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Panic hammered through me, as I took in her naked form.
Every inch of it familiar.
Beautiful and perfect.
Everything I desired and craved.
Farryn.
29
FARRYN
My eyes snapped open on a gasped breath, and I shot up in bed, my head still caught up in the last minute of my nightmare.
A cold hollow burned inside my chest as I recalled Jericho in the woods, his body glistening with sweat, as he held another woman, a brunette, pinned to the tree while he took her roughly from behind. So real, the overwhelming scent of sex and the sounds of her moaning over their slapping skin still invaded my senses. My muscles tensed and twisted as I watched his ass flexing into her, but the worst was when he’d turned toward me, as the watcher in my dream, and the look of absolute intoxication written on his face as he’d glutted on her body.
Throwing back the covers, I scrambled out of bed and rushed toward the bathroom, only making it in time to expel the frothy, black liquid that shot out into the toilet bowl. My throat wobbled as I stared down at the unnatural-colored vomit, burning with the acids that sizzled in my mouth. The sadness and shock that’d pounded through me moments before spooled in my gut, pulling tension through my muscles. Irrational anger wound tight inside of me.
He wouldn’t.
Would he have, though? I’d seen him the night before, writhing with the need to screw something. Vaszhago had told me that he would’ve rejected the maids, wanting only me, but what if it had gotten bad enough? What if his pain had become so unbearable that he had no choice but to seek out another?
Was I the type of woman who could cast my dignity aside for that?
No.
Unfortunately, I was a selfish devourer of jealousy, and though I hated the thought of him suffering, particularly alone in the woods, I couldn’t forgive him for seeking out another. Especially after having pushed me away all week.
The rigidity in my muscles pulled tighter, and I pushed myself to my feet, taking in the tired, frail look of my face in the mirror. At a flash of the beautiful brunette from the dream, one with a pale curvy body whose bones didn’t peek from beneath her skin, I looked away from myself.
After a quick rinse of my mouth, I returned to my bed, from where I stared out at the stars in the sky, wishing they could tell me where he was, what he was doing.
Stop it, Farryn. Stop this!
It wasn’t like me to let my emotions hook themselves so deeply. I’d have blamed hormones, but at just under four months of pregnancy?
I needed to get out of the cathedral, to breathe in fresh air and loosen myself of these silly thoughts and worries. I’d make a point to visit Catriona the following day, come Hell, or hailstorm. Chatting with her would surely ease some of the uncertainties swirling inside my head.
After all, I knew in my heart that Jericho wouldn’t have indulged in another woman.
Not if it was me he coveted.
30
THE BARON
Fresh wounds flared in protest as the baron removed his tunic and tossed it on the sandy shore along the river. Ordinarily, he’d have washed himself in the elaborate bath house back at the manor, where one of the servants would have attended to him, but he did not care to put the bishop’s harsh punishment on display.
Muscles tense and trembling, he stepped carefully down into the icy water, dreading the moment he’d submerge his whole body. Drawing in a tight breath, he sank below the surface on one quick dip, and though the frigid water was enough to jar his heart, the numbing bliss of it kept him immersed in its watery cage. The fire which had blazed across his back, where Bishop Venable had torn open old scars with a new whipping toy, sizzled away in the wintry depths, and the baron was hard-pressed to emerge.
His lungs pounded for one sip of air, though, and the boy pushed up out of the water, eyes opening on Drystan, who stood at the shoreline, his expression downcast.
“You are the last I wish to lay eyes on,” the baron grumbled, wiping water from his face. The chilled air bit at his wet skin, his bones and muscles stiff and thick. He hadn’t spoken to his cousin since the day in the undercroft, when Drystan had confessed to seeing him heal his own wounds.
“I did not want to tell him. You saw what he did. What he was doing.”
“And did I not suffer every day since? Where are your fresh wounds, Cousin?”
