by Nichole Van
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded, taking in a deep breath of the scent of pine and sandalwood that was so essentially him.
How her opinion of him had changed in such a small amount of time. From wastrel rake to seeing this gentle, kindhearted man. One who sacrificed his every happiness for his mother.
She sighed, relaxing further into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Memories of that fateful night at the ball years ago surfaced. It all seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet, being back in the circle of Rafe’s arms, Sophie recalled it all in vivid detail. The supporting strength of his arms around her. The hitch in his breath as their lips first met. The soft press of his mouth. The way his hands had trembled as he kissed her.
How was she to survive this trip without giving her whole heart to this man?
And at this point, did she even wish to fight it anymore?
21
Rafe pulled Sophie even closer, desperate to hold her, to keep her safe.
The snow fell harder, obliterating even the road from view.
She relaxed against his side, half-turning into him, her soft curves melting into his chest, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. The horses snuffled as they munched on their hay, the combined body heat of four great beasts gradually warming the space.
Despite the gnawing worry over his mother and the quest to find Dr. Ross, Rafe felt a thrum of profound contentment.
This.
This is what he longed for his life to be.
Quiet stillness with a woman he loved.
He was quite sure this moment—a crofter’s bothie, snow, and Sophie in his arms—might go down as the pinnacle of his existence.
And then . . .
. . . Sophie nuzzled.
There was no other word for it.
She buried her cold nose into the space between his jawline and shoulder and . . . nuzzled.
Heaven help him.
“Are ye . . . are ye nuzzling me, lass?” he asked.
She froze.
“Possibly,” her voice muffled.
And then . . . she moved her nose again, drawing that much closer to him.
He chuckled, a low rumble.
“I would never have taken ye for the nuzzling sort.”
That got her attention. “Whyever not?”
“You practically crackle with competence. I simply cannae imagine ye needing another tae the level of nuzzling.”
“I need others. Think of me like a cat—”
“The barn cats again?”
“Hah.” She poked him in the ribs.
He squirmed.
“Are you ticklish?” she asked, raising her head, looking at him with those lovely eyes.
“Perhaps.”
She poked him again. He squirmed more emphatically.
“Mmmm, this might prove interesting,” she grinned.
“Barn cats?” he prompted.
Her eyes narrowed. “Right. No matter how independently they behave, cats adore being petted.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Rafe laughed, pulling her in for tight nuzzle.
Though, truth be told, he wanted significantly more than a mere nuzzle. His head spun at her nearness. The memory of their kiss all those years ago rose in vivid detail. As if he could ever forget. The way she had flowed into his arms, melting into him. He had cupped her cheeks and felt her entire body inhale and rise up. His hands had trembled, for heaven’s sake.
Were memories all that he would be allowed of her? A talisman to cherish? If so, he would not waste this moment either.
He concentrated on the feel of her, the way the curves of her body melded into his, the light rose scent of her soap, the warmth of her breath on his neck.
Would her lips still taste the same? Would his hands shake again, were he to kiss her?
Why, of all women, was she forbidden him? He swallowed back the anger, the rage that flooded him. Was there no way to be free of his father?
“I cannot believe your father will force you to marry Miss Sykes,” she whispered.
Her words may have seemed like another of her non sequiturs, but Rafe easily followed her logic. Their minds were too attuned, it seemed.
“He can and he will,” Rafe replied, noting the bitterness in his tone. “Not all fathers are truly caring of their offspring.”
She stirred at that, pulling back to look at him.
“The man is a fool,” she whispered, eyes imploring. “How could he not adore you?”
The outrage in her voice caused him to snort, a soft breath of sound.
“The. Nerve,” he said.
Sophie smiled, though it was edged with pain.
“Kendall is a monster,” he continued. “There is no other way to describe him.” A pause. He looked past her to the snow still falling through the cracked door, the world a perfect sheet of white. “I hate him, in fact. Thoroughly and utterly.”
There.
He had said it.
And as if a dam burst, he could no longer stem the flood of words. “I detest everything my father stands for. His innate cruelty, his obsessive need to command every person within his sphere. It’s an illness of the mind just as surely as that of my mother.” He shook his head. “The worst part? I hate that I hate him.” He laughed, so caustic. “I hate that I allow my emotions tae control my behavior. That I react to him, instead of remaining indifferent and uncaring.”
The horses snuffled again, one bumping him in the shoulder in the small space. He reached up to rub its nose with his free hand, his other arm still firmly around Sophie.
She leaned forward and stroked a hand down his cheek, her chilled fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
“Hate can be crippling,” she murmured. “I would know.”
“You? I struggle tae imagine ye hating anyone.”
She laughed, the same bitter sound he had just made. “Do not flatter me, my lord. I am hardly a saint.”
“Truly? I dinnae believe it, lass.” He caught her hand, unable to stop himself from pressing a kiss into her palm. She shivered and Rafe was quite sure it wasn’t only from the cold, as she did not pull her hand out of his grasp. If anything, she leaned closer to him.
“You didn’t see me during my marriage to Jack,” she whispered.
That had Rafe lifting his head.
“Captain Fulstate? Was he unkind to ye?” If so, Rafe might have to exhume the man’s body and send him to his Maker a second time.
“Unkind?” She paused. “Not with his fists, if that’s what you mean. But yes, in other ways.”
Her voice drifted off before she brought her gaze back to his. Rafe hated the pain he saw reflected there.
Yes, Jack Fulstate was fortunate to already be dead.
“Words can be as hurtful as fists. Behavior, too,” she continued, answering his unasked questions. “He gambled to excess. He was chronically unfaithful to me. Worse, whenever I would confront him over his behavior, he was baffled that I found anything amiss with him visiting bawdy houses or slaking his lust with the occasional willing lady. It’s what a gentleman does, after all . . .”
“Ah, Sophie—”
“I know.” She gave that same mirthless laugh. “I know. How could I have been so stupidly naive? But . . . we had discussed it before marrying. Jack knew how I felt about my parent’s marriage, about their infidelities, particularly those of my mother. I refused to be in a marriage such as that. I refused to have my children grow up in a house of lies and betrayal. In the end, I realized that Jack had simply heard that I would be faithful to him—something he crowed over, like I was a possession to be hoarded from others—but he clearly did not believe that same obligation of fidelity should extend to himself.”
Rafe’s anger stoked higher, fury quicksilvering his veins. This woman. How had he not known? How had he not fully discerned that this was how her marriage had been? She had alluded to it before, but it had not fully sunk in.
She had been in a marriage like that of his mother
’s . . . tied to a man who treated her abominably.
Worse, a thread of guilt wound through him. Rafe could not deny that his behavior had been a catalyst of a sort, practically forcing her into Jack’s arms. If Rafe had been able to follow through with his word, would she have chosen him instead?
As for now . . . what could he say? “You are deserving of fidelity and honor. Those are the hallmarks of a true gentleman.”
“Yes, I knew that then, and I know that now. But when in the middle of my marriage, it seemed impossible to remember.” A brief pause as she brought her gaze to his. “I hated him for it.”
“Jack?”
“Yes. I detested him. Every tender emotion I had felt prior to our marriage was burned and stamped out within a few months. And then I let the hate grow. I fed it. I nurtured it. Every word, every glance added fuel to the flames until our marriage became a conflagration. We fought . . . bitterly at times.”
She stopped, eyes wide with pain and an almost horrified wonder.
“And . . .” he prompted. Because he had heard the word in her tone . . . that the story did not end there.
“And then . . . he died,” her words a mere breath of sound, swallowed up in the hush of the falling snow. “He caught a putrid sore throat and was gone within two weeks. Just . . . gone.”
“Did your anger not die with him?”
“No!” A huff of nearly baffled laughter. “It did not. It was as if he held on to me from beyond the grave. To be clear, I felt relief that he was finally gone, but my anger toward him still seethed within me. My hate for him ruled me until I thought the anger and betrayal would consume my soul.”
“I know that emotion well.” Rafe clenched his jaw. “It is my oldest friend, my constant companion—”
“Yes, I can imagine. But, you see, I came to realize several important things.” She trailed her fingers down his cheek again. He caught her hand in his before she could pull away.
“Aye?”
“My hate, all that bitterness and anger . . . it was only hurting me. All that energy, all that animosity, had nowhere to go, and so it was eating me alive from the inside out.” Again, a bitter burst of laughter. “Jack was gone. My anger couldn’t hurt him. It certainly couldn’t right his wrongs or force him to apologize and change. It could not give me the loving husband I had thought to marry. My hate could do nothing but destroy me.”
“All true. Anger toward a dead man does no good.” He shifted his legs and looked down at her. “But my father is, tae my deep regret, very much alive. My anger and hatred can bear some fruit. Moreover, simply knowing something is poisoning you isn’t enough tae squelch it. I don’t want tae hate my father, and yet the emotion never ceases.”
“I believe you. I wanted the hate gone, too. But scenes and words would tumble through my mind with alarming frequency. Months after Jack’s death, I still felt captive to it, despondent even. I wasn’t eating. I spent days in my bed chamber, only emerging to take long walks through the countryside. Until one day . . . it all came crashing down. I had just had enough. I was so tired of my hate. That man had taken so much from me, and I refused to give him any more of my soul.”
Rafe huffed a laugh of his own. Easy words, but nearly impossible to follow. Just the thought of it left him choking. “How did you manage it?”
“I won’t pretend it was simple or easy. But I realized something important . . . hate is a shield. A dam holding back a tidal wave of other, more painful emotions.”
“A shield?” Rafe nearly snorted the word. “That seems . . . unlikely.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps, but that is the way I think of it. I firmly believe that hate, as an emotion, rears up to protect us from other emotions that we would prefer not to feel. As I said, I had all this energy focused on trying to make Jack pay for his cruelty to me. But why? To what purpose? The man was dead. And no matter how hard you try to avoid it, the pain lying underneath hatred and anger will eventually catch up with you.”
“You believe so?”
“I do, Rafe. I sincerely do. About three months after Jack’s death, I sat in my bed chamber one evening—after having spent hours earlier having a good cathartic weep—examining the roil of emotion in my chest, mentally poking and prodding it, desperately wanting it gone but not knowing how to manage it. Eventually, some bit of it broke free . . . and the truth hit me all at once—my hatred was simply a dam holding back my pain.”
“Your pain?”
Sophie nodded, eyes bright. “Pain that my marriage was such a failure. Pain that I had chosen so poorly. Pain that I was unwanted and unloved by the person who had pledged before God to do those very things. All that hatred I aimed at Jack was partly my own self-loathing and self-pity. But it is far easier to hate a wastrel husband than to feel all the horror of one’s poor choices, the pain of one’s insecurities. And so I loved my hate. I fed it and stoked it because it shielded me from a mountain of personal pain. But once I had removed the shield—or, as I said, a dam, if that metaphor works better for you—emotions flooded me, hurt and pain and such bitter regret.”
Rafe instinctively pushed away Sophie’s words. There was no underlying emotion going on. His father was a manipulative, controlling brute. Full stop. That was the beginning and end of Rafe’s hatred. It was not a covering protecting him from something else. It was not a dam holding back an ocean of pain or regret.
And yet . . . his heart reverberated, as if Sophie’s words had rung a bell deep within his soul and his chest clambered and resonated from the tumult of it.
Sophie continued, “But despite the horrific pain, I also realized something equally important—hate and anger are fuel. Hate is a species of violent anger aimed at another person. When left unchecked, it can be incredibly destructive. But that hate—that anger—can be channeled. And so I decided to put that fuel to better use, to turn it into determination to move past Jack and his cruelties, to heal the pain in my soul. I refused to give him more of myself than he had already taken. And so I took that hate and molded it from anger into tenacity and strength and, most importantly, into forgiveness—forgiveness toward myself for being so incredibly foolish.
“And in doing that, I finally saw Jack for what he was . . . a weak, pitiful man who needed to buoy himself up by making me feel small. He ceased to have any hold over me.” She took in a deep breath. “But, to be truly honest, I am still working on forgiving myself. It is difficult to face one’s own shortcomings. The process isn’t easy. I still feel unwanted and unloved. But I feel hope that, if I continue forward, I can have a full and happy life in the future.”
Rafe nodded, his throat abruptly tight and painful.
I still feel unwanted and unloved.
He blinked and looked out the door to the still falling snow, eyes stinging.
She wasn’t quite done. “I am concerned for your own soul, Rafe. I sense so much rage in you. I’m not saying you need to like Kendall or trust him or even release your anger over his cruelty. But the hate? The rage you feel toward your father specifically? It will destroy you. Perhaps you could ask yourself: ‘Is there some pain or fear that my hate is protecting me from?’ ”
“There is only my father’s brutal cruelty!” He gave a harsh bark of laughter.
“Perhaps. But at the very least, consider harnessing all your rage and molding the energy into determination for good. Otherwise, I fear the power of it will destroy your soul. You will burn on the pyre of your hatred.”
His breath caught. Why did her words pound through him?
Could he move beyond anger and hate? Could he move on—
No!
He instinctively rejected it. His father was a repugnant human being. Kendall needed to be abhorred, reviled. He deserved it. It was the only way to deal with a man such as him—
Something cold brushed his cheek. He looked down into her eyes, shimmering pools of forest green, her palm pressed to his jaw.
“Your father isn’t worth your hate,” she said.
“Your hate is a reaction to his behavior. Another way in which he owns you, another way he controls you. Do not give him the satisfaction of such emotion.”
The very thought felt impossible. His rage was a vast chasm, dug over too many years of hurts and cuts and cruelty. He couldn’t imagine a day when he would not despise his sire, no matter how damaging to himself.
But yet . . .
Her words rang in his ears.
I loved my hate. I fed it and stoked it because it kept me from a mountain of personal pain.
Your hate is a reaction to his behavior. Another way in which he owns you.
“If hate and anger are fuel,” he began, voice low, “I have enough of it tae energize an army.”
“Then motivate that army. Pour that rage into hope, into determination to fight free of him. Take back your future. Do not give him any more of yourself. Your soul is too precious to squander on that man.”
Her words increased the thundering in his chest, the rackety pinging resonating deep.
Take back your future.
Was that even possible at this point?
Your soul is too precious . . .
Did she really mean the implications of that? That his very soul was something she prized?
He was unsure, and his emotions were too dazed to create a coherent thought.
He scoffed at the idea that his hate covered more painful feelings. Worse, how could he let go of his hate?
His father was a monster of a man; he deserved every ounce of Rafe’s spite.
Case in point—
Kendall had forced Rafe to give Sophie up, and the duke’s actions had not only affected Rafe. What had Sophie said earlier?
I still feel unwanted and unloved.
Rafe’s heart cracked at the thought.
How could Sophie not know how desperately he loved and wanted her.
Oh! The want of her!
It ate at him, consumed him until, at times, he felt unequal to breathing because of it.
A cascade of images tumbled through his brain. Sophie in his arms, laughing, his head dipping to kiss her. Sophie cuddled with him before a roaring fire, discussing an essay on Mexican fruit bats, pausing to let him kiss her over and over.
