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He knew she spoke the truth, but somehow his mind couldn’t seem to reconcile her words. How, how could anyone hurt her? He’d lain awake countless nights in an agony of jealousy, imagining her husband making love to her, lovingly claiming that which Ethan could never have. Never, not once, had it occurred to him that she was anything less than happy. Cherished and pampered. Loved and cared for. God damn it. The thought of that bastard treating her badly, hurting her, beating her…he squeezed his eyes shut to dispel the red haze that filmed his vision.
He’d killed men in battle, and even though those men were his enemies, he’d still lost a piece of himself with each fatality. But by God, he knew in what was left of his soul that if given the chance, he’d kill that bastard Westmore and not feel a ripple of regret. Indeed, his only regret was that the bastard was already dead, thus denying him the pleasure of snuffing out his miserable life.
Opening his eyes, he drew a deep, careful breath, then lightly clasped her upper arms, felt the tremors ru
“And go where?”
“Home. To Gateshead Manor.”
She shook her head. “My parents would not condone me leaving my husband.”
“If they knew how he treated you-”
“They knew.”
Another spurt of outrage rippled through him. “And they did nothing?”
“No. Father fully sympathized with Westmore’s distress that I couldn’t have children. As for the beating, Father declared it an aberration from a man who’d never before exhibited violent tendencies, who had simply lost control when faced with the crushing blow of being leg-shackled to a useless, barren woman.”
An image of Cassie’s father loomed in Ethan’s mind. Bloody bastard. He’d disliked the man ever since his first conversation with Cassie, when they were little more than children and he’d just arrived at Gateshead Manor, where his father had been hired as stable master. He’d found her huddled in the corner of a stable stall, crying over some cutting remark her father had uttered. His dislike had grown over the years, culminating in a deep loathing.
“Surely you had friends-”
“No. Westmore forbade me to leave the estate grounds and did not provide me with any funds. His household staff was completely loyal to him and watched me constantly. The few servants I attempted to befriend were summarily dismissed. My only refuge was in my daily walks and rides-always accompanied by a silent footman or groom-and the occasional letter from my mother. My surroundings were beautiful, but a prison just the same.”
“And you lived like that for ten years.” He nearly choked on the words, on the fury that tensed his every muscle. “By God, if I’d known-”
“There’s nothing you could have done.”
“The hell there wasn’t. I’d have seen to it that he paid for the way he treated you.”
“He would have had you thrown in prison.”
“Dead men don’t throw other men in prison.”
Her eyes widened, then shimmered with tears. “No. You’d have hanged instead.”
A price he’d have gladly paid. He lifted unsteady hands and framed her face between his palms. And fought to push his voice around his clogged throat. “Cassie…all these years I imagined you enjoying life. Surrounded by laughing children. Happy.” Bloody hell, it was the only thing that had kept him sane.
“That’s exactly how I imagined you. Ethan, it was those thoughts that made life bearable.”
Before he could even think of a reply, she said, “When you returned from the war, you were able to start again. As a man, you are in charge of your own destiny. You can start a business, earn money. You have choices. I thought Westmore’s death freed me, but I was quickly proven wrong. He left me nothing. His brother inherited the title and moved into Westmore Park.” Fresh anger kindled in her eyes. “My choice was to remain and become my brother-in-law’s paramour or leave. As I have no money and nowhere else to go, I’m returning to my parents’ home. Father informed me I may do so.”
She lifted her hands and laid them across his wrists. “Mother mentioned in a letter I received just after Westmore’s death that she’d heard you’d purchased an establishment called the Blue Seas I
A single tear slid down her cheek, smiting him where he stood. There were dozens of things he wanted to say, but sorrow and rage from all she’d suffered slammed his throat shut. Instead he drew her into his arms and tried to draw into himself all the pain she’d suffered. Her arms went around him, clutching him tight, and she burrowed against his chest, reminding him of a wounded animal searching for warmth.
Ethan held her against him, absorbing the shudders that wracked her shoulders and her tears that wet his shirt, each one a whip’s lash. Feeling utterly helpless, he whispered what he hoped were soothing words against her soft hair and gently rubbed his hands up and down her back.
Finally her sobs tapered off and she lifted her head. Their gazes met, and the area surrounding his heart went hollow at the sight of her pale, tear-streaked face, and her eyes, twin pools of distress surrounded by wet, spiked lashes.
Keeping one arm around her, he pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. She nodded her thanks, then said in a shaky whisper as she mopped her eyes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry all over you.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. And you’re welcome to cry all over me any time you wish.”
“Thank you.” A tremulous smile touched her lips. “You’ve always been the kindest, most patient person I’ve ever known.”
“Because you’re the kindest, loveliest person I’ve ever known. I’ve thought so since the day we met.”
A flash of humor lit her eyes, filling him with relief that the worst of the emotional storm appeared to have passed. “What did you know-you were only six years old and knew all of ten people.”
“More than ten,” he said, one corner of his lips curving upward. “You’ll recall my father worked at Baron Humphrey’s estate before we came to Gateshead Manor. The baron’s children didn’t like me.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They told me I smelled.”
“I liked the way you smelled. You smelled of…adventure.”
And she’d smelled of roses, even as a child of five. A little sprite with gangly legs, huge eyes, tightly plaited hair, and a freckled nose. After he’d discovered her crying in the stables, she’d swiped at her eyes with her small fists, then studied him through those big, serious eyes. He’d braced himself for another rejection, but instead she’d asked, “Would you like to be my friend?” Not wanting to appear too eager, he’d frowned and tapped his chin, as if giving the matter great thought. Finally he’d shrugged and agreed. She’d then flashed him a dimpling grin that was missing her two front teeth, grabbed his hand, and ran, leading him to the lake on the estate where they’d sat and talked for hours.
“Thank you for the use of your handkerchief…” Her voice yanked him back to the present, and he noticed her staring at the cotton square she held out.
He looked down and stilled, watching as her thumb slowly stroked over the initials embroidered with blue thread in the corner. “This handkerchief…it’s mine,” she said softly. “The one T.C. stole from me when he was just a puppy.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve kept it all this time?”
“Yes.”
“And had it in your pocket this afternoon?”
He lifted his gaze, saw that hers was filled with questions-ones he couldn’t avoid. “It’s in my pocket every afternoon. Every day. A good luck charm of sorts, I suppose.”
“I’m…honored, Ethan.” She cleared her throat. “I have a good luck charm of my own.”
Keeping her gaze on him, she reached beneath her fichu and pulled out a slender leather cord. A flat, oval gray stone, the length of her thumb, dangled from the end of the cord that had been threaded through a small hole drilled near the rock’s edge. Ethan reached out for the stone, which still bore the warmth from her skin. And recognition instantly hit him. “It’s the skipping stone I gave you.”