She screamed as an unholy terror filled her mind, body and soul.
It wasn’t William holding her. His face suddenly came into focus in an entirely different light as the scent of copper permeated the fog of her existence. Her handsome, adoring husband lay next to her with a hole in the back of his head, while remnants of the left side of his perfectly formed cheekbone and patrician nose decorated her chest. It was as if she had participated in a food battle with her little sister, and their mother’s cherry pie had exploded upon impact on her chest. The weight of the gore covering her, however, felt like a set of chains binding her in place. She couldn’t move, nor did she want to. She wanted to die next to the man whom she’d pledged her undying love.
Except it seemed she was destined for another fate. Hell would be her endless and everlasting eternity, not love.
“Caillen.”
She heard her name. Knew she should answer. She couldn’t.
Not even when ebony eyes blocked out the view of her husband, and the beautiful sky above, that piece of heaven she desperately wanted to hold onto. Not when the familiar man she should recognize shook her shoulders, yelled in her face, and cursed like nothing she had ever heard before that day. She didn’t react when he carried her to a stream and began tenderly washing her in the ice-cold water.
William was gone. She didn’t care about anything else.
Not about her life, her future, her modesty as the man gently tore what was left of her clothing from her body and exposed every inch of her to his assessing gaze. She didn’t care that he wasn’t her husband or that he was seeing more of her than was proper. She felt his hands upon her, heard his soothing, melodicvoice as he scrubbed her, dried her, and stripped off his shirt to dress her.
All the while she stared at the vast blue sky and wondered,Why?
One
Ross,
There has been a change in plans. I am taking the Baroness Bredlebane to my family estate for her to recuperate. Baron Bredlebane has sadly expired from injuries he sustained during an attack by highwaymen when they were returning with their joyous news. Please let the duchess know her sister is safe and will be well cared for by my family through Spring. She could not face her sisters while her emotions were so raw. I will see you upon my return.
Best,
Astley
—A letter to Nashford Xavier Harding, Duke of Ross from Simon Benjamin Clark, Earl of Astley in regard to the duke’s sister-in-law, Lady Caillen Blair Griffith, being assaulted and her husband killed on their way back to London. The attack occurred the very day they were married in Gretna Green, Scotland.
One Year Later
Caillen had expected the long carriage ride from Astley’s home in the Scottish Lowlands to be long and stressful. She had not expected the latest gossip printed inThe Whispers of the Tongossip rag about peers she barely knew to consume her maid’s conversation. Yet, for the past two days, that was all Jane and her wet nurse, Mrs. Baker, had spoken about and now it seemed she would have to participate in the conversation with Jane, since Mrs. Baker was leaning against the window, with her mouth slightly agape while she snored.
“Lord Weldon has been the most scandalous rogue in London since his lady left him at the alter to run off with that Italian artist. It is said the viscount loved her so much he was willing to marry her despite her being in the family way with the artist’s bastard in her belly. Poor man. Can you imagine giving up a viscount for a painter?” Jane asked.
“No, I cannot,” Caillen replied as she looked down at her sleeping child and hummed her favorite song,Für Elise. If she had left her husband at the altar, she wouldn’t have her beautiful son. Every time Dorian gazed into her eyes, she searched for William in their midst. The color was identical, but the resemblance to his sire stopped in the clear azure color. If truth be told, the blue hue of Dorian’s eyes was the only trait he’d inherited from either of his parents. Dorian Griffith would be his own man—handsome devil that he was, and despite his mother’s refusal to remarry, this trip would ensure he did not face a future without siblings.
As if sensing her train of thought, Jane changed the subject. “There’s nothing that says you have to raise your late husband’sbastards.” It was the second time during their trip to London that Jane had offered her an escape from William’s past sins.
Caillen’s spine stiffened, and she was unable to conceal the ire she had kept at bay during their first conversation. “If the girls are William’s offspring, I will gladly give them a home. And once again, I will ask you not to use that term when referring tomychildren.”
Lord, how Caillen hated the label that would travel with the girls far and wide. As a bastard herself, she knew exactly how cruel society could be to children born on the opposite side of a marriage blanket. She’d already made up her mind to take the girls in, no matter what their circumstances. They needed a home, and she had one to give. It was as simple as that.
“No disrespect intended ma’am, but you don’t know what they’re about. They could be as wild as the day is long, or filthy and pest infested.” She shuddered as if she felt bugs crawling across her skin.
“Then stop thinking about it, Jane. The girls are six-year-olds and they’re about to be orphans. That’s more than enough information for me. Everything else is irrelevant.”
Jane gave a wane smile. “You have a heart of gold, ma’am.”
No, she did not and they both knew it. There were plenty of people she wished dead—which was hardly the kindly emotion of a paragon of virtue.
The carriage came to a stop in front of her late husband’s townhome and Mrs. Baker startled awake with a snort.
“Please wait in the carriage, Mrs. Baker,” Caillen said to the wet nurse. “We will send for you once we know the house is ready.”
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Baker straightened in the seat, smoothing out her worn, brown dress that was plain, simple and clean, despite its age.
Caillen looked out at the house that would be her London home from now on. The plain brick facade was not something she’d seen in the heart of Mayfair where her sister resided. Nor was it like the smaller homes on the outskirts of the finer side of town. It was older, darker, with black window coverings that shut out the outside world and gave the home a supernatural appearance, as if it were as sentient asThe Castle of Otrantofrom the gothic novel written by Horace Walpole.
