Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

C
leo woke sprawled in the middle of an empty bed. Her cheeks warmed and she couldn’t help wondering if she’d been in this position all night, naked and tangled up with Logan.

He was missing now, but the bed beside her still radiated his warmth. He couldn’t have been gone long. She rolled onto her back. A slow smile curved her mouth as she relived the night. Pleasurable heat suffused her. There was no regret. Only an anxious eagerness to do it again.

The pale light of dawn crept through the crack in the heavy tapestry drapes. In the back of her mind, she mused that those needed updating. Perhaps a lighter color and in damask.

Eager to see Logan again, she hopped from the bed and made short work of dressing herself. Accustomed to doing such things for herself—and her many siblings—she arranged her hair in a loose chignon. Satisfied that she was presentable enough to emerge and face the world, she stepped from the room into the chilly corridor with a buoyancy of spirit she hadn’t felt in years. Perhaps ever.

Striding down the corridor, she passed a servant who looked decidedly nervous when she caught sight of Cleo. The woman’s gaze skittered from Cleo down to her feet. Cleo hoped she didn’t look that intimidating. Certainly in time the household staff would warm to her.

Still focused on her feet, the maid practically raced the last few steps to get past Cleo. Frowning at her odd behavior, Cleo continued down the hall.

The sound of low voices reached her ears just as she rounded the corner. Everything slowed then.

As if she were moving underwater, she stilled, her feet sliding to a stop on the worn-thin runner. Her gaze fastened on her husband standing practically nose-to-nose with the maid, Mary. Each of his large hands gripped her shoulders.

The girl was weeping. Again. With Logan’s hands on her, the sight did nothing to stir Cleo’s pity. Tears were often used in order to manipulate. If that was Mary’s game, it was working. Logan’s face was sympathetic, perhaps even apologetic as he murmured words to her. Words of comfort? Regret? She couldn’t hear. Perhaps he was making promises to her? Promises that their relationship wouldn’t change simply because he’d married.

An ugly feeling swept over her. Anger but something else, something more. A myriad of emotions too deep and complicated to sort.

Mary stroked Logan’s cheek as if she had every right to touch another woman’s husband. And Logan allowed it. Allowed her fingers to caress his face so tenderly.

Cold rage washed over her. Humiliation so deep and aching she wanted to lash out. At him. At her. He was what she had been running from, after all—the very man she’d wanted to protect herself from. Someone who took what he wanted and then stomped all over her as she were dirt to be trod upon.

He was the type of pain she’d wished to avoid. And still he had found her. The moment she trusted him. The moment she gave herself to him, it had happened. He crushed her.

She pressed the back of her hand to her feverish cheek and inhaled. She’d never be so foolish again. He could have whatever village girl he wanted. He could have every single one of them for all she cared.

But he’d never have her again.

As if to solidify this decision, Cleo held her ground, forcing herself to watch as Mary stood on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.

Despite her vow not to care, she gasped—too loudly to remain undetected.

Logan jerked and pushed Mary’s lush figure away. He whirled around, his gaze zeroing in on Cleo, his gray eyes alert as a hawk, intent and alive in that way that always curled her toes and melted her resolve. Now it only left a sour taste in her mouth.

Mary brightened, her tears vanishing as she settled her hands on her curvaceous hips and swayed where she stood, her eyes flashing with triumph as she assessed Cleo.

Logan took a step in her direction, reaching for her. “Cleo—”

She shook her head and stepped back swiftly. “No.”

It was just a word but she put everything into it, conveyed all her anger, all her hurt and disappointment with the single utterance.

His eyes flickered with something, an emotion she couldn’t identify, and she knew he understood. Whatever they’d had, however close they’d come to something special . . . it was lost.

Turning, she raced back to her bedchamber. He was there, after her before she could consider a better place to flee. Not that any part of this castle belonged to her. Not that she could escape him or his world.

He caught the door before she could slam it shut. She hurried to the center of the room, hoping to put distance between them. Whirling around, she faced him, feeling as wild and desperate as a cornered animal.

He held up two hands in the air as though to placate her. “It isn’t what it looks like—”

“Said the husband to the wife,” she mocked bitterly.

“Cleo—”

“No.” She swiped a hand through the air. “And you claimed you didn’t want everyone to think our union was contentious?” She laughed harshly, dizzy from her furious thoughts. “What an idiot I am! You can’t even wait a day before you begin your dalliances. And after last night?” She squared her shoulders. “I want my own room. Either this one or another. I care not. I refuse to share a bed with you again.”

His face tightened with frustration . . . and something else she’d never seen before. Something that made her feel a stab of discomfort. As though something were slipping away here, dying for good.

“Cleo, it doesn’t have to be—”

“What? As long as I turn a blind eye to your dalliances we can continue our farce of a marriage? I can continue repeating last night with no shame or regret?” She motioned to the bed, her face heating as she recalled everything she’d done last night. The memory mortified her.

“It wasn’t like that . . . Mary is an old friend—”

“Stop!” She held up both hands and squeezed her eyes in a tight blink. “Please spare me the details. I don’t want to hear about your sordid history.”

He grabbed her hands and pulled them down, stepping close, encroaching on her space. “I suppose I should feel flattered you’re so jealous.”

“Jealous?” She winced at the shrill quality to her voice. Swallowing, she tried again, her tone much more even and controlled as she said, “Hardly that, I can assure you!”

He angled his head and stared down at her, his expression stark. “Don’t let this destroy us before we’ve even had a chance.”

“We never had a chance. I see that now.”

His face hardened, his eyes darkening so much that they didn’t even look gray any more but black instead. “That’s what you think?”

She nodded, a painful lump rising in her throat.

Turning, he marched for the door. “Perhaps you’re right then.”

She flinched as he yanked open the door. She pressed her lips into a thin line, almost as though she didn’t trust herself not to call him back. What a terrible contrary creature she was . . . her body in constant battle with her head.

His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “If we never had a chance, it’s because you decided that from the start.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but managed only a small squeak when he slammed the door shut again and charged toward her.

She backed up several steps until she collided with one of the bedposts.

“You’re a prisoner of your fears. I’m not your father. I’m not your stepfather.” His hands came up to seize her arms. “And you’re not your mother.”

His words flayed her. Tears burned her eyes. Her voice shook unconvincingly. “You don’t know . . .”

“I’ve got a better grasp on what’s real than you do.” His eyes sparked like shards of ice. “And I know this.” Before she could react, he forced a punishing kiss on her, trapping her hands between them. She balled her hands into fists, desperate to strike him, but could not free them.

He came up for air, growling against her mouth, “You know that I didn’t betray you out in that corridor . . . not hours after I spent loving you in this bed. You’re looking for a reason to run, and I won’t let you.”

“I know no such thing.”

“Stubborn,” he rasped and then kissed her again. This time less punishing, but no less consuming.

Heat blossomed where their mouths fused. She didn’t know the moment everything changed but it did. Her hands loosened, palms turning outward to splay against his chest. Her mouth softened and opened to him. She kissed him back, her anger releasing itself in this. In passion.

Now she knew what to do. She’d had a taste, a sample, and she couldn’t resist what her body craved, needed like air.

He picked her up off her feet and dropped her down on the bed. They came at each other hastily. His hands dove beneath her skirts as he settled between her thighs. She reached for the front of his trousers, fumbling to free him.

Their lips never severed. They kissed hotly, tongues mating. She gasped into his mouth as the hard length of him sprang into her hand, silk on steel, thick and pulsing hard. She wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed. A shudder racked his body.

And then he was there, shoving inside her with one smooth thrust. Her body took him, eager and ready. He moved fast and hard, every stroke slick with their desire.

His fingers dug into her hips, gripping her for his sensual assault. She cried out, whimpering as he increased his pace. He lifted her higher off the bed, and the position did something to her—each plunging thrust ignited her, struck some unidentifiable spot in her clenching core. Sensation ripped through her, sparking each nerve ending.

She arched her spine, anxious to accommodate. The delicious friction grew, became unbearable. She fisted the bed at her sides, a boneless, quivering mass as he worked over her. It was close . . . that place where she’d exploded into a million tiny particles before. She kissed him harder, bit down on his lips.

He moaned and slammed into her, flinging them both over the edge. Cleo shouted, bursting from the inside out. Shivers rippled over her. He came over her, his weight covering her even as he remained lodged inside her.

For a long moment, she reveled in it. The delicious weight of him. His pulsing member inside her. And then horror arrived in full force.

She beat him on the shoulder. “You didn’t stop!”

He’d stayed inside her the entire time. Even now she could feel the wetness of his seed between her thighs.

He pulled back to look down at her, his expression slightly dazed. She hit his shoulder again. “Was this your ploy to chain me to you? Get me with child so that you can trap me forever?” she cried.

Comprehension washed over his face. “I didn’t intend—”

“Get off me,” she choked, having no desire to hear his lies.

He rolled off her.

She scooted to the edge of the bed, her shaking hands tidying her garments. “It won’t work. I’m leaving.”

“You’re my wife—”

“I don’t require the reminder.” She faced him, shaking from what just happened—from the possibility that she could now be with child. “I never wanted this.”

He stared at her, his eyes hard pewter again, all the softness gone.

“I’ll return home with my father. I’ll simply explain that I can’t live here. The marriage will still stand, as does the settlement. You’ll get your money. And I’ll keep a portion, as promised . . . for my family,” she reminded.

His expression twisted bitterly. “And if there’s a child?”

Her chest tightened at the notion. “I’ll inform you.”

He nodded. “How very civil.” He pushed off from the bed, his motions jerky as he straightened his clothing. “Have a good life, Cleo,” he declared, striding away from the bed, from her, with a suddenness that left her blinking after him.

“Oh. One more thing.” He faced her. “Whether you want to hear it or not, I’m going to explain. Mary and I grew up here together. Nothing ever happened.” He shrugged. “She looked up to me, may have fancied herself in love with me.” His gaze fastened on her. “I never bedded her . . . there was only ever one kiss. Five years ago. At Christmas, under the mistletoe.”

A breath shuddered painfully from her lips. This time when he opened the door he didn’t look back. He left. He was gone.

And she was all alone.

Precisely what she had asked for—what she wanted from him. Dropping facedown on the bed, she lost herself to ugly, wet sobs that were quite beyond her understanding.
Have a good life
. At this moment, feeling as she did, her heart a twisting, painful mass in her too-tight chest, she didn’t see how that was possible.

Chapter Twenty-eight

L
ogan stormed from the room, his steps hard and jarring. Part of him still wanted to turn around, go back and shake Cleo . . . or kiss her. But that only worked for the duration. He might be able to seduce her, but the moment it was over, she’d still be the same distrustful female—a hard shell he couldn’t penetrate.

He passed the spot where he’d stood with Mary and resisted the urge to slam his fist into the wall. They’d been children together. He had no idea she still harbored a yen for him after all these years. Even if he hadn’t married Cleo, there would be no future for them. He’d been explaining that to Mary when Cleo stumbled upon them.
Hellfire
.

What he felt for Cleo . . . damn, he didn’t know what he felt. He only knew it was real. Frightening and exhilarating and like nothing he’d ever felt for another woman. He didn’t want to lose that.

Now what was he going to do? He was married to a woman fully imprisoned by her own demons. He had no doubt she was packing her bag this very moment.

“Logan!” Simon strode down the corridor toward him. “Wasn’t sure if you were going to sleep the day away. I thought we were going to work on the north wing with the men, but if you’d like to idle the day away with your bride—”

“No chance of that,” he grumbled beneath his breath.

“What? Trouble in paradise already?”

At Logan’s look, some of Simon’s levity slipped away. “Sorry. I know you’re fond of her.”

“How do you know that?” he bit out.

His brother blinked. “Aside of the fact that you married her, any fool can see you’re enamored with one look.”

“I had to marry someone,” he replied, even as he knew Cleo was the only female he had ever
wanted
to wed.

Simon lifted an eyebrow. “Right. I’m supposed to believe she’s of no account to you.”

Logan strode past his brother, in no mood to discuss his feelings for Cleo with him. “Believe whatever you like.”

“Och.” Simon followed in his steps doggedly. “You’re behaving like a lion with the proverbial thorn in his paw.”

He stopped and whirled around. “She’s leaving, Simon.”

His brother stared at him for a moment before asking haltingly, “What do you mean?”

Turning, he continued down the corridor. “She will be returning to Town with her family.”

“Why?”

Why.
The word reverberated through him. He swung around. “Because she doesn’t love me, Simon. I couldn’t make her love me.”

Logan turned swiftly back around, unable to stomach Simon’s astonished expression. His brother was young, but he still recalled their parents’ loving marriage. He likely thought every union should be like that. A few moments passed and his brother’s footsteps sounded behind him.

“Logan, wait! Where are you going?”

“We’ve work to do,” he called over his shoulder. “This castle won’t repair itself.”

“A
re you certain you know what you’re doing, Cleo?”

Cleo walked briskly down the corridor, Marguerite doggedly following in her wake. She worked her gloves onto each finger with an air of efficiency even though inside she felt a wreck. “I’m quite certain of my actions.”

Marguerite grasped her shoulder and pulled her around to face her. “Are you really? Because once done, some things are difficult to undo.” She angled her head and stared at her intently. “I just don’t want you to regret this later.”

Cleo moistened her lips, hating that her sister’s words held such power over her. She already felt nauseated and heartsick. She had ever since Logan left her this morning. She didn’t need Marguerite making her feel any worse. “I already feel regret. What’s a little more down the road?”

Cleo slid free of her sister’s hold and continued down the corridor until she reached the main foyer. The sound of hammers and men at work grew louder once she stepped outside. The tarp had been removed and several men worked on the west side of the castle. A scaffolding had been erected, along with several ladders. Even across the distance of the front yard, she could make out Logan’s shape. He worked alongside other men, without a jacket. Wearing a simple wool shirt and trousers, he looked like any other laborer. Except for his aura of command. His noble bearing. And the way he turned to stare in her direction—with all the alertness of a beast of the woods. It was like he scented her from afar. There was no doubt in her mind that he was staring at her. Another man spoke to him, but he didn’t turn to acknowledge him.

She started to hold up a hand to wave goodbye, but that felt so inadequate. How did one say farewell to the husband you were leaving forever?
Forever.
The notion rang like a death knell in her heart. Her eyes burned and she blinked rapidly.

“Cleo?” Jack was at her side, his hand taking her elbow. She sent him a sharp glance. He wore one of his ridiculous jackets. A bright shade of purple that seemed to belie his serious countenance. “Are you certain you want to leave?”

“Yes.” Why must everyone ask her that?

Was she certain she must go?
Yes
.

Was she certain she should never see her husband again?
Yes
.

Was she certain she loved him?

Turning, she hurried into the waiting carriage, lest she answer that question in her mind. She nodded a tight greeting for Annalise, who stared at her with sympathy. Cleo looked away, refusing to hazard a guess at what she might be thinking—this girl who believed in fairy tales and happy endings.

Her father joined them inside the carriage. He gave a brisk knock on the ceiling and in moments they were moving. Anxiety rode high in her chest, rising into her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

Jack watched her anxiously as if she might swoon. She pasted a smile on her face that felt as brittle as glass—and told herself she simply had to hold on. Get past this. Put distance between herself and Logan. Soon, she’d be far from here and she’d forget. Common sense would prevail and she’d stop loving him.

F
rom atop the scaffolding high along the wall, Logan watched the two carriages wind their way through the village, his heart clenching at the sight. Cleo was in the first carriage. She’d been standing too far away for him to read her precise expression before she climbed inside. Had she wanted him to say something? To cry out and beg her to stop?

“She’s gone,” Simon announced needlessly from the scaffolding beside him.

Logan nodded.

Simon followed his gaze, his youthful face reflecting all of his bewilderment. “I don’t understand. You like her . . . and I don’t care what you say. I know she cares for you, too.”

Logan continued to look out at the horizon. The carriages were small, no bigger than his thumb in the distance. Soon they would round the turn and be out of sight. Gone for good.

Simon made a grunt of disgust. In his world, husbands and wives stayed together. The only time his father had left was to fight in the Crimea. Wives never left. “Is she ever coming back?”

Logan watched as the first carriage, the one Cleo occupied, took that final turn. She was gone.

“No.”

He turned his attention back to the task at hand, stepping off the scaffolding and onto a jutting ledge. “She’s not. You coming?” He looked back at his brother.

Simon glanced around the scaffolding. “I forgot my pickax.” Shrugging at his forgetfulness, he crouched down and descended the ladder to retrieve the tool he would need for the day’s work.

Logan advanced along what was once a thick stone-fortified wall but was now only a crumbling outer shell, offering no protection to the interior room whatsoever. The entire thing needed to come down. Even if it meant removing each and every stone by hand.

Gripping his own ax, he strode inside the cavernous room. Now empty of furniture, it had once been a bedchamber. Flexing his fingers around the ax’s handle, he joined the other two laborers already at work, attacking the outer wall and sending stone raining down into the yard.

He worked with a fury, taking solace in the labor. By the end of the day he intended to be aching sore and exhausted—too weary to contemplate Cleo and what precisely he felt within himself.

He lifted his ax and took a healthy whack. Stone sparked and crumbled. He grunted, and repeated the motion. The sound of steel hitting rock filled the air.

Arm pulled back, he was in mid-swing when the earth spit up a growl and rumbled all around him. He dropped his tool, arms reaching, stretching out to hold on to something amid his suddenly shifting, shuddering world. But there was nothing to grab. Only air.

One of the men beside him shouted. The other one dove for the ground.

And then there was nothing. Not even that anymore. The ground opened in a great, hungry maw beneath his feet. The floor gave out, disappearing in a fierce cloud of rock and rubble and debris. Taking him with it.