She let the night and silence wrap about her a bit, closing her eyes and listening only to the soft susurrations of her daughters’ breath on tangled hair and pillows.
She did not wish to be alone anymore, and she would not take a husband. She could not watch her children lose another father again. For even though she’d lost her husband to waning desire years before, their blow had been the hardest, their cries the true rip in her soul. She’d rather sink into lonely silence than have that happen again.
Just her and cool sheets. Just her and the spill of moonlight, wasted on a woman alone.
Three
A man could only avoid his best friend and performance partner for so long, even if he valued his bones and teeth as much as Grant Webster did. Grant made it two days. He could hardly run away from Saturday’s evening performance. It was one of his most popular, and even though the ladies swooned over Max more than Grant for this particular performance, a few still cried Grant’s name in dreamy tones when he galloped into the arena, preferring the golden-haired prince to the dark-haired Beast, no matter that the Beast won the girl in the end.
The act played on the differences between them, challenged the audience’s expectations in a way that kept them coming back every Saturday for a sold-out show. Nora, Garrison’s resident sharpshooter and Max’s beloved wife, would find herself in danger. Grant, the prince, would rescue her. Or try to before the Beast stormed on stage, stealing Nora for his own before he kissed her senseless.
The crowds never expected it. But they loved it. So did Grant.
Because Grant loved love. Seemed as mythical as the stories they told in the amphitheatre, but as necessary, too. Stories and love. He had command of the former at the flick of his reins and the quirk of his brow. He’d searched for fleeting moments of the latter most of his adult life, watched his friend embrace it every Saturday night in the kiss of his wife, explored the promising new horizon of a new woman most nights, and tried his best to forget the wide brown eyes of a widow who felt like the final horizon for him. If he were fated for any horizon other than death.
And he wasn’t. A single night’s glimpse of love was all he’d ever have. He’d never marry. Wouldn’t make a woman fall in love then consign her to widowhood like that. Seemed cruel, especially when he knew he wasn’t long for the world.
“Webster!” Nora hissed, the veil of her diaphanous princess costume billowing with the amphitheatre’s heavy air. “You’re not paying attention. You did not hit your cue last week.”
“My apologies.” He grinned, winked. “Expect nothing but perfection tonight, love.”
“Don’t let Max hear you call me that.”
Grant shrugged. “Or do. It’ll put him in character right quick. Grr.” He contorted his face into a bear’s snarl.
“Or he’ll snap every bone in your body and bloody that nose.”
Just what Grant was afraid of.
He’d kissed Freddy. He’d kissed Max’s widowed cousin. Nothing wrong with it per se, but everything wrong with it.
Especially since he’d enjoyed it so well, dreamed about it every time he’d shut his eyes since then. Especially since the blasted kiss was the culmination of a year’s worth of pining for the woman. Were pining and love the same thing? Seemed like it most days. What would it be like to love a woman like Freddy? To let her love him? To return to her at night and wake in her arms with the dawn?
He’d give his entire reputation as an expert scoundrel to know, but he never would.
Viscountess, mother, pain-worn and worthy of more, he’d never saddle a woman like that with widowhood twice over.
The orchestra struck up the first chord of their music. Nora mounted her mare, and they trotted in blissful beauty into the ring. Where she’d shoot several targets dead center before the rest of the act continued.
If Grant survived Max’s fists, he’d then face Nora’s pistols. A deadly couple, they were, and deadly protective of their family, including widowed cousins.
The child circus performers, dressed as woodland creatures and goblins, stormed the arena, ran after Nora’s horses. And when they almost had them—there! His mark indicated by the vibrations of the cello. He hit it perfectly, charging into the arena to the delighted gasps of the audience.
The rest of the act Grant could perform in his sleep. Smile, toss his hair, flex his muscles, do simple tricks he’d mastered years ago, take Nora in his arms and pretend to almost kiss her when—
The ground shook. Max jumped from the balcony and landed with a heavy thud in the arena. And hell, Grant flinched. Wobbled. Almost fell. Shouldn’t have happened. Never used to happen. Or at least not until lately. He clutched the reins tighter and focused on each of his muscles, where they were supposed to be, the work they should be doing.
Max ran for Nora and Grant, his face a mask of determination. And lust, frankly. Nora’s face registered the same emotions. Neither could act away their love for each other.
Ha. Poor actors. Lucky bastards.
Max won the day and the woman, and the crowd found their feet, making the amphitheatre echo with applause.
Grant slunk off stage, defeated. He at least could pretend a long face when needed.
Not much pretending tonight, though. Frustration coursed through him.
He was never supposed to have kissed Freddy. It made his longing for her, for what she represented—a life—almost impossible to bear. He probably shouldn’t have spent so much time mooning over her since the wedding breakfast, either. Finding reasons to visit Max and catch a glimpse of her, storing up amusing circus stories to make her laugh, asking her about her knitting projects, reassuring her they were not quite as bad as she perceived. They were worse, actually, but that was hardly the point. The point being—he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d done it all knowing he shouldn’t, knowing he was only breaking his own heart. Even if she returned his feelings, he couldn’t marry her. Much like his father’s had been, his life was sure to be as brief as it was brilliant. Those in this line of work had short lifespans, and he didn’t make a habit of caution.