Chapter 7
Seven
Ross,
There has been a change in plans and I am so blasted lost as to if I am doing the right thing for her.
I am taking your broken and battered sister-in-law the baroness to my family estate for her to recuperate although I’m not certain she ever will.
The baron good riddance to the duplicitous beast!
O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! has sadly expired too quickly and easily from injuries he sustained during an attack by highwaymen when they were returning with their joyous news.
I hope and pray she remembers her gaiety and never recalls the horrific assault I witnessed that haunts my every waking breath.
Please let the duchess know her sister is safe but broken and will be well cared for by my family through Spring.
She could not face anyone her sisters while her emotions were so raw.
I will see you upon my return. I hope you can forgive me for arriving too late to protect her. I know I never will.
Best,
Astley
—A drafted letter to Nashford Xavier Harding, Duke of Ross from Simon Benjamin Clark, Earl of Astley which he rewrote before sending. The final version held little detail of the depth of Caillen’s injuries and her mental state after the death of her husband. Gretna Green, Scotland February 1812
Caillen jerked away just as his hand touched hers.
Her alarm was a visceral experience she couldn’t control.
He felt her panic. She saw it in his face.
Yet despite recognizing Simon was no threat, her reaction had been instinctual.
Alarm and suspicion she would’ve never felt before the attack, tightened her muscles and her movements.
It was as if she were watching someone else react to his touch.
It certainly shouldn’t be her arms flailing wildly or swinging in a windmill fashion as she struck the bowl of water she’d prepared for him.
She wouldn’t do that. She knew Simon wouldn’t harm her.
Yet water sprayed across the front of her gown, and the bowl crashed to the floor, sending its contents and broken porcelain everywhere.
If she could have screamed, she would have, but it was as if she were mutely reliving the attack.
Following the attack, her voice had left her.
She wasn’t even certain how many days passed before she moved a muscle of her own accord.
Or uttered a word. Time had simply vanished—until it didn’t.
It was only then that the silent horror she’d endured became vocalized.
Not in words, just screaming. She suspected her hours of screaming in his family dining room had damaged Simon while it had helped her to heal.
He raised his hands in surrender, letting her see that he meant her no harm.
Oh, God. He meant her no harm. She knew that.
Even as she stood there dripping and looking into his eyes that were black as night, she knew that expression.
She wouldn’t be arrogant enough to say she’d shattered his soul, but she had gutted him.
“I’m sorry, Caillen. I didn’t know you still couldn’t tolerate touch. You took care of me for so long, I just assumed—”
“You assumed wrong,” She spat, her voice shaking with anger at herself, not him. Never him. Yet still the vitriol was spouting from her lips as her hands shook. “No man has the right to touch a woman without her consent.”
“You’re right. I am truly sorry, and I can only beg your forgiveness.”
She bit her lip and ignored him. Too afraid of the vile accusations she would hurl at him next. She focused on picking up the broken porcelain. That was something she could control.
“Please don’t. Let my staff pick it up.”
“It isn’t necessary.” She hissed in pain as she pulled her hand back from a shard of porcelain. A thin line of blood already appeared on her palm. “Blast!”
He reached for the servant pull, but she stopped him before he could call for help.
“Don’t you dare.” She growled. She sounded like an untamed beast. What was wrong with her? “The last thing I need is for your staff to speculate how this occurred.”
He reached for the soapy linen she’d prepared for his bath that had landed on the edge of his bed. “Here, use this.”
Caillen took the towel without touching him and wrapped it around her palm.
“What could my staff possibly construe from a broken bowl of water?”
“You would know better than I. I’ve heard all manner of your debauchery in the past month and a half.”
He scoffed. “I have a broken leg.”
“They’ve been wagering on when your mistress will come over and ‘heal’ you.
” The venom in her voice was for his mistress, not his staff or him and she wasn’t sure why.
What did she care about his relations with his mistress, and why would it bother her that a woman took pleasure in the hand life dealt her?
“They what?”
“You heard me. They try to be discreet, but I’ve heard them in the morning as they take their meals.
” She began ticking off the wagers on her fingers.
“Your footman, Charlie has bet his morning coffee for a month, another has bet duty on the next six journeys you take in miserable weather that require outriders. A maid has bet a kiss, and two other maids have bet taking on additional household duties that Marabella DiSimone, opera singer and mistress extraordinaire, could cure you with one ‘tup.’”
Had she truly said that? What was wrong with her? Everyone knew Astley paid his staff well. She supposed part of that was for their discretion.
“I understand,” he replied in a soft, contrite tone.
“Do you, though?”
“Yes.”
She shouldn’t ask, but she didn’t seem to have one ounce of control over what came out of her mouth. “And is it true?”
“That she could cure me with one tup?”
Her face heated with embarrassment or anger, or both, she couldn’t be certain. “No! That she is your mistress!”
He rubbed the back of his neck, and she felt as if she were sitting on an emotional swing flying over the precipice of a cliff.
A swing that kept sending her higher and higher in each direction; one wrong word ready to catapult out of her mouth and strike him dead in his bed.
And he suddenly looked very exhausted. She probably taxed his mind almost as much as he vexed her.
“This is not a conversation a gentleman should have with a lady,” he finally said.
She snorted, and with that noise, a grin spread across his face. He nodded toward her injury. “How is your hand?”
“It will be fine.”
“Let me see it.”
“I said, it will be fine.”
“And I said, let me see it. Now, Caillen.” She recognized the lordly sternness of his voice and wondered if she should adhere to his command or leave.
He held out his hand to take hers and she stared at it.
This is what had started this whole disaster, and yet it was altogether different.
Simon was allowing her to knowingly, voluntarily put her hand in his.
For anyone else, his pinky finger sticking out in such an ugly fashion would be cause for hesitation.
For her, his deformity only made him less threatening and more vulnerable.
Rather than acquiesce, she studied him and gauged his ability to take advantage of the situation.
He held his breath as she debated and then much to her shock, and his, she placed her hand in his, palm up.
Simon gave her a slight nod as if thanking her for trusting him as he pulled her closer.
She could feel the warmth radiating off his body, even when he stopped short of creating contact beyond their hands.
It was as if he purposely created intimacy, without making it sensual.
Except everything about Simon was sensual, and the distance between them made him even more dangerous.
Just not in a way that would send her running.
As if he were unaware of the tumult he was creating within her, he pulled the cloth away from her cut, and blood immediately began to seep from the wound.
“I’m afraid the doctor will need to stitch it closed for you.” He rewrapped her injury, pulling the wrap tightly as he worked to tie it around her hand.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her voice breathy as she attempted to maintain her composure. It was obvious she was struggling with the limited contact of their hands. She suspected he prolonged it as he tended to her injury and spoke in hushed tones.
“I thought by the way you had cared for me, and by the way you interacted with the children, that you had lost some of your fear.”
“I have, just not as much as I would’ve liked.”
“Is it just men?”
She shook her head and when he waited for a response, she finally volunteered to give him a peek into her terror.
“When I do not expect someone to touch me, it carries me back. I don’t understand it, and I can’t control it.
I’m sorry I was sharp with you. I was angry at myself for reacting the way I did. I did not expect for you to grab me.”
“And for that, I should be the one to apologize, not you.” He gazed up into her eyes and she wanted to melt into the warmth of his attention.
She shook her head once more. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Caillen, I know what you went through and I know what it’s like to avoid touch after being subjected to the brutality of another.”
Her brow furrowed. “You have never avoided my touch.”
“Your touch. Anyone else, and I break out in a cold sweat. Even with Sébastien, it’s a practice of self-control.”
“I’ve never noticed you experience discomfort with anyone. You hide it well.”
“You haven’t been in here in the past month when the doctor is here, or when the maids change my bedding.
When my footman, Charlie, offered to perform the duties of my valet, I nearly punched him in the face with this.
” He raised their hands together, his little pinky mocking the effect of his punch. “I offered him a raise instead.”
“Will we ever be what we were?” She asked, her tone soft and somber, as the meaning of what he just confessed nearly overwhelmed her.