it into the space between them.

It exploded at his feet like a launched grenade. “Do you understand the difference?”

His chest rose, then fell. “I don’t care about any of those things.” He nodded toward the floor, littered with shards. “I never have.”

She flicked her wrist, knocking an ornamental plate to the ground. It fractured. “Oops. What about that one?”

“No.” He shook his head, taking a step closer. Glass crunched underfoot.

Margot swept her hand across the mantel, knocking a second ceramic vase to the ground. “And that?”

“Couldn’t care less.” He took another step.

She crossed her arms, halting her attack on his house. “It’s nice to finally have your attention, Mr. Dravenhearst.”

“Couldn’t look away if I tried.”

“Because I’m acting out? Because I’m broken?”

“No. Because you’re crazy and brilliant and mad and beautiful…and right. Completely, wholeheartedly right.”

“You brought me here, Merrick. You chose to offer, and I chose to come. You don’t get to look away now, when you don’t like what you see, when the picture isn’t pretty and perfect. I won’t let you.”

He froze. “I told you to leave. To run fast and far.”

“Those are the words of a coward.”

He flinched.

“You want me to run because it proves you were right all along, that you’re alone and unloved, and therefore, unlovable.

It’s an excuse. You excuse yourself from the hard parts, withdraw to prevent being hurt.

But life is messy.” She flicked her wrist, knocking another cat to the floor.

“My heart may break, but I am not broken. I’ve never needed you to fix me, Merrick.

It’s not fixing I need.” She took a deep breath. “I have only ever needed you.”

“But why?” he asked, whispering.

“Why does the earth need rain?”

He smiled. A small one. Half a dimple.

“Why does your bourbon need the barrel?”

He grinned fully this time, big and wide.

“Some things,” she finished, “are just supposed to be together. To make each other better. Stronger.”

Merrick picked up the quartz clock on the mantel. He flipped it over in his hand. “If I could turn back time, I would do so many things differently. I would love you differently. Better.”

She caught her breath at the words.

“I’m still learning.” He glanced up at her before dropping the clock. It shattered at his feet, freezing time. “But I’m here, and I’m looking. And what I see isn’t broken. It’s beautiful.”

When his lips closed down over hers, she believed him. She wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t hysterical. She wasn’t weak.

She was none of those things so many men before him had told her, had made her believe.

Somehow, he’d seen. And in being seen—exactly as she was—he made her whole.

“It’s not you, Margot, it’s me. I’m the one who’s mad,” he murmured against her lips. “I’m positively mad for you.”