Chapter 18
“What are you thinking of?” Aaron asked.
They walked in the gardens of Sir Obadiah’s house. From the open windows came the sound of billiard balls and Sir Obadiah’s raucous laughter. The night embraced Catherine and Aaron. An orange moon loitered close to the treetops, swollen and casting a bright light over the manicured lawns.
“Why do you wish to know?” Catherine replied.
“Because you have been very quiet this past hour. In fact, ever since our talk of secrets.”
“I find social occasions rather fatiguing,” she said with a morsel of honesty, “there is such a need to be... I can’t think of the word.”
“Sociable?” he offered.
She laughed. “That one will do. That is a good one.”
He grinned. “Frankly, I, too, find them fatiguing, but it is the curse of our rank. To get by, we must be seen.”
“And be seen, being seen,” she underlined in a voice that spoke volumes about her opinions on the subject.
“And Christ alive, that is the worst,” he shuddered, chuckling.
They walked arm in arm. Catherine found herself savoring the way Aaron’s scent mingled with the woody trees that lined their path. He was almost like a force of nature, a part of it.
“Actually, I was thinking of our... tumble in the woods,” Catherine started, then she began babbling, “I mean our literal tumble, not tumble in the sense that word is used in its colloquial form. That is to say, I mean, when I ended up on top of you and...” She stopped and faced him, all apple-cheeked.
“Oh my, I am not making this sound any better, am I?”
She felt nervous, as though she were balancing on a blade’s edge.
What she’d said was true—she thought of that moment constantly, far too many times than she supposed was healthy.
Aaron against the rock, shirtless, his body like carved stone.
Desire had hazed her vision in the moment, but the memory was crystal clear.
Kissing down his chest. His left arm. Biting gently, careful not to mark him, but to mar him all the same.
I know that he has a birthmark on his left arm. I thought it should be on his right, but what if I have that wrong? It was such a long time ago. Isn’t it proof enough that I have seen it twice, in the flesh?
“I have thought of that moment many times myself.” His voice pulled her back. “It grieves me that we became so close, only to have this distance open between us.”
“I felt vulnerable after what we shared,” she said carefully. “And I felt used and discarded. That is why I got so angry.”
“I understand now.” His thumb brushed across her knuckles. “I did not at the time. But is there nothing else troubling you?”
Who took my letter to Isabella and my writing implements?
“Nothing,” she lied.
She had considered telling Aaron everything.
Asking him directly if he was truly Aaron Tarnley and why he had forgotten so much of their childhood, including her. But she held back. She sensed that this path would lead to their dissolution. It would take on diverging roads that would draw their marriage apart.
But she did not hold back out of doubt.
There was no doubt—but she did not care.
I am the one who asked for honesty, yet I am the one holding back. That makes me a hypocrite, but nothing good can come from the truth.
The noises of merry-making from the house were receding, absorbed by the trees that surrounded them now.
Catherine coughed; the irritation in her throat had been growing all night.
Her cheeks felt hot, but there was a distinct chill in the night air.
She supposed her trek out to Blackthorn Farm in the dead of the night would have done her chest no good.
This was a cold to punish her for foolish behavior.
She still recalled the crushing anxiety, the overwhelming sense of being surrounded by enemies that had driven her to run in the first place.
And what had brought her back.
“Do you… feel quite well?” Aaron asked, concern lacing his words.
“A touch of a head-cold perhaps,” she sniffed.
“Then we should return to the company and the warmth of the house—”
She grabbed at his coatsleeves. “Oh no! Can we not stay out here for a few minutes more? The thought of going among the Threnthorpes’ uptight guests again is intolerable. Not to mention how stuffy that old house is.”
He shrugged out of his coat and draped it around her shoulders. She drew it close gratefully, breathing in the scent of him still fresh in the fabric. His arm came around her, pulling her against his side.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Do not. I am simply trying to keep myself warm,” he quipped.
A laugh escaped her despite the chill seeping into her bones. She burrowed deeper into both coat and embrace. But acknowledging the cold seemed to have given it power—her body began to betray her, tremors she couldn’t control, another cough tickling in her throat.
She felt him tense.
Was he thinking of another dose of Mr. McKay’s marvelous cure-all? To postpone the symptoms for a day or a few?
I must confront Aunt Nora and Uncle Benjamin about this. I must look into their eyes when they lie so that I know it. Only then might I be able to put this paranoid fear to bed…
“I think perhaps our evening is over,” Aaron said gently. “Let’s get you home. To bed.”
“I don't want any more medicine!” The words came out sharper than intended.
“Then you'll have none.” His voice was calm, steady. “But let's get you somewhere warm.”
The shivering had become uncontrollable now, rattling through her like she'd never be warm again. But she shook her head.
“N-no. This evening was to secure your agreement with Sir Obadiah. I shan’t interfere with that.”
“You are not interfering.” His eyes held hers. “You are more important.”
But his gaze flickered toward the house, uncertain. She could swear she saw it!
That hesitation decided for her. She wouldn’t be the source of his resentment later, the reason his plans fell apart. She straightened, shrugging his coat from her shoulders. The night air hit her like a plunge into ice water.
Catherine resolved that she was not going to be the source of resentment by Aaron. She straightened and shrugged the coat from her shoulders, feeling as though she had suddenly been immersed in icy water.
“Let’s rejoin the company,” she trembled, forcing brightness into her voice. “Impress Sir Obadiah a little more.”
His arms came around her before she'd taken a step, pulling her back against the solid heat of his chest. His head lowered beside hers, and she felt him breathe in the scent of her hair the way someone might inhale the perfume of roses.
“I forbid it.” His voice was low, absolute. “You need protecting from yourself.”
Then he swept her into his arms as though she weighed nothing and strode toward the stables.
Delirium took her soon after.
Fragments, disjointed.
The carriage swaying.
His lap beneath her head, his hand cool against her burning forehead.
Caerleon materializing through mist. Doors. Stairs. Concerned faces swimming in and out of focus.
Then darkness.
Catherine woke to pale morning light and the soft caw of a crow outside her window. The fire had burned to embers. Dew sparkled in the mist beyond the glass.
She was in her nightclothes, wrapped in blankets. And she wasn’t alone.
Aaron lay atop the covers beside her, still fully dressed. His brow was furrowed, eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Dreaming, perhaps. Catherine turned to face him, slipping her arm beneath his.
Then a sound.
“No, Father.” His voice was raw, broken. “He's my brother. I won't.”
Tears tracked down his face.
Catherine’s breath caught. Dreams were private things, windows into pain no one should judge. Gently, she wiped the wetness from his cheeks. Stroked his hair. Drew his head down to rest against her breast, whispering wordless comfort.
Every muscle in his body was rigid as iron. Fighting something she couldn’t see.
The last word she heard before he finally went still was barely a whisper.
“Aaron.”