She searched her mind and heart for the best way to help him and them. Whatever had happened at the asylum, he could not let go of it, nor could he tell her. She felt more certain than ever that helping him prove what his cousin had done, seeing Ross locked away for it, would free Callum enough to allow him to lower his guard more and trust her.
She studied him in the flickering candlelight. On his skin that was exposed, scars marred his body, but they showed that he was a survivor. Each scar represented a ghost now haunting him. She had to help him bury those ghosts once and for all. The first thing was to make him understand that whatever he had done, she would forgive him.
Would she truly, though? Whatever it might be? She went through every possibility she could think of as he slept. What if he had killed one of his captors? Could she forgive him? Yes, she could. The men who had kept him prisoner had known who he was. They were bad, evil men.
“Get away from me!” he suddenly bellowed, and she jerked her gaze to him to find his eyes moving rapidly under his lids and his hands clenched at his sides. “Get away,” he growled, still asleep, and she watched, wary of possible attack yet rapt with what she might learn. “You aren’t her. You aren’t her.” He shook his head violently back and forth. “I don’t want you touching me again,” he said, the words suddenly much quieter, but in her head was a riotous noise, a realization that left her breathless. Had there been a woman at the asylum? Had he broken his vows to her by finding some small measure of peace in another woman’s arms? Could she forgive him that?
She could feel jealousy slithering through her at the mere thought, and yet, how could she not forgive him? She, who had almost wed his cousin out of loneliness while living her free, comfortable life when Callum was locked in an asylum being beaten and abused. She swallowed. Yes, she could and would forgive him no matter what.
Callum moaned and shuddered, stealing her focus again. She shook him, trying to wake him so he could aid her in helping him dress and getting him to bed, but he was still dead asleep. She’d fetch a blanket and give strict orders for no one to enter this room until he awoke and came out. She rose, looking down at him, her battered, bruised husband who she loved more than life itself.
Chapter Nineteen
“Stop scowling at me,” Callum grumbled the next day as White thrust a letter at him. He’d just dragged himself to his bedchamber after waking on the hard floor of the drawing room with a pillow under his head, a blanket thrown over him, Constantine’s scent on his skin, and the taste of her sweet flesh in his mouth. His body hardened thinking about last night even as his anger mounted for not staying away from her.
Callum took the letter and started to open it, but then he glanced at White, whose glare Callum could feel burning into his forehead. “Do not ever send a false missive to me again about Constantine being in danger.”
“Peter’s idea. Peter. Peter.”
“Yes,” Callum said. He would deal with Peter when he saw him. He expected White to be contrite, but instead the man still glared at him. “What? Bloody what?” Callum snapped.
“A husband should…should…should—” White stopped, his hands balling into fists by his sides in obvious frustration.
“Take your time,” Callum said, remorse pricking him for his temper.
White inhaled a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “A husband should sleep at home.”
Now Callum glared. “I want to bloody well sleep at home,” he growled, but last night should have never happened. He’d been a fool and weak. He had to stay away from her until—If only he’d get word that a clue had been discovered, he could then allow himself to hope that they had a future. “How the devil do you know what a husband should do?” Callum snarled, feeling surly.
An astonishingly smug look came to White’s face, and he puffed out his chest in a rather self-important way. “My lady told me.”
Callum frowned. “Your lady. Who is your lady?”
“Lady Constantine,” White said, a smile Callum had never seen blooming on the man’s face. “She confided it in me last night.”
“Last night?” Callum pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the ache that seemed to be spiraling from his skull to his nose, but he hissed in pain at the pressure on his bruised nose, and released his hold. Between the lack of sleep and the hits he’d taken in the head while boxing over the last sennight, his head felt as if there were a little man inside it trying to hammer his way out.
“She woke me,” White said. “Woke me and told me to stand guard outside the drawing room and not let anyone in until you came out.”
Ah, that explained why White had been standing sentry at the door this morning.
“Told me,” White continued, “that husbands should sleep at home. Her papa never did. Her papa loved his other daughter more.”
Jealousy stirred that she had confided in White, but Callum recognized how ridiculous he was being. “You’ve spent time with her in the last several days?” he asked, curious what she’d done to occupy her time.
White nodded. “Peter and I eat supper with her.”
“Is that so?” Callum said, not surprised at all and greatly pleased that Constantine would fly in the face of propriety and welcome White to her table. It was one of the reasons he loved her. Callum tapped the letter he held against his hand absently and then started to open it again, but White spoke and Callum paused once more.
“She’s taught us both table manners,” White said, grinning. “Said we ate like heathens, especially Peter.”
A genuine laugh rumbled from Callum, surprising him. It felt good, the lightheartedness that Constantine brought to his life. “And she’s apparently trying to teach you both to dance,” Callum murmured, opening the letter and unfolding the paper. His gaze went immediately to Beckford’s signature and then he read the note.
I found Trask. We can go see him tomorrow night. I think you are very close to getting your revenge.
A surge of relief filled Callum, until he read the next line.
Tate is dead. Shot over a game of cards.
