That night, after Sebastian made love to Mary, he was restless, tossing and turning, and with a kiss on her brow he told her he would sleep in his room so as not to disturb her. She didn’t like seeing him leave. He’d been unusually quiet during dinner, and she suspected it had something to do with his worry over Rafe. While he hadn’t said anything, she knew he felt guilty about his brother getting hurt.
There had been an almost desperation to their lovemaking as though he were striving to escape something, just like that night in the garden when he had told her that he wanted to forget—and then delivered a blistering kiss that she would never forget.
She didn’t like the emptiness of the bed without him there. She considered joining him in his bedchamber, but it was obvious he wanted to be alone. So rather than do what she wanted, she did what she thought he needed: she remained where she was and drifted off to sleep.
Mary awoke to the arrival of hell. At least it sounded as though it had descended upon them. She could hear the thunder crashing around her. She scrambled out of bed and flew to the window. But gazing out, she could see no lightning streaking across the velvety black sky. But she did see light spilling out from the small window at the top of the northeast tower. The prisoners’ tower. She could see shadows wavering before the light. She almost thought she could feel the building trembling.
Rushing across her room, she grabbed her wrap from the foot of the bed as she passed it, drew it around her shoulders, and hurried through the door that took her directly into Sebastian’s bedchamber. A solitary lamp burned and revealed his empty disheveled bed. It looked as though he’d done battle there.
After grabbing the lamp, she scampered out of the room and down the stairs. As she raced past the clock in the entry hallway, it began to strike midnight. She’d never realized how haunting the sound was as it echoed through the hallways. With one hand, she clutched her wrap more tightly about her as though it could protect her from what she would find.
She was not frightened for herself, but for Sebastian. She could only pray that he had the strength to destroy the demons he faced. Holding the lamp as steady as possible, she skittered across the courtyard, ignoring the painful pricking of her feet. She had been a silly chit not to have slipped on her shoes, but then only one thought consumed her: doing whatever she could to ease his pain.
The heavy wooden door leading into the tower creaked and moaned. After all these years, it still managed to send a chill of dread through her, just as it had that long-ago night when she had clutched a key so tightly in her hand that she’d broken skin. Going up the narrow winding stairs, her hand on the wall, she could feel the vibrations that came after each thunderclap.
At the top, standing ajar, was the door into which she’d once inserted a key into a lock. She had set the lads free. Or that had been her intent, but she feared that Sebastian was still trapped within those walls. She edged cautiously toward the opening and peered inside.
It was as sparsely furnished now as it had been then. A small table. Two tiny stools. And there was her husband, sledgehammer in hand, wielding it with a powerful force, slamming it into the wall. He was shirtless, his skin glistening with the sweat of his labors.
His damp hair flapped against his neck and face with his efforts. She could only see the side of his face, but it was view enough to see that it was contorted with his rage. Everything within her urged her to retreat, to leave him to his madness.
But she could no more leave him within the prison of his rage than she could have left him confined within these walls all those years ago. He had been her childhood friend, and perhaps had she been nearer to being a woman, he would have been more then.
He was more now.
She hated the way the intervening years had changed them all. Had made him angry and bitter. He frightened her now. The girl she had been had not hesitated to risk everything in order to take what she knew was the right action. Now she wavered, and in doing so, she left him in torment.
Swallowing hard, shoving her own fears aside, knowing he could lash out at her, she took a step forward. “Sebastian?”
He brought the hammer back, then forward with enough force that stone flew again—only this time he broke through the wall. A small hole, but a hole nonetheless. Dragging in great draughts of air, he stared at his accomplishment, the hammer immobile at his side. He lifted it back up—
“Sebastian?”
He swung around. His skin glistened with the sweat of his labors. She could see tiny gashes where flying rock had struck him. But it was the torment in his face that terrified her. So much pain, as though a thousand daggers were being driven into his heart. A heart she desperately wanted to reach. But he held her at bay. The only time she felt a ray of hope that love could exist between them was when they were in bed together. There her imagination would take flight. She imagined so much: joy, laughter, smiles aplenty. She imagined greeting the day with gladness instead of loneliness.
“Return to your bed, Mary.”
“Let me help you.”
His laughter echoed around them. A bitter laughter that slammed into her as though he’d used the sledgehammer. “No one can help me.”
Turning away from her, he arced the hammer in a powerful swing and struck the edge of the opening he’d created. Two stones catapulted into the night. Another swing. Another brick. Again and again he swung. Little by little the opening grew larger. His efforts dampened the waist of his trousers, dampened his hair. His skin grew so slick that she wondered how he could still hold the massive tool.
Backing up, she sat on the tiny stool, felt it wobble beneath her weight. She set the lamp on the table. Tears stung her eyes. He was in agony, fighting demons, and she didn’t know how to help him. She only knew that she couldn’t leave. But there was danger in approaching him. He was like a madman and if he struck her with that hammer, she had no doubt that she would die. Here in this sparse and lonely tower where three boys had waited for death.
Over the years, she had tried not to think about what it must have been like for them. It was too painful to bear. How frightened they must have been. How alone they must have felt. How betrayed. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying out to him, from distracting him. What damage he might do to himself if he didn’t remain focused on his task.
The opening grew. His swings slowed, became less powerful. He stopped, dropped the hammer to the floor, bent his head back, and released a guttural howl that echoed around them and tore through her heart.
He fell to his knees.
She rushed over and dropped down beside him. His hands were curled in his lap, but she could see that his palms were ravaged and bloody. “Oh, Sebastian. My dear, dear Sebastian.”
She tore a strip of muslin from her nightdress and began to wrap it around one of his hands.
“It started here,” he said, breathing heavily. “I thought if I could tear it down, the nightmares might stop.”
She cradled his cheek. “It must have been so frightening to be here, to be waiting, to not know—”
“I damned well knew. I forbid Tristan and Rafe to eat the food that was brought. I thought it would be poisoned. Rafe whined about how hungry he was, how thirsty, how cold. He was so young, so . . . weak. I knew eventually Uncle would send someone for us. Whoever it was would be kind to us. Would pretend to be our friend. Then he would take us out into the woods and kill us. I knew that’s what would happen. I had a plan to attack him, but then you came.”
She combed her fingers through his damp curls. “You escaped.”
He shook his head. “I left Rafe at a workhouse. I can still hear him crying for me not to leave him. But that was why I had to. Because he wasn’t strong enough. Tristan said not a word to me as we traveled to the docks. He said not a word when I sold him. I sold him, Mary, as though he were a bauble that I no longer favored.”
She wanted him to stop. She didn’t want to hear all this.
“He didn’t say anything as I walked away, and in some ways that was so much harder than leaving Rafe crying for me to return.”
“You had no choice,” she assured him.
“Don’t you think I know that? Every night when I sleep, I hear Rafe’s cries and Tristan’s silence and I am condemned by both. I just want the nightmares to stop. I want peace. I thought once I reclaimed Pembrook that I would have it. But there is no peace to be had. Not as long as Uncle breathes. I should have killed him when we were in London, only it would have made me as rancid as he.”
She wrapped her arms around him, hugged him tightly, rocked him back and forth. “You could never be like your uncle. Tristan and Rafe understand why you had to do what you did. You just need to forgive yourself.”
He shook his head.
“I know it’s hard, but if you don’t, you’re going to become more bitter and angry until you are like him. Then he will have won.” She held his face between her hands, forced him to meet her gaze. “I won’t allow that to happen.”
With his knuckles he touched her cheek. She could smell the coppery scent of blood that coated his palms.
“You’ve always been so strong, Mary.”
“Not really. I just give a good imitation.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
He leaned in and kissed her. It was a tentative kiss, a soft kiss. It lacked heat or fire, because he knew as she did that this was not a place for them to come together. This was a place that destroyed lives, and even their coming together would not be powerful enough to tear it down. No, it required the sledgehammer he’d been using, and laborers. He couldn’t do the task alone.
“Take me to bed,” she whispered.
With that he rose to his feet, pulled her up, and escorted her away from his hell.
Sebastian sank into the copper tub filled with hot water. It burned where the stone had cut into him, soothed where it had not. His muscles already ached from his efforts. He suspected they would be stiff and sore in the morning. He couldn’t think of a time when he’d ever worked so hard, had put so much effort into any single task. Ah, but the reward . . .
When he knocked out enough stone so the moonlight could peer in, he’d never felt more victorious. He would tear down the tower. Every inch of it. The area would be converted into a courtyard where the moon and stars could always hold back the shadows. He would be freer then, but not completely. Not until he made his uncle’s life more miserable, not until he found some proof of Lord David’s crimes would he be content. He would find what he was looking for if it killed him.
He shouldn’t linger here but it felt marvelous to simply soak. His baths were usually quick, while Mary seemed to take forever. Perhaps she had the right of it.
In spite of the late hour, she had awakened two footmen and had them heat the water and haul it to his bedchamber. He couldn’t blame her for wanting the filth washed from him before he bedded her. He was covered in a thick layer of sweat and dust. He stank. That she had wrapped herself around him to kiss him astounded him.
She had the footmen place the screen from her room on one side of the tub. He never bothered with a screen, had thought modesty prompted her to use one, but she had insisted it would keep the fire’s warmth contained, would hold the chill from his body. He couldn’t deny that it created a cozy haven.
She had promised to come in to bathe him. He was growing weary of waiting. With his head resting back against the lip of the tub, he watched the shadows play across the ceiling and wondered what was keeping her. He despised that she’d seen the madness engulfing him, but he couldn’t deny that he’d been glad to discover her standing there like an avenging angel. He’d have hammered at that wall all night if not for her bringing some sense back to him. She was always there in his darkest hour.
When his quest for retribution was completed, he would make everything up to her. He would take her on a wedding journey. He would purchase her a book of poetry. He would pluck flowers from the garden. He groaned. He was not a man who enticed a woman with poetry and flowers. She knew that about him. No, he would continue to use his kisses to sway her.
He wanted to kiss her now, to join his body to hers. So where the deuce was she? Maybe she’d fallen asleep. If so, he’d awaken her. Gently, raining kisses all over her. He’d begin with her toes and nibble his way up. But first he had to wash.
He shoved himself up—
“Hold still.”
His wife’s order came from the other side of the screen. He rolled his eye upward, toward the ceiling, toward the frolicking shadows. Damnation. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to know you don’t sing when you bathe. Now don’t move. I’m almost finished, and then I shall keep my promise to wash you.”
“What are you doing?”
“It’s a secret.”
“I don’t like secrets.”
“Neither do I, but that doesn’t stop you from keeping them from me.”
“I don’t keep secrets from you.”
“How often do you awaken from nightmares?”
He gritted his teeth.
“Every night?” she asked quietly.
“Often enough. Tell me what you’re doing or I shall climb out and ravish you.”
“I want you to ravish me, but not just yet.”
“What are you doing?” he asked again, with a bit more force behind the words.
“As I hate needlework, I recently took up the hobby of silhouetting. I rather enjoy it and all I need is a shadow.”
He thought of how he’d watched her shadow movements and realized now that her insistence on his using the screen had nothing to do with keeping him warm. “You’re creating a silhouette of me?”
“Yes. I want to show you what I see when I look at you.”
“I know what you see.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“I insist that you stop.” He came up out of the water.
“I don’t ask for much, Sebastian. Allow me to have this.”
She didn’t ask for anything, damn her. At least nothing of consequence. He dropped back into the water with such force that some of it splashed over the side. He glared at the fire, because he needed to show something his displeasure.
“Face forward as you were doing before you knew I was here.”
With great reluctance, he did as she asked.
“Thank you.”
“It will be hideous, all disfigured. I don’t know why you would want it.”
“Will we never have a portrait done?”
He had considered that. For posterity, it was important that a portrait of the eighth duke and his duchess hang in the portrait gallery. “I shall have Tristan pose with you for the portrait.”
“But he is neither the duke nor my husband.”
“He is what I would have looked like.”
“How vain you are.”
“I’m not vain. I simply see no need to subject future generations to this visage.”
“I shan’t pose with him.”
“Then we shall have separate portraits done.”
“We shall see.”
Those words were a challenge if he ever heard one. But on this matter he would not relent. He sank further into the water and tried not to think of her staring at him, of her gaze traveling over his shadow. He had a strong urge to return to the tower and bang away.
He heard a whisper of movement, and she came around the screen. She held up her efforts: his profile in silhouette. It was all in black. There were no scars revealed. No ridges, no mountains or valleys where his flesh had been torn asunder and healed as best it could. No eye present, no eye missing. It gave the appearance that he was whole.
“This is what I see when I look at you,” she said quietly. “A noble bearing. Your father’s nose, I think. Your mother’s chin. Strong lines. I see handsome features. I know you suffered, but I see resilience. I see the man I married. The man I’m glad to call husband. Tear down the tower. Tear down the whole damned castle.” She knelt beside the tub and cupped his jaw, her fingers against his scars. “Just please stop hiding from me.” She trailed her fingers down to his chest, pressed her palm against the spot where his heart pounded. “Tonight, in the tower, I caught a glimpse of what you’ve secreted away.”
“You saw a madman.”
“I saw a man who loves his brothers dearly, who had to make difficult decisions for all their sakes, a man tormented with guilt. When you look at yourself in the mirror all you see are the scars. When I look at you, I see this.” She shook the paper. “I see a man I could very well come to love.”
God help him, he didn’t deserve her. He’d never deserve her. He thrust his hand into her hair, held her in place, leaned over, and planted a kiss on those lips that could say things that unmanned him. Where did she find her faith in him, when he had so little in himself? She accepted his faults, looked beneath the scars to the man he wanted to be. For her.
For tonight.
With her assistance, he quickly scrubbed away the remaining dirt and grime. He didn’t bother to dry off. Simply stepped out of the bath and lifted her into his arms. With his foot, he knocked over the screen so the warmth from the fire could travel farther into the room. He carried her to his bed and realized that he’d never taken her here. He’d kept her from this room, considered it his place of solace. But she belonged here. She belonged in every room.
Setting her feet on the floor, he whipped her nightdress over her head before tumbling her onto the sheets. They were clean he realized, smelled of fresh air and sunshine. While he’d bathed she must have had a servant change them. A lamp burned on the bedside table. He wanted to douse it. Instead he left its light glowing—for her. He preferred the shadows, but she was meant for sunshine.
He would give her this. No more drawn curtains, no more extinguished flames.
Her hands roamed over him, eliciting pleasure wherever they traveled. Even the cuts and scrapes didn’t bother him when she touched him. Nothing bothered him. Everything receded. The troubles, the guilt, the worries. Here, within his bed, she was all that mattered.
The lamps remained burning, the sashes remained tied. Without her asking for either. She felt as though something had changed, shifted inside him.
With his eagerness, Mary felt a renewed sense of hope that soon the past would be behind them. He was always enthusiastic in their lovemaking, but something was different tonight. She felt almost as though he were worshipping her. He left no place untouched, unkissed, unexplored.
She had so wanted him to understand that to her the scars were nothing. She had told him a hundred times—tonight she’d finally thought of a way to show him. She could not help but admire him.
She had spoken true: he had been forced to make difficult decisions. He’d only been a young lad then. There had been no right answers, yet each carried harsh consequences. He had done what he thought he needed to do. Now, she was doing the same.
Loving him, even knowing that he might never be able to love her. She would give him everything she could, give him a reason to let go of the past.
She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, taking her turn at kissing and touching and tormenting every inch of him. She was gentle when she came across the abrasions left by flying stone. She hated when anything hurt him, wished she had the power to protect him.
Rolling her over, he joined his body to hers with one sure thrust. He rose above her and she watched in wonder as he pumped his powerful body into hers. His face was set in concentration, in intensity. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers over his face.
With barely a loss of momentum, he took her wrists and locked them together in one hand above her head. He nuzzled her neck, nibbling the sensitive skin, causing her to writhe beneath him. She wound her legs around him as tightly as she could, felt him sink more deeply into her. Pleasure spiraled through her. He lifted himself up, and her enjoyment increased as she watched passion flow over his strong features. Silhouettes could capture the strength of his profile but not the beauty of the whole. She wished he could truly see himself as she saw him.