“He was the second cruelest man I have ever had the misfortune of knowing,” Cyrus replied, no small amount of bitterness in his voice. “My grandfather was the first. Together, the boy I was stood no chance against them.”
“What of your mother?”
Cyrus turned his gaze out of the window, so his wife would not see the pain in his eyes. “I never knew her, except in dreams. When my father and grandfather had beaten me particularly badly, she would visit me—I know that sounds absurd, but she did.” He paused. “She died giving me life, you see, and I suspect that she was… like heavenly chains around my father and grandfather, holding them back from being the true devilsthat they were. When she was gone, they were set loose and, my goodness, they hated me.”
“Both of them?” Teresa asked, her voice trembling.
He nodded. “For different reasons. My grandfather hated me because I was another unworthy heir to outlive. My father hated me because I took my mother from him.” He shrugged. “It is strange, because I can never recall anything that I did wrong, and they never explained, but I wasalwaysbeing punished for one thing or another. The slightest look or word or action that they did not like, and I would be struck. And I dideverythingto be good, to be diligent and dutiful and respectful, to avoid that. It never worked.”
“Did they…” Teresa’s fingertips touched his scar, his body rigid at the unexpected tenderness. “Did they do this?”
He closed his eyes, smelling phantom smoke in the air, his throat tightening as it had done on that terrible afternoon, fifteen years ago.
“My father was beating me for visiting my mother’s grave,” he rasped. “It was her birthday. He called me things that I would not dare to repeat for your delicate ears. He beat me so viciously that I think he wanted me to join my mother that day. I vaguely remember a shout, and being grateful for it, because my father stopped hitting me.
“This was in the tower, where he executed all my punishments,” he went on haltingly, his voice reluctant to remember. “Mygrandfather never saw the need to conduct my punishments in private, preferring to strike me where all the servants could see. Anyway, there was a shout, and my father left the tower. He locked the door, as he always did when he wanted to truly punish me.”
He stopped, his breath ragged. All at once, the carriage was too hot, the air too dense to inhale, his mind ablaze with a series of memories that would never cease to haunt him. As much as he hated his father and grandfather, he still wondered if there was more he could have done to save them.
“My grandfather was in the other tower; he had fallen, I think,” Cyrus continued, sifting through the fog of his mind for the glimmers of fact. “A servant had shouted that my grandfather needed help, and my father had gone to see what the matter was. Somehow, a fire had started in the other tower—I think my grandfather was cleaning his musket, and some black powder ignited, but I do not know for certain.
“My father tried to get my grandfather out of the blaze, but it caught too quickly, engulfing their escape, spreading so swiftly through that far end of the castle. The ruined part,” he said with a dry, tight smile. “To this day, I do not know why my father tried to help my grandfather, whennothelping would have gained him everything he had ever wanted.”
Teresa stroked his scar again, her breath warm on his cheek. “People do strange things for family.” She paused, her voice catching. “How did you get out of the tower? My goodness… you were still locked in there!”
“Ironically, it worked in my favor,” he replied. “It was the last thing to burn. I must have been aware of the fire, because I dragged myself up to the window and looked out. I saw it, and… I knew I had two choices: I could throw myself out of the window entirely, or I could try and climb down and across to the old battlements. Beaten as I was, and so dazed I should not have been climbing anywhere, I still chose the latter.
“I made it out of the window and onto the ledge well enough, and I remember the flames rising higher as I dared myself to jump across to the battlements. It was still a fair fall.” He frowned. “I think I stayed there on the ledge until the flames devoured the door and caught on the drape beside me. Something burned me; I know that for certain. I jumped shortly afterward, but when I landed, I must have toppled over. The last thing I recall is hitting my head and then… it was all black, until I woke up in bed with a burn on my head and a dukedom to manage.”
“Oh, Cyrus…” Teresa whispered, her voice choked. “I am so very sorry.”
He swallowed thickly. “As am I. A lot of people died that day. My father and grandfather, of course, but a number of servants who were trapped in that part of the castle. I mourn them more than I shall ever mourn those devils.”
“You were a child,” Teresa mumbled, shaking her head. “I cannot… I cannot fathom it. It is too awful. All of it. Oh, Cyrus, I… I am so very, very sorry.”
He forced himself to turn and look at her, bringing his hand to her face, brushing his thumb across the unblemished apple of her cheek. “Do you understand me better?”
“I think so,” she replied, meeting his gaze.
There were tears on her cheeks. Tears for him. Something he had never experienced before, for though there were still servants at the castle who had been there at the time, it was silently forbidden for it to be mentioned. There were, of course, tears shed on the anniversary for the fallen servants, but he had never seen tears shed for him. His story.
“It is not so thrilling as Captain Frostheart’s past,” he managed to tease, “and I fear there is no happy ending, but… the story is mine.”
She shook her head, her hand sliding up his chest to grasp his lapel. “Who says there is no happy ending?”
“I do,” he replied, his other hand coming up to cradle her face. “It is impossible.”
“Well, I do not believe you can decide that until you reach the end of a story, and we are nowhere near the final chapter,” she told him fiercely, her fingertips reaching up to lightly caress his scar once more. “Ourpart is just beginning, after all. You have me now, and I am yours.”
Gently, she wrote the same word he had written, upon the ruined skin of his scar:mine.
Before he could consider the risks, and the danger he was putting them both in if he got too close to her, he bent his head, claiming her as his, not with fingertip-words or the spoken kind, but with a kiss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Teresa’s eyelids fluttered shut at the first graze of his kiss, her grip on his lapels tightening as if she might keel over without the fabric to anchor her.
She had always assumed, being a consummate devourer of romantic novels, that she would know precisely what to do when the day came that she had her first kiss. As it turned out, she had no notion whatsoever of what to do.
