by Anna Bradley
“A fever. Mrs. Mullins said it was quick.”
Quick, yes. Wasn’t it supposed to hurt less if it was quick?
It hadn’t. His father’s death had nearly killed his mother, and his nine-year-old world had cracked open and splintered into thousands of tiny shards. He’d been buried in the debris. There’d been so much of it when he emerged at last, much later, he didn’t recognize himself anymore.
Had Mrs. Mullins told her that?
Eleanor began to rush over the words now. Poison was like that. Once you’d swallowed it, you became desperate to purge yourself. “Your uncle and aunt and cousin came to live with you then, and Julian became like a brother to you. Mrs. Mullins said all might still have been well, despite your uncle’s cruelty, but—”
She stopped, and Cam saw she was shaking. She didn’t want to say it—didn’t want to know this story. Knowing it hurt her.
But not as much as it hurt him.
He laughed a little, but the sound was bitter. “But what, Ellie? You’ve come this far, and now I’ll have the whole of it. You’ll want to get such an ugly story out, you see, otherwise it will fester and burn inside your heart until it leaves a gaping wound.”
Her composure fled then, and she brought her hands up to cover her face.
He did cross to her then, to grasp her wrists and force her hands back down. “Look at me. What did my Aunt Mary tell you? Something about my mother, I think?”
She shook her head, her dark eyes huge in her white face.
“You said you wanted the truth, Eleanor. What did my aunt tell you about my mother?”
“She said—she said . . . your mother was shamed. Ruined. Your uncle found out about it and forced you and your mother from your home.”
Cam dropped her hands. “My mother’s downfall was a great stroke of luck for my uncle. He’d been trying to find a way to steal Lindenhurst for three years by then, and this—well, you can imagine how delighted he was to find a reason to be rid of us at last.”
Her face flushed with anger. “Why did you let him, Cam? Lindenhurst belongs to you. He had no right. Even your aunt said he had no right.”
Cam ran a hand down his face. God, he was tired. Tired of this tragedy. Tired of himself. “I was a boy. Just a boy, and still grieving.”
Her hand went to her mouth, but he heard the sound just the same—a soft sob.
Pity. She pitied him.
His jaw went hard. No one pitied him. Not anymore. “I’m not a boy any longer. No one takes anything from me now. I’m the one who takes. When I want something, I take it, and I want you, Ellie. So much.” Despite his harsh tone, his voice broke a little on the last words.
“No, you don’t,” she whispered. “You want something, but you don’t want me.”
But he did want her. More than he’d ever wanted anything. He held out his hand to her. “Yes, Eleanor. I do.”
For one moment her face softened, and his heart surged in his chest. If she’d only believe him—
But then her eyes went flat, and she backed away from until she came up against the fireplace and could go no further.
He followed her. “Don’t run away now. You haven’t told me the best part yet.”
“The—the best part?”
His lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Come now, Eleanor. Clever as you are, you must have drawn your own conclusions. My mother was disgraced to such a degree my uncle was able to snatch Lindenhurst out from under our feet, and my father died years before Amelia was born. You’ve said this much. Why not unburden yourself completely?”
She must have seen he’d allow her no quarter, for she lifted her chin and said, “You and Amelia don’t share a father. She’s your half-sister, and she’s illegitimate.”
He cupped her cheek gently in his palm, but his face felt stiff and hard. “That’s right, Ellie. Amelia was born on the wrong side of the blanket. She’s a by-blow, a bas—”
“Don’t!” She put her hands over her ears and shook her head. “Stop it, Cam.”
His hand dropped to his side. “Do you think it’s any less true of if I don’t say it aloud? How naïve you are. You may cover your ears all you like, but it doesn’t change anything.”
She lowered her hands, her face defeated.
He moved closer to her—close enough to touch her again, but he didn’t. He kept his arms at his sides. “Tell me, Eleanor. Earlier, when you came in, you said “this is over,” or something equally dramatic. What did you mean?”
She pressed her hands flat against the fireplace in back of her, as if she wished she could push it out of the way and escape him. “Just what I said. It’s over. You have information on my sister I would prefer didn’t become public, and—”
“And now you have information on my sister, too. Is that it?”
“I should think it would be obvious.”
His hands closed around her upper arms. “But I want to hear you say it just the same, and don’t think to look away from me when you do. When you threaten someone, you look them in the eyes.”
Eleanor Sutherland was no coward. She did look into his eyes, just as he’d bade her. “If you ruin Charlotte, I’ll ruin Amelia.”
He shouldn’t have looked into her eyes.
He should have known better, because as blinded with fury as he was, he could see the wretchedness in those dark depths, the shadows underneath that spoke of her sleeplessness. Her misery.
She didn’t want to do this, not to Amelia, and perhaps not even to him. Would she go through with her threats? She’d told him she wouldn’t give up, and he believed she wouldn’t.
Even when she should. Even when holding on would devastate her.
She took a deep breath. “I will not marry you, Cam. You will release me at once from your demand. If you do not, as surely as you will ruin my sister, I will ruin yours.”
Cam went still. He’d known she was going to say it. He’d expected to feel rage when she did. Rage and bitterness and yes, hate—the same hate he’d felt for Hart Sutherland. But Eleanor wasn’t her father, and even now, when she had such hateful words in her mouth, he could never hate her.
God, it was so simple. Had it always been this simple? He could never deceive her. He could never manipulate her, or coldly seduce her. He could never hurt her.
He loved her. He could only ever love her.
But with that love came an aching sadness. So far down, that ache. Deeper, even, than his heart.
This is how badly she wants to be free of me.
Cam looked down at her, into those dark, pained eyes. She didn’t know. She thought she knew everything, but she didn’t know it all.
Your mother was shamed. Ruined.
She’d never once mentioned Hart Sutherland.
Chapter Twenty-one
“You don’t want to do this, Ellie.”
Eleanor watched him. Waited. The silence stretched between them until her nerves screamed with it, and still he said nothing more, but continued to gaze down at her, his green eyes shadowed with . . .
Pity? No, not that. She might have understood pity, but pity would not make her breath catch in her throat and her heart thrash painfully in her chest. Pity would not make her mouth fall open in astonishment.
Only one thing could, and it was the last thing she’d expected.
Hurt. She’d hurt him.
Before she could think to stop it, before she even realized she felt it, it was upon her. It swelled in her throat, burned the back of her eyes. Her hands shook with it, her chin trembled with it—an answering hurt, wrenched from a place so deep inside her she staggered when it was jerked free.
When had it happened? When had his pain become her own?
He reached to steady her, his hands gentle on her shoulders. “Eleanor, please. You don’t want to do this.”
This was his response? She’d braced herself for fury, accusations, threats, and denials. She’d answered each of them in her head. She knew just how she’d respond—how she’d m
eet his fury with her own.
But this? One sentence, his voice soft, his hands on her shoulders to steady her, and his eyes—such a dark green now, and clouded with pain. A forest shrouded in fog.
No. She hadn’t prepared herself for this. Couldn’t have, even if she’d tried.
She pressed her hands harder against the fireplace behind her, and harder still, until the cold from the stone under her palms stole up her arm and didn’t stop, didn’t stop until it crept into every part of her body.
Into her heart.
And with it, a helpless fury. At him, yes, for making this so hard. For daring to be hurt.
But mostly at herself, because hurting him shouldn’t be the hardest thing she’d ever done.
You don’t want to do this.
No, she didn’t want to do this, but she had no choice. He’d made her do it. Forced her to do it, and now he was making her heart twist with misery inside her chest.
She tugged her shoulders free. “What I want doesn’t matter. What matters is Amelia. Do you wish to see her secret exposed for all the ton to gossip over?”
“I don’t wish it.” His voice was quiet. He reached out, brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear with careful fingers. “But neither do you.”
She flinched away from the soft touch. “I told you. It doesn’t matter what I wish. You know what will happen once the ton hears the truth. They’ll never accept her. The gentleman will speculate about her, and the ladies—they’ll be worse. They’ll sneer at her, whisper about her, and titter over her from behind their fans.”
Threaten me. Rage at me.
But he wouldn’t. Instead he moved closer. His warm fingers stroked her cheek. “And when they do it will break your heart, Ellie, as surely as it will break hers.”
Her heart. Oh, God, he was troubled about her heart, after she’d threatened Amelia?
The dark room pressed in on her as panic welled in her chest. She couldn’t bear it—his hurt, or his tenderness. “She’ll blame you for it. She’ll hate you for it. If I were in her place, I’d hate you, too.”
Blame me. Hate me.
But even as she lashed out at him, tried to slice at him with her jagged words, he touched her, soothed her, his hands gentle on her face, in her hair, against her neck. His green eyes were still dark with hurt, but as they searched her face, she saw something else there, something that silenced her protests, froze her in his grasp.
Longing.
“Do you hate me even now, Eleanor?” His voice was husky, and so quiet it seemed to come from the darkness itself. “Is there no hope for us?”
Before she could answer, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
Eleanor trembled at the restrained passion in his kiss. He held his desire ruthlessly in check, his lips tender on hers, the kiss a confession, and a question.
Is there no hope for us?
A wish, and a plea.
His hands moved to cradle her face. He stroked his thumbs across her cheekbones and pressed his lips harder against hers, but soft still, so sweet, his touch, as if he sought to give back to her some of what he’d taken.
She couldn’t let him—couldn’t take what he’d give her. She’d found a way to escape him at last, but his kiss would imprison her again, and this time it would be far worse.
This time, she’d want to stay.
“No, Cam.” She turned her head aside and pushed against his chest.
He raised his head, stared down at her. Half his face was lost in the shadows, his breath shallow and quick. Just when she thought he’d take her lips again, he set her away from him. For a moment he seemed to struggle with himself, then, “Go to bed, Eleanor.”
She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She could only stare up at him, a cold ache in her chest.
He ran a weary hand through his hair. “Please. Now. If you stay here, I’ll kiss you again, and this time I won’t be able to stop.”
And I won’t be able to make you.
Somehow she managed to grasp her skirts and turn away from him. She fled up the stairs, and within minutes she was in her bedchamber, her back flat against the closed door.
Dear God. What had just happened?
She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead and tried to think, but the thoughts were jumbled in her head. Had he freed her, or did he still think to force her into marriage? Oh, she didn’t know, because his words were tangled up with the memory of his mouth on hers, so soft and sweet—not a claim, and not a demand. A plea, yes, but something more than that, too, something infinitely more precious . . .
A gift.
She touched her fingers to her lips. Why? What had he—
The door vibrated against her back. Eleanor jumped away from it, then whirled around to stare at it. Someone had knocked. Had Cam followed her? If he had, how would she ever be able to escape him a second time, when every inch of her heated skin clamored for his touch? She wouldn’t answer the door—
“Lady Eleanor? I’ve brought my sketches, as I promised.”
Amelia.
Eleanor’s body sagged with relief. Of course. She’d invited Amelia to her room this evening so she could see her sketches of the ruins. Had that only been this afternoon? It seemed impossible her entire world could have tilted off its axis in a matter of a few hours.
She opened the door and Amelia stood there, clad in her night dress, her fair hair in two plaits down her back. Her face was eager, and she had a sketchbook tucked under her arm.
Despite her agitation, Eleanor made herself take a deep breath. She forced a smile to her lips. “Amelia. Come in. You’ve finished your dinner?”
“Yes, ages ago. Miss Norwood and I ate early, in the nursery, though I do think it would have been so much nicer if I were permitted to have my dinner downstairs, as I do with Denny when we’re in London.”
Ellie thought of the dismal dinner they’d had this evening, of all the dismal dinners she’d had as a child, trapped at a grim, silent table with her father, and she shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know. Dinner in the nursery sounds quite cozy.” She walked over to stir the fire, then took a seat on the bed. “You’re fond of Miss Norwood, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve been looking at the drawings I did this afternoon. I only made two, but Miss Norwood says they’re both good enough to show you.”
Some of the tension drained from Eleanor’s body, and she patted the space next to her. “Well, I’m glad we have Miss Norwood’s approval, for I’d very much like to see them both.”
Amelia came over to the bed, sat down and opened the sketchbook flat across her lap. She flipped through a few of the pages and laid the two sketches of the ruins side by side on the bed.
Eleanor scooted forward to look, and her eyes widened. The sketches were the work of a child, yes, but a talented child, the pencil strokes confident, the lines true. “Oh, how wonderful, Amelia. My goodness. You did both of these in one afternoon?”
“Yes.” Amelia gave her a shy smile. “Do you like them?”
“I do.” Eleanor traced a finger over some of the pencil lines. “This looks a bit like the remains of a moat. Are these castle ruins?”
“Yes. Denny says it was built way back when the Normans came to conquer England. There was a moat, and these stones here were the castle keep. I used to think it looked like just a pile of old rocks, but once Denny explained it to me, I could see how it used to be a castle, long ago.”
A lump formed in Eleanor’s throat. She couldn’t think of Cam just now. “Did the ladies enjoy the ruins? I can’t imagine their sketches are any nicer than yours.”
“Oh, they are, though,” Amelia said, without rancor. “Especially Lady Charlotte’s. She’s very good with her pencils, isn’t she? But she says you’re better than she is.”
Eleanor smiled. “It’s kind of her to say so, but I’m not sure it’s true. I do love to study art, but I’ve never been devoted to my pencil. Charlotte though, well, even as a child she loved to sketch, and her pas
sion shows in her drawings. That is what true art does, really—expresses emotion.”
Amelia seemed to consider that. “Like this, you mean?” She turned over a few of the pages a pulled a loose paper from her book.
Eleanor bent over it to get a closer look, then laughed at the picture of Julian West, struggling to string a limp daisy onto a thread. “Yes, just like that. Has your uncle seen this drawing?”
Amelia gave her a sly smile. “He has. He said it didn’t look like him, but then Denny said it did, and Uncle Julian said it was something, something like a lib-lib—”
“A libel?”
“Yes. A scandalous libel, he said, whatever that means.”
“What did your brother say to that?” Eleanor asked, unable to resist.
“He said the picture was his favorite.” Amelia cocked her head to the side. “But that was before he saw the picture I drew of you.”
Eleanor stilled. “You drew a picture of me?”
“Yes, and then Uncle Julian said that one was Denny’s favorite.” Amelia frowned. “It must have been, because he took it, and he never gave it back to me.”
Eleanor stared at Amelia, unable to speak. It meant nothing, of course. Less than nothing. She couldn’t quite make herself believe it, however, and warmth surged into her cheeks.
Amelia gave her a curious look. “Are you all right, Lady Eleanor? You look warm.”
“Yes, yes. Quite all right.” Eleanor cleared her throat. “I think it’s time you called me Ellie, don’t you? We’re friends, after all.”
Amelia clapped her hands together. “I should like that more than anything. I don’t have many friends, you see.”
Ellie gazed at Amelia’s bright face, and a sharp arrow of pain pierced her chest. No, she wouldn’t have many friends, would she, surrounded as she was by adults? Ellie’s own childhood hadn’t been easy, but she’d had Charlotte and her brothers, and she’d never been lonely.
Amelia, though—she was so young, and so much had already been taken from her.
You’ll take more.
