He reached out and grabbed her by her arms, his fingers meeting around her slight biceps encased in the rough gown. She struggled, but when she saw that she could not pull away, she stilled and snarled up at him.
“You wish to strike me?” she dared, turning her face up to him. “Go on, then, if you must. But I’ve been someone’s pawn all my life and I’m finished waiting for you.”
Constantine thought he only kissed her to ensure her silence, but in that moment after he dropped his mouth on hers, the only thing he could think of was tasting those lips that had condemned him so thoroughly, of touching a bit of that righteous indignation and, yes, perhaps to humiliate her as she had done to him.
She breathed in through her nose with a loud wheeze and then pressed her body to his, her hands going to his waist. He released his grip on her upper arms, wrapping her in his embrace, lifting her to him, deepening their kiss. He tasted salt and pulled away to see the tears on her face. He brought his hands up to cup her face, kissing her cheeks.
But she sniffed and shook her head, pulling him closer and bringing her mouth back to his. His hands raked back through her silky, springy hair, holding her face before his, and then he bent and picked her up in his arms and carried her through the doorway at the back of the cottage.
There was a single rough bedstead in the tiny, windowless room, made up with thick blankets. He lay Theodora Rosemont atop them and then lay down beside her, kissing her once more. He worried he would hurt her, she was so slight. He ran his hand up the front of her kirtle, sliding his palm over her small breast. She gave a happy sigh as the tips of her fingers dug into his ribs.
Constantine brought his leg across hers, pulling her into his groin, cautioning himself to go slowly; it had not been many months since—
He stilled so suddenly, it was as if he had frozen into solid ice. Even his heart seemed to frost over in his chest.
Since she’d given birth to Glayer Felsteppe’s son.
The last man she’d made love with—likely the only man she’d ever made love with—was Glayer Felsteppe. The one who’d put Patrice in her grave more surely than the devoted villagers at his side this day.
He rolled away from Dori and sat up on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
“What?” she said in a breathless voice, and he felt her sitting up behind him. “Constantine, what is it?”
“I can’t,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and hating the sound of his weakness. When he felt her tentative touch on his back, he shot to his feet with a growl. He turned to look at her and her face was pale, solemn, her eyes too big for her face, her innocent-looking mouth turned down.
“Can’t because of Patrice or can’t because of me?” she asked quietly.
“I can’t reconcile any of this!” he shouted, pacing the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here; you weren’t supposed to be kind to me. I’ve hated you since the moment I heard you had wed that monster.” He paused and looked at her. “Dori, he took the most precious things in my life.”
“Yes, he did,” Theodora agreed. “He took mine from me, as well.Hedid, Constantine.I didn’t. You didn’t. Why should we be further punished for his evil?”
Constantine shook his head. “It matters not. I touch you and my head goes mad with thoughts of him touching you.”
“If you cared for me,” she said carefully, “if you wanted me, truly, you would not let Glayer Felsteppe stop you from claiming me. From claiming anything you wanted.” She scooted to the edge of the cot and stood facing Constantine, the several feet still separating them feeling as wide and deep as a black, bottomless chasm. “Do you care for me, Constantine? Could you care for me, as I am, once the situation in which we now find ourselves no longer exists? In a future where there is no Glayer Felsteppe?”
Constantine felt an ache in his chest as he looked at her, Theodora Rosemont, as demanding as the rumors painted her, but this time what she was demanding was nothing more than the truth.
He tried to imagine returning to Benningsgate and meeting her again, had she been unmarried, and he felt hope leap in him. A rush of excitement at the idea of pursuing her, with her delicate fairy face and secret kindness, her will and physical stamina that could rival the mightiest soldiers he’d ever known. The way she wanted to protect. Perhaps in time he could forget . . .
But then he recalled her child. Felsteppe’s child. Constantine could not raise the boy in good conscience after having killed his father. Even if he had been the man who had murdered Constantine’s son.
Once Constantine had made good on his vow to exact his revenge, it was unlikely he would live very long any matter. It was better for Dori, more merciful, should he end any thoughts of a future with her now.
He looked at Theodora, waiting patiently before him, and she must have seen the answer in his eyes before he spoke, for her expression hardened once more.
“I can’t,” he said.
Her chest rose and fell shallowly with her breath. “Youcoward. Glayer Felsteppe has already bested you.”
She walked past him from the chamber.
Constantine turned in time to see the door close behind her as she left. He returned to the front room and sat down at the table, reaching for the corked jug Harmon had so courteously left for him. He opened it with an echoey thunk and turned it up to his mouth. He swallowed and sighed, looking at the empty chair across from him.
Let her work out her anger at Nell’s, then. Eventually she would see that his decision was best for both of them.
Constantine repeatedly turned the jug to his mouth until the mead was gone from the vessel. And still Theodora Rosemont’s beautiful, wide eyes accused him as he lay down once more on the narrow bedstead, this time alone.
* * *
