AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And maybe that was why, though her heart kicked at her and her stomach cramped, she was able to go and stand beside Cayetano, there at the edge. And remain calm, though the height was worrying and the look he threw her way was something like ravaged.
For a time there was nothing but the wind, and the sun painting the sky in oranges and pinks as it sank.
“I cannot allow myself to love,” he told her at last, in the ringing tones he’d used long ago, there in the yard at the farm.
This time, she didn’t laugh.
Though she was sorely tempted, if only for symmetry.
This time, she considered what he’d said for a moment, then sniffed. “That seems stupid,” she replied, calmly. Very, very calmly. “If you want my opinion.”
He turned to look at her fully then, and it wasn’t that she was immune to how tormented he looked. He tugged at her the way he always did, and the way, she imagined he always would. It hurt her to see him hurt. She supposed that was what loving someone did.
But Delaney hoped she loved him enough to hold out for better than this. For more. From both of them.
Love isn’t a weak little greeting card on a holiday, Grandma Mabel had told her, long ago, when elementary school aged Delaney had not received any valentines on Valentine’s Day one year.Love is ferocious. It is fearless. It is not for the faint of heart, child. It takes a warrior.
And Cayetano was a warlord. But Delaney was prepared to be a warrior, now, when it was needed.
Whenever it is needed, she promised herself.As long as we’re together.
She had to hope that she wore her fearlessness on her face.
Maybe she did, because at last, Cayetano began to speak.
“My father was not a cruel man,” he told her, as if the words hurt him. “But he was distant. Focused. It was always clear that he had married and had a child because it was expected of him, not because he had any emotional investment being a husband or father. I was never sure if he had any emotions at all. My mother would tell you he never did.”
“I’m sorry,” Delaney said softly, trying to imagine growing up like that. “It can’t have been easy to be the son of such a man.”
“You misunderstand,” Cayetano bit out. “His focus was the cause. Our people were his only concern and nothing else mattered to him. He was a hero.”
He rubbed his hands over his face, and Delaney wanted, badly, to reach over and touch him. But something stopped her.
“He died when I was twelve,” Cayetano said, his gaze out toward the setting sun again, all that golden light spilling over the harshness of his expression. And it was as if she could feel that same harshness inside her, like so many jagged edges, cutting into her. Making her ache. “I was in boarding school in England, so it fell to my guards to tell me. They pulled me out of class, sat me down, and called mewarlord. I was not permitted to fly home. It was thought that having me at the funeral was a risk too great.”
“That’s terrible,” Delaney whispered, and had to grip her own arms as she hugged them close to keep from reaching for him.
“On the contrary.” He looked down at her from his great height, stern and something like ruthless—though his eyes were dark. Too dark. “My father’s death is what made me. I had no choice but to jettison my emotions. My guards made it clear to me that I was the face of Ile d’Montagne, then and always. That any outbursts on my part would not only reflect badly on my people, but would be trotted out as evidence to show that the House of Montaigne’s possession of the throne that was rightfully mine was warranted. Even at twelve I was keenly aware that I could not let that happen. No Arcieri has been born in centuries without accepting that it was more than likely that his attempts to regain the throne would fail. I never expected to win it back, Delaney. But I would die before I made the situation worse.”
Delaney could feel the ache in her grow sharper. Those edges dug in harder.
But Cayetano kept going. “It was not until years later that I understood the truth of what happened to him. It was a car accident. Here.” Delaney jolted at that, and the way he slashed his hand the air, harsh and hard. “My mother, always the emotional one, had been in a rage. She wanted his attention. As ever, his focus was on bringing our people’s case to the world, the better to put pressure on Queen Esme. They had a blazing row and my father took off from the castle, leaving his guard behind and driving himself to his death. They say he lost control of the car here. Because he was not perfect. He was cold and slow to anger, but when his temper finally engaged, it was catastrophic. He proved it so.”
Now Cayetano was breathing hard, as if he was running. His gaze was so dark that it, too, began to hurt her as he stared down at Delaney.
“Do not apologize,” he growled when she opened her mouth to do just that. “He was reckless, in the end. For all his focus, all his disinterest, he let emotions get the better of him and he lost control of his vehicle. He was a leader of men. A hero to the cause. He should have known better.”
She heard the bleakness in his tone. And all she could do was whisper his name.
“But instead, he died.” Cayetano looked desolate. Stark stone carved in unforgiving lines. “And that left my mother, in all her erratic sentimentality, in charge until I came of age. I know you read up on my family. I’m certain you know what this moment of recklessness cost us all.”
Delaney had read the dispassionate facts of his life on the first night, after he’d showed up out of nowhere. But it was something else again to hear him tell it. And she hadn’t loved him then—she’d merely been fascinated against her will. Now that she loved him with everything she was, all she could think was of the boy he’d been, caught in all these terrible forces so much larger than himself.
Not even allowed to grieve.
“She fell in love again, she claimed.” Cayetano’s voice was derisive. “Then she and her lover schemed to take what was not theirs. I was forced to fight him, with my hands, to claim what was already mine. And none of this would have happened if either one of my parents could truly control their emotions.”
Her pulse picked up at that. She reached out, then dropped her hands before she made contact. All she could do was whisper his name again, as if maybe—if she said it the right way—he would hear her.
