Lessons From a Scandalous Bride

  Logan watched as the first carriage, the one Cleo occupied, took that final turn. She was gone.

  “No.”

  He turned his attention back to the task at hand, stepping off the scaffolding and onto a jutting ledge. “She’s not. You coming?” He looked back at his brother.

  Simon glanced around the scaffolding. “I forgot my pickax.” Shrugging at his forgetfulness, he crouched down and descended the ladder to retrieve the tool he would need for the day’s work.

  Logan advanced along what was once a thick stone-fortified wall but was now only a crumbling outer shell, offering no protection to the interior room whatsoever. The entire thing needed to come down. Even if it meant removing each and every stone by hand.

  Gripping his own ax, he strode inside the cavernous room. Now empty of furniture, it had once been a bedchamber. Flexing his fingers around the ax’s handle, he joined the other two laborers already at work, attacking the outer wall and sending stone raining down into the yard.

  He worked with a fury, taking solace in the labor. By the end of the day he intended to be aching sore and exhausted—too weary to contemplate Cleo and what precisely he felt within himself.

  He lifted his ax and took a healthy whack. Stone sparked and crumbled. He grunted, and repeated the motion. The sound of steel hitting rock filled the air.

  Arm pulled back, he was in mid-swing when the earth spit up a growl and rumbled all around him. He dropped his tool, arms reaching, stretching out to hold on to something amid his suddenly shifting, shuddering world. But there was nothing to grab. Only air.

  One of the men beside him shouted. The other one dove for the ground.

  And then there was nothing. Not even that anymore. The ground opened in a great, hungry maw beneath his feet. The floor gave out, disappearing in a fierce cloud of rock and rubble and debris. Taking him with it.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Cleo watched as her father removed his gloves and slapped them against his hands. The small taproom was crowded at this hour, and he eyed their surroundings impatiently, ostensibly hoping that they might be served by one of the harried-looking servant girls sometime soon.

  Jack stood up from the table, his impatience getting the better of him. “I’ll go speak with the innkeeper and see when we might expect service.”

  Cleo watched him stalk away, feeling as miserable as ever. In fact, with every mile they’d traveled, a pore-deep misery had infiltrated every inch of her.

  “Are you well?” Annalise asked from beside her, blinking those wide brown eyes of hers with their impossibly long lashes.

  Cleo nodded mutely. She should ask Annalise the same question. With her handicap, cooped up in a carriage for hours couldn’t be that comfortable. Only Cleo couldn’t muster the energy or inclination to talk.

  “I’m certain a warm meal will do you good,” Marguerite volunteered.

  Cleo stared out at her bleakly. “Will it?” She wasn’t convinced she’d ever feel well again.

  Marguerite cocked her head, her gaze sharpening on Cleo. “Well, no, actually. I’m not convinced you’ll ever be fine. You just walked away from your husband. And you may be too foolish to realize it, but you love the man.”

  “Marguerite,” Ash chided.

  She glared at her husband. “What? I won’t sit silently as she does this. She needs to hear the truth.”

  Cleo turned to look out at the taproom. She didn’t need to hear it. Because she already knew.

  Yes. The word had slipped inside her mind before she could stop it. It was the answer she’d been fleeing from when she earlier asked herself if she loved her husband. It was there, inescapable. Yes.

  She felt as though she’d left a part of herself with Logan. She couldn’t recall ever feeling this wretched . . . save for when she buried one of her siblings.

  So the remaining question was whether she was protecting herself at all if she was left hurting so much.

  She closed her eyes in a tight blink. When she opened them moments later, she found herself staring at a young couple at the table next to her. Two small children crowded around the mother, eating from a single bowl of stew. She brought the spoon to one child’s mouth and then the next, taking only an occasional sip for herself. The husband tore a large loaf of bread into pieces, placing the hunks upon a trencher that already held bits of cheese he’d torn up for the family. It wasn’t much food for a family of four. But they smiled. They laughed. The mother kissed her children, and when she looked at her husband her eyes glowed.

  They loved each other. They were happy. Even with their meager food and their well-worn clothes.

  Her hand drifted to her belly. Did a life already grow there? A part of Logan? It dawned on Cleo that she’d like that. She would love that. In fact, she wanted that. She wanted it with Logan.

  She stood abruptly. “I-I have to go.”

  Ash rose without a word and left the inn. Cleo hardly paid him any note. She looked desperately at each of her sisters. “I made a mistake. I have to go back.”

  Annalise smiled. “Oh, Cleo. You do love him.”

  Cleo nodded. “Yes, I have to see Jack. We have to go back now. At once.”

  Marguerite made a shushing sound and guided her back down.

  “No,” Cleo shook her off. “You don’t understand. I left him. He thinks I don’t care about him.”

  “I understand,” Marguerite said evenly. “And so does Ash. He went to fetch the driver to ready the carriage.”

  “He did?”

  Marguerite smiled. “We knew you would come to your senses.”

  “I wish I’d done so sooner.” Her shoulders slumped.

  Annalise scooted close and patted her back. “At least you did it before reaching London.”

  Cleo nodded, feeling only a little mollified. She wouldn’t feel totally at ease until she saw Logan again. Until she told him how sorry she was. Until she told him how she felt—that the only thing that terrified her any longer was the possibility of losing him.

  Hopefully, he’d forgive her for running away. Hopefully, she wasn’t too late.

  It was well past dark when they arrived back at McKinney Castle. She’d expected a sleeping village, but the lights of countless lanterns glowed through the curtains of her carriage. Every cottage window was lit, almost as though in vigil. Several people walked along the road toward the castle, slowing the progress of the carriages.

  “What’s happening?” Annalise asked, glancing left and right out the carriage window.

  “Something’s wrong,” Cleo announced, her stomach sinking.

  “I’ll find out.” Jack opened the door and hopped down from the slow-moving carriage.

  She lost sight of him as he moved to talk to a villager and their conveyance clambered on, eventually entering into the yard, blazing with the light of dozens of torches and lanterns. Or at least they advanced as far as they could into the yard. People, wagons, and several draft horses blocked them from going any farther.

  Unable to wait for her father to arrive with an explanation, she popped open the door and eased herself down, holding her skirts in one hand. Ignoring the sound of Annalise calling her name, she hastened through the crowd, scanning the yard, eager to see Logan. Would his eyes light with joy when he saw that she had returned? Or would they still look as cold and empty as before? Perhaps he’d resigned himself to her leaving . . . perhaps he was even glad to be rid of her.

  She banished the thought, refusing to let it deter her from her course.

  Shaking her head, she stepped to the side as a wagon loaded with rock and stone rolled past. Was it typical for them to work so late into the night? Ahead, she spotted Simon and cut a direct line for him. He’d know where she could find Logan.

  “Simon!” she called out, rushing to reach him.

  He swung around, his hair mussed and wild
about him—but not nearly as wild as his eyes. She paused, unease taking hold of her as she surveyed him. He was covered in dirt. Even his dark hair was chalky with it.

  “Cleo.” He took a halting step toward her. There were others around him—a fact that only caught her notice because they all stilled unnaturally.

  “Simon.” She glanced at the faces watching her. “Where’s Logan?”

  Behind her, she heard her name being called. A glance over her shoulder revealed Jack, pushing through the crowd, his expression grave and urgent.

  She looked back at her brother-in-law. He’d moved closer now. “Cleo . . . you came back . . .” His voice faded as he reached for her.

  “Where’s Logan?” Her voice rang sharply.

  He shook his head at her, his countenance bleak and beyond weary.

  Her gaze drifted, lifting over his shoulder. A gasp tore through her throat at the giant pile of rubble where the north-wing wall had once stood. Where she’d last seen Logan.

  Her stomach dipped, dropped to her feet as understanding washed over her. She wasn’t aware of anything. Not her scream. Not the hands holding her back as she attempted to launch herself at the pile of ancient stones that buried her husband.

  Cleo hefted another rock onto the wagon bed, hardly breaking stride before she turned to fetch another one.

  “Cleo, take a rest. Here . . . have a drink.”

  Shaking her head, she strode past Jack. After her initial shock, she’d changed into a pair of Josephine’s spare trousers that the girl had been quick to volunteer. Considering that Josie and Abigail had been working alongside everyone else, there was no chance Cleo was going to stand idle.

  “Cleo,” Marguerite called from the side where she watched everyone work. She stepped out of her husband’s way as he dumped two buckets of stones into the back of a wagon. “Please . . . you haven’t stopped.”

  And she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not until she found Logan. Her mind strayed, inched toward that voice whispering through her mind. He can’t be alive. Not in there. Not beneath the crushing weight of those stones.

  “We found someone!”

  Cleo dropped her bucket and raced forward at the shout, clambering up the rubble to the spot where several men crowded. Simon and Niall were there, at the head of the group.

  “He’d dead!” a voice shouted.

  She jerked to a stop, wobbling on the uneven surface, a sob strangling in her throat. No, no, no. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring herself to look. It’s not Logan. Logan couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t have lost him just when she learned how much she loved him.

  Jack was there, at her side, his fingers wrapping around her arm in support. She looked at him, her chest a twisting mass. “Is it . . .”

  Jack shook his head and released her arm. He hurried ahead, climbing toward the body they’d unearthed and taking position beside Logan’s younger brothers.

  She waited, watched with her heart in her throat as he stared down alongside Logan’s brothers. In moments, he whirled around, his gaze locking with hers. “It’s not him!”

  Relief sagged her shoulders, poured through her in a wash of gratitude—quickly replaced with the familiar fear again. Logan was still buried under all those stones. Bile rose in the back of her throat. She pressed her hand to her lips until the nausea passed.

  Becoming ill would accomplish nothing. Without a word, she turned and gathered another stone, hefting it in her arms.

  She paused when she caught sight of Simon’s face. The defeat there, writ upon the youthful lines and hollows, struck a painful blow. He said something to one of the men, shaking his head.

  Had he given up? Logan’s own brother?

  Fresh determination burned a fiery trail through her. Logan wouldn’t give up if that was her down there. Not until he found her. Dropping the stone in her bucket she picked up another one. Stopping wasn’t an option.

  “Cleo.” Jack arrived at her side again.

  She faced him, blowing at a strand of hair that dangled before her eyes. “What are you waiting for? Pick up a rock.”

  She didn’t wait to see whether he joined her or not. She simply resumed moving, working quickly, past the point of exhaustion . . . telling herself there was still hope. He was still under there. Still alive. She couldn’t let herself believe otherwise.

  Opening her mouth, she called his name as she removed stone after stone, convinced he was down there somewhere, and determined that he hear her voice and know help was coming.

  Jack spoke her name gently. “Let’s go inside and rest. The others will continue to work.”

  “I want to be here when he comes out.”

  Jack cleared his throat. She didn’t even look up from her task, determined not to lose even a moment more of time. “Cleo, you have to consider . . . he’s probably gone.”

  “No,” she barked. “I don’t have to consider that. I won’t. Not unless I’m staring at his dead body. Until then, I’m digging. We all are. Now cease your prattle and get back to work.”

  There was only a moment’s hesitation before Jack continued, tossing rocks into his bucket with a steady clink of stone on stone.

  Opening her mouth, Cleo called out for Logan again, unearthing rocks until she couldn’t feel her hands inside her heavy work gloves. She just moved from instinct and memory, her heart driving her.

  Chapter Thirty

  Logan winced as another stabbing pain shot up from where his foot was pinned.

  He cursed himself for making the movement, the slight adjustment of his body that caused the lancing agony. It was too dark to investigate what trapped his foot.

  He couldn’t sit up. He splayed his hands flat on the stretch of wood that hovered two to three inches above his chest. It was the bottom of the scaffolding. One of its chains rattled somewhere near his head and he knew without its protection he would have been crushed beneath stone.

  Somehow in the collapse, the heavy plank had fallen above him, covering him. The scaffolding was wedged at an angle, creating a small shelter of sorts—a pocket of air and space that wouldn’t last forever.

  He knew this, and in the endless dark he took careful sips of air, clinging to the hope that his brothers would find him—that they wouldn’t stop. That they would be in time.

  Cleo. Her face drifted through his mind. He was glad she’d gone. That she wasn’t here, up there with the rest of them, suffering all manner of anxiety and grief. He knew she cared for him. That’s why she’d left. Ran. Her feelings for him had grown into something real. Too real for her to face.

  But he’d let her go anyway, instead of confessing his feelings, baring all for her, everything—and demanding the same from her.

  He supposed that made him as much of a coward as she was. And now it might be too late.

  He stopped breathing abruptly. The slow, easy cadence he’d established forgotten as his ears strained, listening. And there it was again. A sound. Faint. Far away—as if from the bottom of a well.

  Logan!

  His name. If he could hear them—perhaps he could be heard, too. Forgetting the need to save his air. He opened his mouth and shouted.

  Cleo moved beyond the point of feeling. Beyond exhaustion. The only thing driving her was sheer faith that Logan lived.

  She’d know if he was dead. She’d feel it. Practical or not, this is what she told herself as she dumped another bucket into the waiting wagon and tromped her way back up the mound of depleting stone. They’d find him soon.

  She secured her footing on the uneven surface, ignoring how her legs trembled, and resumed working, calling out Logan’s name periodically, forcing her voice to ring loudly even as it cracked from overuse.

  She’d just tossed another rock into her bucket and was bending down for another one when she heard something.

  She stilled, cocking her head to
the side. It came again. Directly beneath her. She tossed her rock and began digging furiously, flinging stones aside. It didn’t take very long for her to reach something that wasn’t stony rubble—a small smooth patch of wood, no more than an inch in diameter, peeked out from where she’d cleared away rocks. She tapped the surface with her fingers.

  An answering cry greeted the sound.

  She shot up, nearly losing her balance. “Over here!” she shouted, waving an arm wildly for the others. “I heard someone! Here!”

  Men rushed her, crowding all around her, clearing the stones away, revealing more and more of the long stretch of wood. Scaffolding—it was the scaffolding, she realized with burgeoning excitement.

  Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders and moved her off to the side. She let him, knowing the men would all work faster than she could. Her gaze ached as she watched more and more of the plank become exposed.

  Suddenly there was a hand—a filthy, dirt-covered hand shooting out from beneath the plank.

  She shouted and lunged forward.

  Jack pulled her back. “Wait. Let them clear the area and see . . .”

  His words faded and she knew the rest of what he was saying: let them see if he was fit to view.

  She didn’t care. She’d seen that hand reaching for help. He was alive and she had to let him know she was here for him. That she’d be here for him no matter what.

  She broke free and stumbled forward. She fell, caught herself on her hands and climbed, shoving through bodies, calling for Logan.

  “Cleo!”

  Simon appeared through the press of figures. He grabbed her hand and pulled her the rest of the way. One arm around her, he held her up as men lifted Logan to freedom.

  Her throat constricted. She’d called his name for countless hours but now she could say nothing. Could only stare at his face, dirty and streaked with blood. Alive. Her heart squeezed so tightly within her chest she feared it might burst.

  And then he saw her. He blinked, shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. As if he were suffering a mirage.