Chapter Twenty-Nine
In Lieu of Riding
Siena, March 30, 2012, Dallas, TX · Neave, May 7, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
I was putting Austinto sleep in his nursery when Guinness growled a warning and made a sprint toward the front door with an earsplitting bark, drowning out the bell.
Fussy baby in arms, I followed him down the hallway and pressed my face to the peephole. A young guy waited outside: navy polo shirt with a logo, beige pants, white envelope in his hands. A private courier service van stood parked on the curb.
It had been ten weeks since Ryan got Jason’s attorney’s number. The world swayed upside down. My heart slugged a painful punch against my chest.
Austin wriggled in protest.
“I won’t open the door...” I breathed into his silky head. “And then it’ll be like it never happened—”
I lurched at the impatient ding of the doorbell.
Austin began to wail.
“Shh...” I rocked him with stiff, trembling arms, mind racing. “No.” I raised my head. “I’ll read it first to know what I’m up against, then flush it down the toilet.”
I threw the door open.
“Sorry.” The messenger winced as Austin broke into a screaming fit. “I’m looking for Siena Forte Casey.”
The envelope contained no return address and seemed too light to contain any legal paperwork. But I had a cranky baby to care for, so I dropped it on the console table and returned to the nursery.
Half an hour later, I stumbled back into the hallway and tore open the letter. It was written on expensive but unmarked stationery and included no greeting.
Cold all over, I stared at the first two lines.
You never bothered to learn who I am, Siena, but I made it my business to do just the opposite. So I know all about your FBI husband, your small son, and yes, I know about your affair with my husband.
Heart thudding, I slumped against the wall.
I know every word you breathed, every sound you made when you climbed into the bed I had custom-ordered for our bedroom. You see, Siena, I know all his secrets because I am his wife.
Did he tell you we are separated? Did he say we would be divorced were it not for his public image? Did he ply you with delectable meals and vintage wine? Do you consider yourself special because he rated you a ten?
There have been dozens like you, Siena. Naive girls fallen too easily for a handsome, powerful man. But I assure you, you are nothing to him. Nothing at all. A fleeting pastime. A piece of meat. A dupe. A slut. Like the rest of them.
And do you know what I find particularly amusing? I knew even before you started on your silly little drawings that you would end up another one of his short-lived liaisons, his mindless distractions. I knew it the moment I saw your pretty, young face. Yet while my husband might succumb to a weakness now and then, he always returns to me.
But what about your husband?
Best of luck with your marital affairs,
Mrs. Meredith R.
I staggered to the kitchen and found a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Then, I filled a shot glass to the rim and held my breath. My throat was on fire when I grabbed my phone and searched for Connor’s number. But he never gave it to me—all our official communication had been handled by his office. I tapped the number anyway, and a woman’s chirpy voice informed me the senator was not available, but I was welcome to leave a message.
I chewed on the inside of my lip—I had his driver’s number.
Surprisingly, Joe answered right away but apologized that he couldn’t give out Connor’s number. Like the office, he offered to take a message.
“I’ll text you instead,” I said.
Connor video-called thirty seconds after I texted Joe the picture of Meredith Reat’s letter. He was sitting in the back of his car, wearing a suit and tie and an unreadable expression. It took all my composure to rein in my face as my last few visions flashed before me in a nauseating flit. His eyes hadn’t changed at all—cunning, prideful, unscrupulous.
He shot me a tight smile. “How’s Dallas treating you?”
I held up the letter in reply.
“You look good on camera, Siena.” His smile widened a fraction. “How was it delivered and in what? Hold it a bit closer, would you?”
“Via a messenger—” I lifted the envelope without thinking.
He stifled a yawn. “You can’t blackmail me with this.”
“Can’t I?” I clenched the phone, struggling to slow my breathing.
“You’ll never prove it’s from my wife. She’s a lot of things, but she’s no dummy.”
I squirmed. Made myself stop. “I won’t have to.” The whiskey finally hit my bloodstream, warm and soothing. “That’s the media’s job.”
He studied me for a long moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know why or how we ended up on the wrong footing, Siena, but there needn’t be animosity between us. Think what you will—” He shrugged. “But I was genuinely attracted to you and...hurt you didn’t feel the same.”
He blinked, and something real flickered behind his smooth mask of a politician, beneath his painfully familiar facade.
“Did you know—” I brushed this away, straightening to suppress the quiver in my voice, “that your wife sent our so-called sex audio to my husband—cut off right before I left?”
“Do you have it?”
I shouldn’t have had whiskey because instead of giving him a ready yes, I hedged.
He took an indulgent sip from his designer water bottle. “Anything else?”
I clutched the letter, heartbeat surging into my ears. “I’ll shred this if you tell my husband we never slept together. That’s all I ask.”
“You’re very pretty.” He cocked his head, contemplating me with cold, calculating eyes. “And you’ve just given away all your bargaining chips.”
The letter slipped from my fingers. I jabbed my nails into my palm. “I will go to the media, Connor. I have nothing to lose.”
“Go ahead.” He leaned back into his leather cushion. “You think you’ll be the first? And I’d bet my senate seat your husband has destroyed the audio.”
I steeled myself. “If your wife could get this audio from you, what makes you think I haven’t gotten it from my husband?”
He gave a derisive chuckle. “You’re a terrible liar, Siena, and a worse strategist, but you’re a hot piece of ass.” He winked. “Call Joe when you’re in D.C. I’d love to finish what we’d started.” He ended the video call then.
There was a large, fluffy blanket beside me on the couch, and I wrapped myself in it, trembling with hoarse, hitching sobs. My gaze fell on Meredith Reat’s letter, crumpled on the floor.
Best of luck with your marital affairs.
Blackmail? A useless piece of trash. Trash—
I scrubbed a cold hand over my face. I was going to be sick.
The baby monitor flickered; Austin made a soft noise and yawned. I watched, unblinking, as he turned on his side. Then I pushed away my nausea and closed my eyes.
I didn’t pray often and wasn’t good at it, but if it had worked for Neave, maybe it would work for me, too.
“Lord,” I whispered, “I know I’m paying for the pain I inflicted on a good, innocent man, and I’m sorry I’ve squandered this new chance You so generously gave me—” The air thickened and shifted with the onset of a vision. “But if You care for me even a little bit,” I rushed to finish before it enveloped me, “don’t condemn me.”
***
It had been a sennightsince the Beltane fires, so I’d had time to think. Aedan’s true letter aside, our circumstances hadn’t changed. Not where it mattered. He was wed to another woman—one carrying his child, and I—to another man. And while coming away with him would doubtlessly impel my lawful husband to divorce me, where would that leave me? Along with bringing shame on myself and my father, the reward for such recklessness would be concubinage—possibly temporary, maybe permanent. Although I now credited Aedan’s intent to rid himself of his wife, how would he achieve that without starting a war? And what of their child and my place in such sordid matters?
I threw back the quilt and got up. If Aedan would indeed wait for me at the abandoned hunter’s hut today, he’d be waiting a long time. For while I may have blushed and trembled in the nearness of him, I wasn’t some lowborn wench, skulking about in hope of procuring a favor. And while he may have ruled my every night since the fires—as well as before, in truth—he’d not find me in the hut, ready and willing to wreck the little that remained of my life.
It was an hour before noontide when I checked my hair in the bronze mirror and adjusted my embroidered blue kirtle—the same one I wore to his first visit at Castle McConway, six years back. Outside, a rare bright day thrummed with the advent of summer, the world green and lush with the unstoppable force of life. A fine day for a ride. My heart pounded, thick and loud, but I drew in a long, calming breath. My ride wouldn’t cross the path to the abandoned hunter’s hut.
Stiff as a board, I made my way down the stairs—and stopped short of bumping into my husband.
He tipped his head to one side, studying me. “Where is it you’re rushing off to, wife?”
I clenched my jaw. “A ride, m’lord.”
He gave a faint chuckle. “Fooled me—dressed as you are in your splendid native garments. Is it the horse or the hill you mean to charm?”
“I’m dressed as befits my rank.” My palms, pressed to my skirts, had grown slick with sweat. “If I may pass now—”
He blocked my way. “I’ve not given leave.”
I stalled, pushing away an icy chill, drew a long, steadying breath. “I’m in need of fresh air, m’lord.”
His indolence gone, he grabbed my elbow with the swift charge of a pouncing lynx. “You ride when I say. You remain when I say.” His gaze was still as a frozen pond. “You will obey, wife.”
I jerked to wrench free, but he held on fast. “What would you have me do in lieu of riding”—my voice dripped with contempt I couldn’t suppress—“husband?”
His eyes flashed a new shade of green, dark and cold, but his voice was a mocking echo of mine. “How kind of you to finally grace this marriage with reverence and submission.” His grip on my arm tightened. “I’ll have you spend this day seeking favor with Ciara and Fiadh. I’ll not tolerate animosity amongst my women.”
An ill tremor seized my insides. “Me—seeking favor with them?” My blood hammered in my ears. “I’ll do no such thing!”
“You might surpass them in rank—” He flashed a thin smile. “But rank counts for naught in my bed.”
Hand at my elbow, he pulled me after him toward his spacious lord’s chamber. Inside, Ciara and Fiadh lounged in a state of undress on a large four-post bed. Both regarded me with identical expressions of mild disdain.
“Sit, wife.” My husband pointed to the bed. “Lady O’Donnell has at long last condescended to make your acquaintance, sweetlings. I rely upon you two to apprise her of my predilections, as well as of my antipathies—” He tipped Fiadh’s face with a forefinger and pecked her on the lips. “The chief ones of which are cunning and defiance.”
I lifted my chin. Would that he shriveled from the hot loathing in my eyes.
“Despite what you might think...” he pressed his lips to my forehead affecting not to notice my recoil, “...I do hope the four of us get on. The lasses are quite ingenious in the art of love, and you have much to learn, m’lady.”
My head swam, skin tingled as if pricked with thousands of pins. Aedan would be peering into the distance, pacing back and forth, raking his hair. Then, he would ride to Benburb, never to return.
O’Donnell fixed me with a long stare before departing. “I intend to put your learning to the test, wife.”
I stormed out soon as his footfall died down. Then, I stole along the corridor, quiet as a mouse. Mayhap I could slip out unnoticed.
From the great gall—a scrape of chair legs against the floor, a slosh of ale in a cup, a clatter of spoon on a plate. He’d settled to feast with his men.
I clutched my arms to my chest, cold all over. I’d ride nowhere today.
“Is it the O’Neal’s woman clouding your brow again, Tiernan?” said his brother, Macdara. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”
My husband gave a bitter chuckle. “She’s worth every ounce of it, brother. Had you not seen the blasted lout at the fires? We’ll need neither raids, nor the English, nor pox. And his berserk pillaging of the Pale—they say he’d spilled so much English blood, it soaked the ground and crimsoned the Liffey River. Mark me, the queen won’t abide such unbridled violence. Rykeworth had had it right—this woman will be the end of the More-Than-A-Man.”
The way he spat Aedan’s moniker, I thought he’d choke on it.
Macdara cleared his throat. “Are we to suffer her flagrant loathing of us while we wait for the whoreson to keel over? It’s time you taught your wife proper conduct.”
The way he said it, voice low and flat, I flinched as if struck. My stomach the size of a pea, I slumped against the wall in the silence that followed.
“Patience, Macdara.” O’Donnell scoffed. “My wife will soon be the embodiment of respect.”