TWENTY-FIVE
Cecily wrenched dresses from her wardrobe, tossing them onto the bed of her small room. Her hands shook so badly, the fabric slipped through her fingers.
She braced her hands against the footboard of the bed.
What was she to do?! Drempton had found her.
Yes, he had no legal claim on her, but that wouldn’t stop him from snatching her off the street.
Or, even easier, he would simply destroy her reputation and leave her no option but to return to him.
Just the thought of being forced to endure his voice, his words, his touch . . .
Bile rose in her throat.
She had to run. She needed to disappear. Immediately.
If only tears would stop blurring her vision.
How could she have been so stupid? So reckless? Uncle had warned her about Drempton’s intent. Rawkin had alerted her to that man in the village.
A part of her recognized that she was panicking. But logic struggled to find a foothold. The situation felt like those first few months, years ago, when she had initially left George—jumping at shadows and fighting for every rational thought.
Matthias . . .
The thought of him broke through. She collapsed to sitting on the mattress, face in her hands, shoulders shaking on gusty sobs.
Kind, gentle Matthias.
Yes, she had betrothed herself to him, but surely Drempton would find a way to destroy Matthias’s reputation, too. The baron’s angry words had carried up the stairwell.
You are the stain of the devil on your family!
Matthias didn’t deserve such vitriol. She loathed that her past had literally arrived on his front door and metaphorically bitten him. How much worse would Drempton become once she and Matthias wed? The hate and malice would never stop.
A hiccupping gasp escaped her, lungs so tight she could scarcely draw breath.
She had to leave.
Now.
She tried and failed to open her trunk—fingers trembling so violently she couldn’t work the lock. On a choking sob, she slid from the bed to the rug.
Would this terror never end? When would she finally be free?
A tentative hand touched her hair. She recoiled.
“Hush, lass,” Matthias’s voice was soft. “It’s only me.”
Crouching down, he sat beside her on the rug and pushed a handkerchief into her fingers. He didn’t attempt to pull her into his arms or dismiss her terror with a surfeit of words. He merely remained close, the heat of his body a steady warmth at her side.
For a brief space, she let herself sag into him—handkerchief pressed to her face, head on his shoulder. This good, noble man who wanted to marry her. Who would take her away from Drempton and the terror he invoked.
He shifted and wrapped his arm around her back, tucking her to his chest. She welcomed his embrace—the familiar scent of sandalwood and leather, the steady thump of his heartbeat under her ear. Her body trembled, breaths coming in great heaving gusts.
“All will be well,” he murmured. “I will ensure it.”
His tone was the one he used on agitated horses. Cecily hated feeling like a wayward animal to be managed.
“I’ll send a message to the sheriff today,” he continued, his fingers gently trailing up and down her spine.
On a stuttering breath, she pushed off his chest. “Sh-sheriff?” she hiccupped.
“Yes.” He cupped her jaw, thumbing away her tears.
“The sooner we marry, the better. The sheriff can witness our handfasting and record it as an irregular marriage. It will be legally binding until the banns can be called. In a month, we will have a kirk marriage, the proper sort that even England recognizes.”
His simple statement froze the air in her lungs. He was so sure of her. So sure of them.
“I don’t—” Deep breath. “—I don’t like you falling on a sword for my sake, Matthias.”
He flinched. “Pardon?”
“I cannot hold you to your promise of marriage. Not now. Not when you understand precisely how awful Drempton is. I want to meet you as an equal, Matthias. Not as a problem to be solved or a past to be tolerated.”
“Cecily, I’m not concerned about Drempton. He can go rot for all I care. I don’t care about your past. I’m focused on our future.”
“You will care when my past destroys our future!” She scrambled to her feet. “You will care when Drempton hounds us. You will care when he slanders your good name and makes our lives a living hell! Do not underestimate him.”
Matthias stood. “Love, you are endowing that man with power he simply does not possess. I am not helpless.”
He was using that placating tone again.
Cecily didn’t wish to be calmed. Her emotions crashed in punishing, chaotic waves that demanded an outlet.
“And what of your ducal brother? I cannot imagine he is supportive of our union.”
Matthias shrugged, his eyes growing solemn. “Gray rarely approves of anything I do. His disapproval of our marriage was a given from the start. It will not deter me.”
“Stop!” Cecily pressed her fingertips to her eyes until she saw stars. “Please, stop!”
“In what way should I stop, my love?”
My love. Said in that same mollifying tone . . . as if she were a broken thing to be soothed and coaxed out of her fears. As if he merely needed to find the right sound to fix all that ailed her.
“I’m not a horse to be mended!” she snapped. “I am more than the sum total of my brokenness, Matthias.”
All that lovely openness in his eyes instantly shuttered. A muscle in his jaw tensed.
He was wise to be wary.
“Of course, you are more than your imperfections.” He lifted his stump. “We all are. I’m not—” He broke off on a huff. “I’m not asking for a true marriage, Cecily. I understand . . . or rather, I accept that you may never be ready for . . . all that a marriage entails.”
His gaze pleaded with her to understand.
And she did.
He thought her skittish because of a wife’s duties to the marital bed. Gracious. She had scarcely considered it, but of course that would—
“Please, Cecily. Marry me.” He stretched out his hand. “Let me give you the protection of my name.”
How she wanted to take his hand. To sink into him and let the rich timbre of his voice soothe her terror.
Yet—and here she was honest with herself—she was so bloody tired of living at Fate’s whim.
Her choices were never quite her own. She had to marry, and so she chose George.
He proved violent, and so she had fled. She met Matthias, and yes, she loved him, but now their impending marriage was something hastily adopted for reasons of safety.
“I hate that Drempton has brought us to this point.” She licked her lips. “I hate that, yet again, a man’s rash behavior is forcing my hand and guiding my life!”
Matthias froze at her words, as if, like a wayward pin, they had abruptly stabbed him. His hand dropped.
And still she couldn’t stop her tongue. The dam had burst, and detritus spewed through the breach.
“Why must my life be lived in reaction instead of action? Why must I reshape my future and dreams to fit whatever a man in my life decrees it must be?”
“I see.” Matthias took a step backward, shoulders dropping. “You . . .”
He surveyed her room, gaze snagging on the dried bundle of lavender on the mantle, the landscape watercolor of her grandparents’ house, her dresses tumbled atop the counterpane.
“Of course.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Marriage to myself is preferable to a life running from Drempton, but . . .” A pause. “. . . it doesn’t therefore follow that you would choose me over any other option. I am merely the best choice given your current circumstances.”
No!
In her unmoored state, she knew he had mistaken her meaning. Yet, at the moment, she felt too terrified and fractured to—
“That’s not . . .” She began and then sank to sit on her bed, hands covering her face. “I’m so tired, Matthias. I’m tired of fighting for simple liberties.” Lifting her head, she tried to convey the depth of her exhaustion. “I want to be free.”
“Free,” he repeated softly.
“I want to choose the life I want to l-live.” Her voice broke.
“I want to look back and know, without doubt, that I would have chosen the path I am on. It’s an impossible dream.
I know this.” She tapped an emphatic finger to her chest. “But more than anything, today has shown me that I yearn for that freedom.”
Matthias left Cecily in her room, requesting a maid tend to her. Or at the very least, to let him know if she bolted. Leaving the safety of Avoch in a panicked rush could easily land her in Drempton’s grasp. Cecily was under Matt’s care, and he would ensure her safety.
Her words had cut him. Not intentionally, of course. He recognized that she was frightened and trapped and so lashed out. But weren’t those the precise circumstances that jarred difficult truths loose?
His beloved Cecily wanted the freedom to choose her destiny. And Matt, difficult though it was, understood the justness of her request. She did deserve choice, even if that choice ultimately took her away from him.
The thought lashed like a cat-o’-nine-tails—stinging, biting deep.
Matt found Gray sitting before the fire in the great hall, sipping tea and helping himself to Cook’s shortbread and warm scones. His brother had divested himself of his waistcoat and now sat comfortably in shirtsleeves and breeches with a loose silk banyan over the whole.
Gray raised an eyebrow as Matt sank into the chair across from him.
“I’ve seen men look less battered after three hours in the boxing ring. Trouble in paradise with your lady love?” Gray’s voice emerged with his usual sardonic flourish. “I will not give this union my blessing.”
“Thank goodness, then, that I am not asking for your blessing,” Matt gritted out, reaching for a scone.
Gray’s boxing analogy was apt. Matt felt like he had taken a blow to the head—ears ringing and senses smarting.
Cecily would marry him, he knew that.