Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ROWEN
Hundreds of torches held by liveried servants lit up the pathway from the family crypt on the edge of Tidesfar back to the house, making for a glittering if not ghoulish procession. So many torches that the sky itself seemed lit up by them, the poor stars over Tidesfar drowned out by the light.
Finally, the commitment ceremony was finished. “I say, cousin,” Arthur came up alongside him, sighing. “Such elegance and pomp.”
“Is that praise or condemnation?”
“Come now. I expected nothing less from you. Well done.” He drank the brandy offered to him by the servant on the steps of the house. “Small gathering, I must say.”
“My father had a tight circle of friends. The rest sent their regards from town. It’s all show in the end, isn’t it?”
“Ever so practical, Rowen.”
A clap of thunder boomed in the distance, and the guests moved toward their carriages. Thank God. He certainly didn’t want a house party. He and Arthur bid the men farewell.
Rowen led his cousin back inside the house. Unfortunately, Arthur and his wife and sister would stay the night. “Enjoy your supper,” said Rowen. “I find myself quite exhausted. I shall retire. Good evening.”
Arthur put a hand on Rowen’s arm. “Hold on there. We need to discuss—”
Rowen’s eyes narrowed at the offending hand. “Discuss what?”
“The wedding, of course.”
“The wedding you and my father planned for me?”
“Why do you think I brought my sister all the way here?”
“So that she could wish her great uncle a happy birthday.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He told me hours before he fell ill.”
“We’d agreed on it weeks ago.”
“You and Father agreed. Not I.”
A smirk crept across Arthur’s lips. “Not happy?”
His brow furrowed. “Happy?”
Arthur clasped his hands together. “Now that we’re here, we’ll set the arrangements. Once your mourning period is over, we shall have the wedding.”
“We shall do nothing of the kind.” Rowen charged up the stairs.
“What the devil do you mean?” Arthur followed him. “Rowen!”
Arthur’s sister, Louise, and his wife, Lady Marjorie, stood in the hallway, both of them holding tapers, the door of the nursery open.
“What are you doing?” Rowen demanded, his voice sharp.
“Louise and I thought to take a tour of the house.” Lady Marjorie’s small smile deepened. “The nursery is quite handsomely appointed, Your Grace, but it shall, of course, require improvements, and with all speed.”
Louise’s blush deepened, and she glanced away.
“All in due time, darling,” replied her husband.
Lady Marjorie continued, “At long last, this great house will be properly occupied.”
Rowen ignored her as his gaze swept the dark room. No sign of Cassandra. His pulse tightened. He had told her to remain in the nursery for the night.
Unless she had slipped into the secret passage.
The thought tore through him–Cassandra taking flight, beyond his reach. He had to find her.
“May is the loveliest time for a wedding, and the grounds here at Tidesfar are so very beautiful,” said Marjorie. “Ah, I must have a word with the gardener whilst we’re here…”
Slamming the nursery door closed, Rowen spun on his heel and faced his cousins. They each stared at him with a mixture of dread and trepidation. “You shall not speak with my gardener, and you shall only be staying here the night. Tomorrow you all leave.”
Marjorie gasped, and Louise only bit her lip. Arthur scowled. “I say, Rowen, how dare you speak to my wife thus?”
“How dare you insist I do your bidding?” Rowen raced down the stairs. “Morgan, a horse—”
He darted outside, Morgan in front of him. Morgan shouted out for the groomsman, who was just past the house, bringing horses back to the stable. The man hurried back with a horse. Rowen got on and galloped off toward Hawk’s Crown.
She had to be there.
She had to be safe.
The torches were still lit at the end of the drive, and as he galloped past, he grabbed one. He rode on down the green, across the small bridge over the stream, and up the hill to the temple that overlooked the estate.
He jammed the torch into a holder on a Roman column as his horse whinnied and stamped its hooves on the old stone.
Dismounting, Rowen secured the horse’s reins to a column, and his hand slid down the animal’s neck.
He was wet. Rowen hadn’t noticed that it was raining.
Behind him, hurried footsteps slapped on wet stone.
“Cassandra!”
He charged in the direction of the shadow, but the figure stole away through the columns. Lightning flashed overhead, and he saw her. Two dark eyes, a pale face, matted hair.
“Thank God, there you are.” He reached out for her, but she shrank back. “Did they see you?”
She only shook her head. “Why did you come?”
“To make sure you were safe. To know that you were still here at Tidesfar.”
Cassandra leaned back against a stone pillar, her hands digging into her skirts. “And what will you do with me here at Tidesfar, when you are married to Lady Louise? Keep me in the tunnels like a mouse?”
She’d overheard the ladies, and he and Arthur arguing. “You are no mouse. You—” He went to grab her, but she flung herself in the opposite direction, putting more distance between them.
“Compared to a fine lady such as Lady Louise, I am…I am unfit. I do not belong here.”
“Never say that again. To me, you are a bolt of lightning, a wildcat in the woods. A nymph—”
“I wouldn’t know how to dance at a ball, how to dress properly.
I’m only fit for shadowy rooms, and yes, the woods.
” Swallowing hard, Cassandra pushed back the wet hair from her face.
She took in a breath and her gaze lowered, lowered like a wretched servant girl’s.
“I beg you for mercy, Your Grace. If you could perhaps give me some of my inheritance so that I may leave.”
“Leave? Leave and go where?”
“Away. To a school perhaps so that I may—”
“Never.”
Her brows knit together, her hard gaze meeting his. “Why?”
“You have me.”
“You are to be married, and there is no place for me. And I, Your Grace, shall be no one’s mouse ever again.”
“On that we agree. Know this, I have never wanted to marry her. She is my cousin, and in marrying her, I would forever have my family like a noose around my neck, which is her brother’s ambition. My father intended this marriage as a means to appease and control my cousin.”
She let out a rueful laugh, her head knocking back against a column. “Ah, family…”
“Your uncles asked after you tonight. They were quite concerned.”
An eyebrow raised. “For my safety? My reputation? Or their valuable property?”
“My solicitor and I informed them that they had to quit Redthorne immediately, and they could never contact you again. That you are under my protection. They asked for money, for mercy, and I offered none. They deserve nothing less and so much more.”
She stilled, her eyes searching his. The rain grew thicker, faster, the heavy drops pounding on the stone around them.
Suddenly, she turned away from him and heaved for air, and something in his chest twisted.
He moved closer to her and softened his voice.
“You are not alone, Cassandra. I will always protect you. And, if you wish it, I will burn Redthorne down to the ground to erase your shadows and build you something infinitely better.” He reached out his hand to her and held his breath.
Waiting.
Waiting.
She took his hand, her grip firm. It was as if one of those bolts of lightning had struck his limb.
Shocking, illuminating. And exhilarating.
All of it right. His hand tightened over hers.
“Cassandra.” His lips brushed over her cold, wet skin, and an aching sound unfurled from her throat.
Was she relieved or afraid of him and daunted by the prospect of a new life in his orbit?
His horse snorted loudly and neighed. Rowen turned as another horse approached. Its rider pulled sharply on the reins, the eyes of his animal bulging. Rowen pushed Cassandra behind him.
Arthur.
“What the devil is going on here?” Arthur bellowed, his voice echoing in the temple. The wet stone glimmered in the light of the flaming torch. “Rowen?” Arthur’s face was tight, his brow rigid. “Who is this female?”
Who is she, indeed?
His ward.
His friend.
His bite of bright in the murky shadows he’d been mired in since the very beginning of time.
His bloody saviour.
Hope, damn me.
Rowen stepped forward into the light of the torch, which wavered in the wind and rain. “Lady Cassandra of Redthorne. She is to be my wife.”