Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROWEN
The Duke rasped as he struggled for air. Rowen’s eyes flew open at the horrible sounds. Cassandra sat at his feet, her body a wall of heat by his legs. He cleared his throat. “Why are you awake?”
“This is what tending to the sick means, my lord. And I am here to help you, even if that means sitting in silence by your side, sharing in this vigil.” Her large eyes fixed on him, shining in the light of the candles next to her.
Distinctive eyes, with shards of gold and green tucked within their brown velvet.
She drew up her knees and clasped her legs.
“My father died in his sleep. He’d been ill for quite some time, no longer the active man who would take Tristan hunting, take me for long walks.
He quickly became frail and coughed all through the days and the nights.
I would join his nurse and sit with her while he attempted sleep.
Wipe away the blood. And then, the one night sleep had quickly overtaken me, he passed. ”
“You were a child then.”
“Yet I remember it quite clearly.”
“You loved your father.”
Her brow furrowed. “You say it as if it is an odd thing to love one’s father.”
“I have no experience of it.”
“I am sorry for you.”
He averted his gaze. “I do not have any such fond memories as the ones you describe."
“What of your mother?”
“My mother died when I was a boy, and His Grace sent me off to school soon thereafter. I would only come to Tidesfar for several weeks at most every year. I do, however, have clear memories of the regular beatings that my father would give me with his beloved cane.”
What was it about this girl that had him sharing things he’d never shared with anyone before?
She did not flinch at his brutal memory; only a small smile fluttered across her lips. “Indeed, I was told of his love for the cane.”
“Told by whom?” Rowen’s eyes narrowed. “The whores?”
She only nodded.
A long, ragged sigh dragged from his lips. “How can I allow you to marry him?”
“I am your ward. Whatever you wish, I shall do.”
Her voice was plain and flat. She was so logical. And resigned. That unnerved him more than if she had wept and pleaded for mercy.
He tore his gaze away from her. She was his ward now. He had to protect her, even from himself.
The scent of her hair wafted in the air.
Some kind of flower. But this girl was unlike any vulnerable flower.
“Take me,” she’d told him in the woods. He’d taken her, and the sound of her crying out now rushed back at him, and his every muscle ached.
How could she marry his father when he’d already taken her? Did it not matter to her?
His jaw set. “You’ll do as I wish because you feel you owe me a debt of gratitude? I saved you, and now you are obedient?”
Her gaze snapped up. Sure and sharp. “Because I wish it so.”
The defiance in her voice lit something reckless in him. To hell with his father. To hell with Tristan. To hell with duty and obligations.
He crushed her to him, his mouth taking hers. Her fingers dug into his waist, her mouth opening beneath his without hesitation. Their tongues devoured, hungry and fierce. He swallowed her moans, a violent desire flaring inside him.
No.
He could not be impulsive, arrogant. Not again. Not with her.
Rowen loosened his grip on her body, and a sting seared through him. He had already failed her once. Twice. He would not fail her again.
She is my ward. My father’s bride.
Grunting and spluttering interrupted the whirl of sensation that had pulled them under its spell.
“My lord—” whispered Cassandra, her fingernails digging into his knee.
His father was awake, one eye glaring at them, teeth gnashed, spittle at his lips. The Duke’s head jerked with the effort to form a word, to speak.
Until, at last, he did.
“M-mine.”