Page 62 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“Forgive me, I…”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “Please.” She gestured to the door. “Your port awaits you, Lord Bedford. I bid you goodnight.”

She turned away from him and ascended the stairs. Only when she’d shed her gown and slipped into the cold, empty bed in her chamber did she succumb to her tears as she blew a kiss in the direction of the object on the wall.

The little painting was a piece of his soul that she was determined to make a treasure of, for though James may defend her against the cruelty of the world outside, the taunts of his sister, and perhaps even the men who used her—in the end, he was a viscount. And, in marrying her, he’d committed a sin for which he would never forgive himself.

Chapter Fifteen

James sat up, his heart racing. The room was in darkness, save a faint orange glow from the fireplace and a gray light coming from beneath the door.

His eyes adjusting to the poor light, he pulled back the bedsheet, approached the window, and drew back the curtains. A cold-blue light shimmered on the landscape outside, and he caught the faint chirps of the birds readying themselves to herald the onset of a new day.

But it wasn’t the birds that had woken him—not even that persistent mistle thrush who insisted on perching on top of the poplar trees that ran along the driveway and singing his little bollocks off to declare his ownership of the dawn, the world, and his mate.

Mate…

James smiled to himself, then exhaled, his breath misting on the windowpane. Then he traced the outline of a heart.

I have a mate, now, my friend.

Then a scream echoed in the distance and he froze.

A maid, perhaps. He’d overheard Mrs. Case admonishing that young girl—Tilly, was it?—for daydreaming, and those with overly lively minds often feared the dark and suffered nightmares.

But there was nothing wrong with an active imagination: It led to creativity and new ideas. And it was new ideas, not conformity, that fed and nurtured a man’s soul.

James opened his bedchamber door. The hall outside was empty. He held his breath and waited, but no sound came.

Then the scream came again.

It was too close to have come from the servants’ rooms on the floor above. Which meant that it must have come from a chamber along the corridor. And the only occupied chamber in this part of the house was his wife’s.

“No!” a voice cried. “Dear God, no!”

James sprinted along the corridor and thrust open his wife’s door, wincing as it slammed against the wall. The curtains were pulled back, and in the diffused light from outside, he could see a shape in the bed, thrashing from side to side.

He approached the bed, and she let out a wail that split his heart in two.

“Not again, I beg you—please!”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and she let out a scream and sat upright, her eyes glistening. He shivered at the expression in them—wide and colorless, as if she were a phantom.

She grasped his wrists to push him back, but he held her firm.

“Cordelia!” he cried. “It’s just a dream.”

She let out a groan, then blinked and a tear spilled onto her cheek, glistening in the light before it rolled down her face and splashed onto her nightgown.

Her pupils dilated, darkening their color, turning the ghost into a living, breathing woman.

Then she glanced about, her brow furrowing into a frown.

“Wh-where…?”

“You’re at Bedford Hall,” he said. “Your home.”

“M-my home?”