He halted and stepped around to face her, his gaze searching hers, looking for answers. “A nightmare in what way?”
Unable to remain still or look him in the eye, she shook her head and resumed walking with quick, agitated steps, her gaze steadfastly fixed on a tall outcropping of rocks ahead. He fell into step beside her, silent, waiting.
“As you know, I had high hopes for my marriage…” Of course he knew—she’d shared all her hopes and dreams with him. He’d patiently listened to her expound on her desire for a caring husband and lots of children with whom she’d share the sort of warm, loving relationship she’d always craved. The sort denied her by her parents, who’d been bitterly disappointed their only child was a girl—a fact they never tired of pointing out to her. Indeed, she’d known from childhood that the only thing she could possibly do to please them was marry well. When her father had announced that the handsome, charming, and much-sought-after Earl of Westmore had offered for her after her first Season, she’d believed herself most fortunate.
“My duty was to marry well and in accordance with Father’s wishes. Westmore’s duty, of course, was to produce an heir. Our relationship began to deteriorate after I failed to conceive during the first six months of our marriage. Things grew progressively worse as time wore on.”
The words began to rush from her now, as if she’d lanced a festering wound and allowed the poison to run free. “After three years of me failing to conceive, Westmore announced he was finished—that he couldn’t stand to touch me again. From then on, our relationship consisted of little more than icy silence. When he did bother to speak to me, it was merely to remind me of how useless I was. How disappointing and stupid. And of how much he loathed the very sight of me.”
She paused, needing to shove back the painful memories that rose up to thicken her throat.
“Bloody bastard,” Ethan muttered. “Did it not occur to Westmore that the fault might be his?”
“It wasn’t,” she said, her tone utterly flat.
“How do you know?”
“Because over the next seven years Westmore impregnated a half dozen of his paramours. Perhaps more. I stopped counting.”
For several seconds silence swelled between them. Then he said in a tight voice, “He was unfaithful to you?”
She couldn’t suppress the humorless sound that escaped her. “Almost from the beginning. At first he was at least discreet, and I had no idea. But after it became apparent that I wasn’t able to provide him with his heir, he made no effort to conceal his indiscretions. By then all my hopes and illusions for my marriage were shattered, yet part of me still clung to the wish that our relationship wouldn’t deteriorate into hatred. So I foolishly made an attempt to reason with him. Reiterated how grievously sorry and disappointed I was that I couldn’t have children. Asked if we couldn’t at least be civil with each other.”
“What did he say?”
“He made it abundantly clear he wasn’t interested.”
“Abundantly clear how?”
A chill shivered through her and she wrapped her arms around herself. “He…hurt me.”
Ethan halted and grasped her arm, swinging her around to face him. A storm brewed in his eyes and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Hurt you?” he repeated in a low, awful voice. “He…forced himself on you?”
She shook her head. “No. He’d left no doubt he didn’t want me…in that way…ever again.”
Relief flickered in his eyes, then he frowned. “Then what…?” His expression turned thunderous. “He hit you?”
There was no mistaking his shock. And outrage. Both of which were balms for her soul and tightened her throat. It had been so long since anyone had shown the least concern for her. Hot moisture pushed at the backs of her eyes and she fiercely blinked it away.
“He hit me,” she confirmed in a deadly calm voice that seemed to come from far away, and his gaze raked over her as if to check for bruises. “Beat me, actually. It took me weeks to recover.”
Looking him in the eye, she stated the bald truth, one she’d never before admitted out loud. One that would certainly prove to him that she wasn’t the same young girl he’d known. “I think he suspected I’d kill him if he ever touched me again. He never did. But I was tempted to do so anyway.”
She fell silent and realized she was shaking. Breathing hard. And couldn’t bear to look into his eyes any longer. In spite of her trembling knees, she stepped back, and his hands fell to his sides. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began walking again. He fell into step beside her, saying nothing, for which she was grateful, as her throat was too tight to speak. By the time they reached the outcropping of rocks, she felt mentally and physically drained, and she paused in the sheltering shade the promontory provided.
Ethan moved to stand in front of her. Afraid of what she might see, she had to force herself to look into his eyes. When she did, she found him watching her with an intensity that was at once darkly fierce and utterly tender.
“Cassie…” Her name whispered past Ethan’s lips, the only word he was capable of pushing past his constricted throat. A rage unlike anything he’d ever known roiled through him. Bloody hell, she looked lost and alone, her eyes so desolate and bleak. Something inside him seemed to break, leaving a gaping wound through which all the anger and bitterness he’d nursed leaked out to spill at her feet.
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 running through her. “Why didn’t you leave?”
“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 chok
ed 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 Inn in St. Ives. When I made the decision to return to Cornwall, I vowed to stop here. To see you. The dear friend whom I missed so much.”
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.”
She nodded. “The day we walked along the beach after your father was buried. You told me this stone would guarantee me a win in any skipping contest.”
“And you’ve kept it all this time?”
“Yes. I drilled a hole in it and wear it around my neck. Every day.” A self-conscious-sounding huff escaped her, and she repeated his earlier words. “A good luck charm of sorts, I suppose.”
His heart seemed to shift in his chest, as if whatever anchored it in place had lurched free of its moorings. Then just as she’d repeated his words, he repeated hers. “I’m honored, Cassie.”
He watched her tuck the necklace back into her bodice, imagining the stone nestled warmly between her breasts, then slipped his handkerchief back into his pocket.
“Thank you for holding me, Ethan,” she said. “I…I haven’t been held in a long time.”
Bloody hell, how many times could his heart break in one day? His arms instinctively tightened around her, and she responded in kind. And suddenly he was very much aware of the fact that they touched from chest to knee. That with every breath his head filled with the subtle scent of roses rising from her soft skin. That her lips were only inches from his.
Desire hit him with a low, hard, visceral punch that threatened to buckle his knees. His inner voice warned him that in spite of his earlier intimation that she risked more than a walk by accompanying him, only a cad would take advantage of her obvious vulnerability. His conscience demanded that he release her and step away. And he would have, surely he would have, but then her gaze lowered to his mouth.
He felt that look like a caress, and his gaze riveted on her lush lips. In his fantasies he’d kissed them countless times. There were reasons…so many reasons why he shouldn’t, yet suddenly he couldn’t recall one of them.
Unable to stop himself, he lowered his head, slowly, certain she would push him away, tell him to stop. But instead she raised her face and closed her eyes.
As if in a dream, he brushed his lips over hers, a whisper of a touch that jolted heat to his every nerve ending. With his heart thundering hard enough to crack his ribs, he kissed her slowly, gently, with infinite care as if she were a fragile treasure, circling his lips over hers, lightly touching the corners of her mouth, then returning to her lips. And surely that’s all he would have done, all he’d intended to do—but then she whispered his name, a soft, breathy, husky sound that unrave
led him. Her lips parted beneath his, and with a groan that drowned out the sound of his good intentions crumbling to dust, he sank deeper into the kiss.
His tongue slipped into the silky sweet warmth of her mouth, and everything faded away except her. Her delicious taste. The delicate scent of roses wafting from her skin. The feel of her lush curves pressed against him. The sound of her husky moan. They all inundated his senses, and he gathered her closer. She rose up on her toes, straining against him, and with a growl he lifted her straight up, then stepped deeper into the cool shadows, into a curve in the rocks that shielded them from the wind and prying eyes, should anyone venture onto the deserted beach.
Without breaking their kiss, he turned, propped his back against the rock wall and spread his legs, drawing her into the vee of his thighs. Where she fit as if made just for him.
One deep kiss melted into another, filling him with an overpowering need to simply devour her. And he damn well might have except she kept distracting him. Squirming against him. Tunneling her fingers through his hair. Rubbing her tongue against his. Clutching his shoulders. As if she craved him as much as he craved her.
He slid one hand down her back and splayed it against her bottom, pressing her tighter against his aching erection, while his other hand came forward to cup her breast. Soft fullness filled his palm and her nipple pebbled. Mentally cursing the material that separated their skin, he teased the aroused tip between his fingers.
But again she distracted him, this time running her hands over his chest, kneading his muscles, flashing fire through him. His pulse roared hot through his veins, pounding in his ears, throbbing between his legs. Helpless to stop himself, he rubbed himself against her. The taste of her in his mouth, the feel of her hands on him, her body undulating against his, stripped him of his last bit of control. If he didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t be able to.
He managed to drag his lips from hers, but couldn’t keep from exploring the temptation of her slender neck, savoring the vibrations against his lips when she expelled a long, husky groan. God, she felt so good. Smelled so good. Tasted so good. And he’d wanted her for so damn long.