Chapter 16
16
I wake alone.
The sheets beside me are cold, the indent where Kiaran lay already fading. I wonder if he left the moment I fell asleep, but a quiet relief thrums through my veins. For the first night in weeks, the ghosts kept their distance.
And some reckless part of me wants him to show me his ghosts in return. To whisper their names in the dark, map the tattoos and scars inked on his skin, trace the invisible marks carved into his soul.
I want and I want, a foolish woman longing for impossible things.
Wincing, I drag myself from the bed. Beyond my window, the world holds its breath, poised to rain. I splash cold water on my face, tug a simple dress over the bruises mottling my body, fastening buttons until they hide the wreckage of my skin.
Downstairs, MacNab tidies the drawing room. He bids me good morning as I settle on the settee to watch gentlemen and ladies traverse the slush-lined street out the window.
“Tea, Milady?”
I force a smile. “No, thank you. Send Catherine in when she arrives.”
Catherine visits every Tuesday without fail, and after last night, I need her company.
MacNab withdraws with a bow, leaving silence in his wake. I sink back against the cushions, eyes falling shut. Trying not to think about the phantom heat of Kiaran’s body pressed to mine, his hand firm on my chest. The steady rise and fall of our breaths moving as one—a dangerous intimacy I can’t afford.
Good lass. Just keep breathing for me.
The memory sinks hooks into my skin. Foolish girl. As if he wants you. He was just keeping his investment alive a little longer. He needs you for your bloodline. Nothing more. That’s why he gave you a damn servant’s mark.
And yet I can’t help but think of moonlight and ghosts, of scars and wanting impossible things.
Of him.
The creak of floorboards announces Catherine’s arrival. She sweeps into the drawing room in a flurry of pink muslin and golden curls tumbling to her shoulders.
She pauses to rake an assessing gaze over me. “Well, at least you have a bit of colour today. I’ve considered contacting your physician to see if it’s possible for a woman of one-and-twenty to silently perish from consumption or brooding without showing a single reliable symptom.”
“Try to contain your excitement,” I say. “I didn’t actually sleep. I collapsed from exhaustion. And brooding is my defining character trait.”
I pat the seat beside me and Catherine joins me.
“Any new scandals to tell me about?” I ask. “Has anyone turned up drowned in their claret or been discovered with their trousers around their ankles in the mews?”
Catherine gives a considering look. “Aside from poor Lord Hepburn dying in his sleep after the ball, I did hear about Lord Strathmore getting absolutely foxed after the club last night. Fell asleep stark naked in the Ross Fountain again.”
I nearly choke. “Good lord. Didn’t he just do that a fortnight ago?”
“Five days ago,” she confirms. “Apparently, it’s not even the second time. Or the third.”
I can’t quite smother a snort of laughter. “Has no one informed Strathmore that removing one’s trousers and sleeping in public fountains tends to be frowned upon by polite society? And for god’s sake, it’s the middle of winter. How is he alive?”
“A mystery. Perhaps it’s a secret longing to be a merman,” Catherine muses. “I’m beginning to think I should carry a parasol at all times to shield my eyes in case he decides to remove his clothes.” She gives my arm a little squeeze, her expression softening. “Truly though, how are you faring after the ball? And don’t try to fob me off.”
Keeping myself alive night after night. Trying desperately not to come undone.
The unspoken words crowd my tongue, but aloud I say, “Oh, nothing of note, just the usual nonsense.”
Catherine’s frown deepens at that. “I do wish you wouldn’t spend so much time shut up alone in this mausoleum of a townhouse. It’s not healthy. You’re not some Gothic heroine haunting the moors.”
“Please don’t fuss, I’m perfectly well.”
Catherine’s expression softens then. She gives my arm an insistent tug. “Then let’s go out for a refreshing stroll and take advantage of your miraculously well-rested state while it lasts. Who knows when such an opportunity might arise again.”
And because resisting Catherine is utterly futile, I sigh and allow her to firmly tow me up from the settee and out of the room. We take a moment to gather gloves, hats, cloaks and enough woollen layers to suffocate a small bear before finally venturing out.
The bare skeletal branches creak overhead in the brisk winter wind. Our boots crunch on stubborn patches of old snow still lining the path. Catherine immediately slips her arm through mine with a happy little hum, as though it’s some impressive accomplishment that she managed to drag me outside.
“There now, isn’t the sunlight refreshing?” she says brightly, gesturing at the grey winter sky overhead.
“Blinding,” I say. “I might actually perish from the sheer delight. Please notify my solicitor.”
Catherine smothers an inelegant snort. “Oh hush, you terrible crone. At least you’re finally breathing some fresh, bracing air instead of haunting your dreary townhouse.” She flashes me a sly little grin. “Anyway, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t replied to the invitation to my ball at Kilmartin House. I took the liberty of assuming you are coming.”
I don’t know what I did to deserve this torment, but it must have been unforgivable.
“I’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals.”
Catherine rolls her eyes. “I don’t care, you’re coming. It won’t be nearly as overwhelming as your first time back in society. You won’t be a novelty for everyone to gawp at this time.”
I give a sniff, adjusting the fall of my grey cloak. “Well, that’s certainly a comfort. Now while I’m slowly expiring from the mind-numbing tedium, at least it will be unremarkable. I can die happy, knowing my brief days as an odd curio are over.”
Catherine fixes me with an exasperated look. “All I ask is for one tiny dance saved for a gentleman or two, so I’m not forced to fend off every single desperate fortune hunter all on my own. Unless you’d prefer to glower ominously from the refreshments table all night as usual?”
“It would be my honour to glower on your behalf. But only at the most incorrigible lechers. I need to dish out my glowers appropriately.”
Bless Catherine’s determined little heart, but I’m a lost cause, doomed to die alone as a curmudgeonly old spinster, likely buried alongside a horde of cats, weapons, and a rather tragic social reputation.
Assuming I live that long.
I heave out a breath. “Oh, very well. I suppose I can suffer through another hour for your sake.”
Catherine grins, clearly delighted to have bullied me into cooperation. “That’s the spirit.” She glances sidelong at me again, cheeks pinking, her voice comes out unexpectedly timid. “I’d quite like to try charming Mr Simon Gordon a bit during the ball. We shared a rather nice dance at the Hepburn ball last week, and he’s the only gentleman there who didn’t leave me wanting to flee for the doors.”
I stop short in surprise before a sly grin spreads across my face. “Well, how perfectly lovely. Do let me know if you require me to loom ominously at Mr Gordon’s side.”
Catherine muffles her laughter behind a gloved hand. “Duly noted. I’ll be certain to come to you should I need to strike fear into his heart.”
I nudge her playfully with my shoulder. “See that you do. I’m exceedingly accomplished at threats and glaring.”
We walk awhile longer until my thoughts wander. I find myself dwelling on the memories of last night—his devastating gentleness as he eased me back from the clutches of panic, patiently coaching each breath until my heart no longer threatened to hammer through my ribs.
Stop it , I scold myself.
A flash of something at the corner of my vision. The wind shifts, carrying a scent that prickles my senses.
I freeze mid-step. I know that scent. Pine and ash and rain. It slides against my skin, intimate as a caress. Marking the presence of one who leaves frost in his wake.
I turn slowly. The breath I draw feels like ice in my lungs.
Kiaran waits beneath an elm up ahead. Clad in gentleman’s finery, he cuts a striking figure. His gaze finds mine, and the broken thing that passes for my heart gives a great bruising thud against my ribs. I drink in the sight of him—a fine greatcoat draping his tall frame, the rich colour a striking contrast to his pale skin and dark hair.
Because of course he would show up now. Just stroll into the mortal realm at high noon.
“Good god,” Catherine whispers. “Who is that?”