Chapter 54
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CASSANDRA
Rowen adjusted another log on the fire in the drawing room, and the flames crackled and sputtered as if they were grateful for being fed.
Cassandra cleaned Tristan’s cuts on his hands with a towel and water. His hand was so large, so bruised, so warm to the touch.
The three of them had remained silent on their return to the house. Each of them lost in their own thoughts. Each of them shaken.
As she dabbed at Tristan’s wounds, her gaze travelled up his body to his face.
He studied the fire, the orange golden glow lit his features, deepening the hollows in his cheeks, the darkness under his eyes, and his long, sooty lashes.
On his chest recent burn marks were a web of ruined flesh.
She swallowed hard. Could he be her son’s father?
“Rowen,” Tristan said. “I must see him. You know I must. Do not stop me.”
Rowen’s hand gripped the ornate marble mantelpiece. “I know you must, and I would not stop you.”
Tristan let out a long exhale, his dark gaze dropping to his sister, who sat on the floor at his feet. His fingers squeezed hers. She brushed his bruised knuckles with her lips and released his hand. “Go. And come back to us.”
Tristan stroked the side of her face gently and, standing up, took hold of his sword and fitted it at his side once again. Rowen opened the door of the sitting room and held Cassandra’s gaze. He led Tristan into the darkness of the great hall.
Cassandra went to the nursery and knocked on the door. “Nancy, ‘tis I.”
The bolt slid open, and Nancy opened the door. “Your Grace!”
Cassandra touched her arm. “The danger has passed.”
“Who was that man?”
“My brother. He has returned to us. How is my boy?”
Nancy smiled softly. “He sleeps.”
Cassandra went to the cradle, and her heartbeat steadied. Her son slept peacefully.
She returned to the sitting room and poured herself a brandy, and sat before the fire and waited.
“Darling?” Rowen’s voice woke her. She must have fallen asleep.
Both men’s faces were flushed. Mud stained their clothing. Tristan’s sword was clean, but his hands were not. “It is done,” he told her.
“Come by the fire,” she said, and they settled into the two armchairs as she poured them brandy.
She sat next to her brother. “You will stay with us, won’t you? You must rest.”
“I have one more thing to do before I rest.” He glanced at Rowen.
“That is being taken care of, Tristan,” said Rowen. “I have put it all in motion. Enggers shall pay for what he has done legally, politically, socially. You and your men will bear witness. It shall be over very soon.”
“And you shall return to Redthorne?” asked Cassandra. “It is yours, as it should be.”
“I cannot think of such things now, sister. To have a home after being a vagabond for so long…”
“You were a vagabond with purpose,” she said.
“I must ask your forgiveness. Forgiveness for believing in our uncles, for entrusting you to them. I knew all was not right with them, but I could not fathom that their depravity had no bounds.”
“I forgive you. You knew little of the world then, brother. You always believed in good.”
Tristan’s head fell back against the tall back of the cushioned chair. “My experience of this world has destroyed that belief completely.” His features softened. “Only once did I know genuine kindness.”
“Only once?”
“The first night we’d landed in the Channel Islands, I left my men and went out to scout the port, see what was being said, if there was news, to find food.
But it was too much for me. The crowds, the noise.
I lost consciousness, I wandered the streets in a daze.
A woman found me. An English gentlewoman.
A widow, she told me. She was slight, pretty, her voice ridiculously sweet and comforting. It was…bewitching.
“I could not trust her, of course, my instinct would not allow it. I trusted no one. My immediate impulse was to conceal, so I pretended I was French, and she believed it.”
Cassandra’s back slowly stiffened, her flesh prickled.
“She took me to the inn where she was staying, and she fed me, and then I did not feel well.
She refused to abandon me and insisted I come upstairs to her rooms. I did so.
She bathed me. Stroked my forehead until I fell asleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night, and there she was lying down in the bed next to me, fully dressed.
“I touched her cheek. I hadn’t touched a woman in a very long time. I’d forgotten that sort of softness existed in the world. I took her hand in mine and kissed her palm, and she awakened. I thought she might scream or strike me, but she only smiled. She smiled and touched my face ever so gently.
“I kissed her.” He swallowed hard. “We made love over and over. It was exquisitely beautiful. Exquisitely painful. It was freedom. I gave her everything I had left in me. Everything.” A ragged breath dragged from his lips.
“After she fell asleep, I left her. I had to. It was a fleeting moment, yet a precious sign that life could still be worth living. That there was still hope in this bloody world.” A mangled sob escaped his lips.
“I have not thought of it, or of her, since. There was no point in it. No point.” His voice shook, and he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You never saw her again?” asked Cassandra.
“No. I did not even ask her name and did not offer mine. But I did see a letter she had written lying on the desk in her room. I remember her name.”
“What was it?”
“Frederica.”
Rowen’s eyes hardened, his grip around his empty glass tightening.
Cassandra’s heart thundered in her chest. She had never imagined such daring, such courage in one so gentle. Yet Frederica had chosen boldly when it mattered most.
“Frederica,” Cassandra whispered as the flames in the hearth fizzed and snapped.