by Bree Wolf
Averting her eyes, Henrietta took a deep breath, her fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve. No one had ever made her blush the way her husband did. Despite their short marriage, he seemed to know her better than anyone. Annoyingly so, she had to admit. “No,” she finally said, lifting her head and meeting his eyes. “It does not offend me. After all, it is the truth.”
Nodding, her husband’s eyes searched hers. “Maybe it wasna a love match,” he said, “but that doesna mean it won’t be.”
Henrietta swallowed as the intimacy of his words shook her to her core.
The physical act of love-making had always appeared as the most intimate connection between a man and a woman. However, now, seated, with the desk between them, they could not escape into an embrace or a kiss. Instead, they faced each other openly, their eyes revealing their innermost thoughts and desires, hopes and fears.
Never before in her life had Henrietta felt so vulnerable than in that moment when her husband sat across from her, more than an arm’s length between them, his eyes resting on hers, reading in them what she could not say.
As strange as it was, when he embraced and kissed her, it was far less intimate a contact, and a part of Henrietta wished he would simply push the desk out of the way and pull her into his arms. Then, at least, she would be able to hide her emotions behind closed lids.
“So, they believe we went against obligations and expectations,” her husband said, returning to their initial discussion, “when we got married, and that we did so because we were in love.”
Swallowing, Henrietta nodded.
“I suppose it must seem like that to them,” Connor mused, a soft smile in his eyes. “After all, there was no sensible reason for us to marry. For all intents and purposes, we should never have even met.”
Hearing his words, Rhona’s voice echoed in her head, reminding her that not all had objected to their marriage. After all, without Rhona’s interference, they would never have met, and for a moment, Henrietta pictured her old life, the life she would have continued had it not been for the man sitting across from her, patiently waiting for her to reply. “I suppose so,” she whispered, meeting his eyes, “but I cannot bring myself to regret what happened.”
Holding her gaze, her husband took a slow breath before a deep smile spread over his face. “Neither can I, Lass, and I never have.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven − 'Tis What Fathers Do
Gone was the hostility that had marked their days before, replaced by a rather strange apprehension whenever they would cross paths. It was almost as though they had only just met, two people slowly getting to know each other. And yet, they lived the life of a married couple.
Smiling, Connor shook his head as he glanced across the covers at his sleeping wife. Curled up on her side, she slept peacefully, and Connor wondered if the day would ever come that he could simply reach out and pull her into his arms.
He didn’t know, but he had hope. After all, had she not openly confessed to him only that afternoon that she did not regret having married him? Did that not mean that her heart had warmed to him? If only the demons of her past would release their hold on her.
Shifting onto his side as well, Connor gazed at her face, her eyelids closed in deep slumber. He breathed in her scent, and a strange fluttering sensation began in his stomach and then spread throughout his body. Once again, he felt like a boy falling in love for the very first time.
How did he feel? Excited? Nervous? Exhilarated? Euphoric? All of these applied, and yet, they were not enough to describe the emotions that tugged on his heart whenever he saw her.
Lying in bed with her now, barely an arm’s length between them, Connor felt at peace. However, a part of him wished she would wake, open her eyes and look back at him with the same love he felt for her. Caught up in the moment, he reached out and gently brushed a strand of her short hair from her forehead.
She stirred.
As though struck, Connor snapped his hand back. Holding his breath, he waited, hoping she wouldn’t wake and shrink back from him.
Minutes passed, but her eyelids remained closed, and Connor’s heart beat began to slow down.
Then she rolled onto her back, her head snuggling deeper into the pillows.
For a moment, Connor thought she would simply sleep on when he noticed the changes about her.
Her chest began to rise and fall with increasing speed as her hands curled into the bed linens. Her head tossed from side to side, her eyes squeezed shut as though she was afraid to look. Behind her closed lids, Connor could see the movement of her eyes and finally understood that she was dreaming.
Unfortunately, her dream seemed to be far from pleasant, and Connor struggled with the decision to let her sleep on or to wake her instead.
“No! Mother! No!”
As the whimpers tore from her throat, Connor flinched. His limbs all but paralysed, he stared at her as heart-wrenching sobs filled the room.
Shaking off his trance, Connor sat up, then reached out and pulled her onto his lap. “Lass, wake up,” he whispered in her ear, but she only continued her lamentations. Rubbing her arms and back, he spoke louder, and after a small eternity, her eyelids began to flutter. Relief filled him, and he held her closer, saying her name again and again, assuring her that she was safe.
At what point her sobs ceased, Connor couldn’t say. He was still holding her, rocking from side to side, when her hand settled on his chest, its warmth seeping through the fabric of his nightshirt. Sitting back, he looked down at her, her eyes tear-rimmed and filled with such sadness as he had never seen it before.
“Are ye all right, Lass?” he whispered, knowing full-well that she was not, but not knowing what else to say.
Swallowing, she closed her eyes and snuggled closer against him.
Instantly, his arms tightened around her, and he was filled with the desperate need to protect her, to wipe away her tears and to ensure they would never return. Anger rose in his heart at the sight of her misery as well as his own helplessness. As much as he wanted to, he could not fight the demons that tormented her. Never in his life had he felt so powerless.
It had to be her. She was the only one who could fight her way out of the dark, out of the memories that haunted her. He could not do it for her, but maybe he could hold her hand.
“Ye called out in yer sleep,” he whispered close to her ear, torn between the wish to distract her and knowing that such a distraction could only be temporary. “Ye called for yer mother.”
For a long while, she remained still. He thought she had not heard him or simply pretended she had not. However, just when he was about to abandon his pursuit, she looked up, her eyes sad but determined.
“I saw it again,” she whispered, and her hand curled around the front of his nightshirt, “the night my parents died.”
Connor took a deep breath. “Tell me what ye saw.”
“It was raining,” she whispered, her eyes distant as she relived the moment her demons were born. “It had rained for over a week. We had been confined to the house, and my father was furious. He would yell; then he would drink, and then he would yell even louder.” She swallowed, and a small shiver shook her frame. “My mother would try to keep us distracted, keep us quiet and out of his way, and it worked…for a week.” She took a deep breath as though gathering the courage she needed to go on. “That night, though, he lost his temper. I could hear him yelling all the way up the stairs. I was afraid, more afraid than before. There was something in his voice that …” Closing her eyes, she shrugged. “Somehow I knew that that night it would be worse, so I went to get my brother.”
Connor shuddered at the thought of two little children locked in a house with a madman, and as if that wasn’t enough, it had been their own father. Anger rose in his heart, and he gritted his teeth against the desperate need to wrap his hands around the man’s throat. After all, parents were supposed to protect their children, guard and guide them. All his life, his own parents had b
een there for him in every way, and he had taken it for granted, unaware of his own good fortune.
One day, he could not have been older than ten or eleven, he had been out hunting with his father, and a wild boar had suddenly rushed from the underbrush, charging in his direction. Terrified, Connor had simply stood and stared at the wild beast as it lunged toward him. He had thought his life forfeit when in the last second his father had pushed him out of the way, and the boar’s sharp fangs had not pierced Connor’s body but his father’s instead.
His father had barely survived that day, and Connor had been riddled with guilt. At his apologies, his father had merely smiled, patted his head and said, “’Tis what fathers do.”
What kind of a man would he have been if his own father had been like his wife’s? Connor couldn’t help but wonder. As he gazed down at her, he realised what a strong character she had to have for her father’s atrocities had not turned her into a monster as well. Although she sought to hide it, she was a kind-hearted, compassionate woman, who−despite everything that had happened to her−still had hope.
“Tristan was only a few months old at the time, but I could barely hold him,” his wife continued, allowing her memories to guide her through that one fateful night long ago.
Connor swallowed and reminded of her pain, the warmth that had flooded his heart at the thought of her inner strength and kindness slowly receded, replaced by a sense of dread.
“I sneaked down the stairs, afraid that my father would see us,” she whispered, relived alarm in her voice. “I went into the kitchen and hid in the pantry.” Shaking her head, a rueful smile came to her face. “I can still remember the smell of the old wooden box mingling with that of fresh potatoes. Isn’t it strange what you remember after all those years?”
“’Tis true,” Connor agreed, knowing only too well how easily the smell of charred wood and candle wax brought him back to the many nights of his childhood. Sitting in the parlour with his parents by his side, he had snuggled into their warmth as they had told him the ancient tales of their clan’s history.
“I don’t know for how long I sat there, but soon my arms grew heavy, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to hold him any longer,” she told him in a hushed voice as though afraid her father might hear her. “I was afraid he’d cry, and we’d be found out.”
“But ye weren’t,” Connor prompted, knowing that she wanted nothing more but to shy away from the memories that still ached in her heart.
“No,” she confirmed. “For a long time, nothing happened, and a part of me thought we could simply hide out in the pantry forever, and my father would never find us.”
“What happened then?”
“My mother screamed, and I thought my heart would jump from my chest,” she sobbed, tears streaming freely down her cheeks now. “It was so full of fear and pain. I…” She took a deep breath and tried to wipe away the wetness on her face. “I know I could not have saved her, but a part of me still blames me for not going to her, for not at least…trying.” Again, she took a deep breath, and Connor could feel a new resolve strengthening her muscles. “But I had my brother to take care of. I could not risk his life, not even to save hers.”
“Ye did right,” Connor assured her once more, and as she looked up and met his eyes, he thought that she actually believed him. Even if only a little. “What happened then?”
“A shot rang out.” Resting her head on his shoulder, she snuggled closer against him. “By the time I finally found the courage to leave the pantry, my parents were dead. I found them in the parlour.” A tremble shook her, and her hands balled into fists. “He had slit my mother’s throat and then shot himself. His hunting rifle was right there on the floor beside him.”
Connor did his best not to picture the scene his wife had described, and yet, he could not help but see a little, blond girl, her baby brother clutched in her small arms as she stared in disbelief at the lifeless bodies of her parents.
“That day changed everything,” his wife whispered. “It changed me, and I don’t know if I can ever go back, if I can ever get back what I lost.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight − Old Hatred
After a rather wakeful night, Henrietta felt strangely rested. Despite the lack of sleep, she did not curse the sun when it rose outside their windows. Reliving the night her parents had died and sharing it with her husband had eased her mind. Every time she confronted her demons, willingly facing the moment her fears were born, Henrietta felt their hold on her grow weaker. Maybe if she refused to hide from or ignore them, if she stopped pretending they did not exist, then she would slowly gain ground and step by step fight her way out, freeing herself of their influence.
That thought gave her strength and hope.
The only thing that bothered her that morning was a strange sense of obliviousness as though she had forgotten something important, as though the answer to her questions was right there before her eyes and she simply didn’t see it.
“D’ye wish to join me today?”
Turning around, Henrietta fastened the lock of her necklace. “Join you?” she asked, meeting her husband’s eyes. Ever since last night, he looked at her in a different way. Henrietta couldn’t quite say what it was, but she liked it.
“Fiona’s and Liam’s fathers are to arrive this morning,” he explained. “As their chief, ‘tis my duty to mediate their dispute.” He grinned a little sheepishly as though embarrassed. “I thought considering their request ye might like to be there.”
Taking a deep breath, Henrietta hesitated. So far she had lived in Greyston as though she did not belong, as though her stay was not permanent. However, things had changed. This was her home, and the only way it would ever truly feel like home was if she accepted reality.
With a smile on her face and a slight tremble in her hands, Henrietta nodded. “Yes, I would like that.”
“I’m glad,” her husband said, holding out his hand to her, and Henrietta could see that he meant it.
After a short breakfast of whispered words and meaningful glances in the company of the other residents of Greyston Castle, Henrietta walked down the corridor on her husband’s arm, his other hand covering hers. While the gentle contact of their linked arms felt normal, they barely dared meet each other’s eyes for a prolonged time. Henrietta was not ready to let her husband see what lived in her heart.
As they neared his study, angry voices drifted through the open door, and they were met by a rather pale-looking young man. Upon seeing them, he straightened, wringing his hands as he approached. “I escorted them to yer study…as instructed.”
“I see,” her husband mumbled, casting a weary glance at the door through which a heated argument could be heard. “How long has this been going on?”
The young man shrugged. “Since they’ve laid eyes on one another.”
“Thank ye, Dougal,” her husband said, and the young man eagerly took the opportunity to excuse himself from the scene of battle. “Well then, shall we?” Connor asked, looking down at her with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Or have ye changed yer mind, Lass?”
Smiling, Henrietta shook her head. “Loud noises do not frighten me.”
Her husband laughed. “I’m glad to hear it, for I’d much rather face them with ye by my side.”
A feeling of warmth swept through Henrietta as her husband guided her to his study and through the open door. However, upon being met by two angry stares as soon as they stepped across the threshold, Henrietta swallowed, clinging more tightly to her husband’s arm. Although these two men did not scare her, she regretted the change in atmosphere she experienced. Her husband’s company had been such a delight while the two men radiated nothing but hatred. It felt like a slap in the face.
“Good morning,” Connor greeted Brogan and Reid Brunwood cheerfully, ignoring the steam coming out of their ears. “Allow me to present my wife.”
Upon his words, their eyes drifted to her and instantly narrowed.
Both men stoo
d tall with broad shoulders and a prominent nose. However, while Reid Brunwood, Liam’s father, appeared merely angered, Brogan Brunwood was the image of a raging bull, which had abandoned reason long ago.
“What is she doing here?” Brogan growled, and his eyes snapped back to Connor, open disapproval in them.
Squaring his shoulders, her husband took a deep breath, and Henrietta could tell from the tightening of his muscles how difficult it was for him to remain calm. “May I remind ye that ye’re speaking about the mistress of Greyston Castle, yer hostess for the time ye decide to stay under its roof. I would ask ye to show her the same respect ye demand for yerself.”
Gritting his teeth, Brogan mumbled something unintelligible that might have been an apology as well as a threat.
“Good,” her husband said, then passed by the two men and gestured for her to sit on the settee. Turning back to the newly-weds’ fathers, he pointed to the adjoining armchairs. “Please take a seat. Since we’re all here now, I suggest we discuss the matter at hand. However,” he raised his hand when both men opened their mouths, seemingly intent on releasing another tirade, “I ask that ye try to remain calm and only speak when addressed.”
As their eyes opened wide, Connor nodded. “From what I’m told, ye’ve been in here yelling at each other for a good hour; have ye reached a satisfying conclusion?”
Both men took a deep breath, then scooted to the outside of their chairs as far away from the other as possible. Henrietta had to grit her teeth to keep from laughing. They were like stubborn school children!
“I didna think so,” her husband concluded. “Now, from what I hear Liam and Fiona ran off and got married, a union of which ye two disapprove.”
“My daughter didna run off,” Brogan snapped, his face flushing red like a beet, “especially not with the likes of him. She’s a good girl and was taken against her will.”
“Puh!” Shaking his head, Reid glared at him. “My Liam would never have gone against her will. They’re in love, as ill-advised as that is.”
