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Something flickered behind her eyes. Some memory he could never see.
‘I hope I could,’ she said. ‘I tell myself every day that I will be strong enough.’
‘You wish to kill someone?’
She shook her head, tousled hair falling softly, and for a moment she didn’t look like the woman she was, but reminded him of a lost waif. ‘No. I wish to be strong enough.’
‘Have you ever...hurt anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I know of no woman who has ever killed a man, except my grandmother, Gigia.’
He waited.
‘A man, from a ploio. A ship. He was not good. He killed one of the women from our island and hurt another one almost to her death. Gigia gave him drink. Much drink, and he fell asleep. He should not have fallen asleep. Gigia said it was no different than killing a goat, except the man was heavier. My mana and uncle were there and they buried him. I do not think the men from the ship cared about losing him. They did not hunt for him long. Gigia gave them wine and we helped them search.’
Rhys took a breath. He’d invited this woman into his home, where his mother would meet her. This woman who seemed no more civilised than the rabbits she wished to protect and yet, he wanted to bury his face against her skin and forget.
‘I see.’ He frowned, repressing his notice of her as a woman. He certainly did not need to be noting the insignificant things about her.
‘From your face, I think you do.’ Instantly, her eyes pinched into a tilted scowl, her nose wrinkled. She mocked him. His mouth opened the barest bit. Yes, she’d jested.
‘Miss Cherroll,’ he spoke, beginning his reprimand, holding himself to the starched demeanour his father had used, one strong enough that even a royal would take notice of it. ‘Perhaps my mother could also be of some guidance to you.’
Lashes fluttered. A dash of sadness tinged her words, but the chin did not soften. ‘I am beyond repair.’
Bits of words fluttered through his mind, but none found their way to his lips. He took a moment appraising her, then caught himself, tamping down the sparking embers.
This would not be acceptable. He had survived his sister’s death. He had survived his father’s death. Geoff was gone. The duchess was failing. Rhys’s vision tunnelled around him, leaving only images from memory. He would take his own heart from his chest and wring it out with his two hands before he let it close to another person.
He turned his body from her with more command than he would ever unleash on the ribbons from a horse’s bridle.
‘I did not mean to anger you so...’ Her voice barely rose above the drumming in his ears.
‘I am merely thinking,’ he said.
‘You must stop, then. It’s not agreeing with you.’
‘I think you are the one not agreeing with me.’
‘So it has never happened before?’
‘Not recently.’
‘An oversight?’ Wide eyes.
‘I can hardly believe you and the countess are sisters.’
‘If you think we are brothers, then I do not know what to say.’
‘You are—’ He gave up. If she could use that same spirit to release his mother’s mind from the memories snaring her, it would be worth the risk. He had no other options.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c986d0c1-58a8-522f-9735-1823b09111c3)
Bellona took the carriage to the duke’s house, frowning each time the vehicle jostled her. Darting through the woods would have been so much easier, but when the gamekeeper’s eyes had rested on her the last time, a drop of spittle had escaped his lips when he’d smiled at her. The past had flooded back. She’d thought to put the memories behind her, but they’d returned like a wave, currents underneath tugging at her, trying to pull her to death.
Even now, looking out of the window, she could imagine a face peering at her from behind each tree. The eyes reflecting dark, evil thoughts, or no thoughts at all. Knowledge returned of looking into the pupils and seeing nothing human in a face she’d once seen innocently. Nothing behind those eyes which reasoned or thought, but only the same blankness from the face of an animal intent on devouring its prey.
She’d heard the tales of people being fed to lions. Telling the lion to think about the rightness of not clamping its teeth around her neck would do no good. Reminding the beast that she was merely wishing to live out her life wouldn’t change anything. The lion might appear calm, but it would be thinking of only how to get a straighter lunge.
Bellona had known Stephanos before he killed—watched him dance and laugh and work as he’d grown older. Nothing had indicated how one day he would look at her with the harshness of death seeping from him like muck bubbling over the side of a pot left on the fire too long and too hot to pull away with bare hands.
The truth roiled inside her. She’d not escaped to a land where she could let her guard down. Men kept their power within themselves, behind their smiles and their laughter. Like a volcano, the fury could burst forth and take every being in its path.
The day her father had raged at her over a painting she’d accidentally knocked over, she’d known he would have preferred her to be the one broken in the dirt. If he could have traded her to have the painting back on the easel, he would have. He would have rejoiced if she could have been bruised and broken and his painting fresh and new.
Nothing had changed. She’d only lied to herself, hoping she’d be able to forget the past and sleep peacefully again, safe, in this new land.
Even the maid sitting across from her didn’t give her the feeling of security she’d hoped. Moving her foot inside her boot, she felt the dagger sheath, reassuring herself.
She braced her feet as the carriage rolled to a stop. A lock of hair tickled Bellona’s cheek as she opened the door and stepped out. Pushing the strand aside, she looked at the darkened eyes of the Harling House windows. Sunlight reflected off the glass and a bird flitted by, but the house looked no more alive than a crypt.
The entrance door opened before her foot cleared the top step.
The expanse of space between her and the stairway could have swallowed her former home. She could not blame the duchess for not wanting to leave her chamber. This part of the house, with all its shine and perfection, didn’t look as if it allowed anyone to stop for a moment, but to only pass through.
The butler led her to a library which had more personality than she’d seen so far in the house. The pillow on the sofa had been propped perfectly, but one corner had lost its fluff. The scent of coals from the fireplace lingered in the air. The figurines on the mantel had been made at different times by different artists.
One alabaster shape had a translucency she could almost see through. One girl wore clothing Bellona had never seen before. A bird was half in flight. She noted a cracked wing on one angel. The hairline fracture had browned. This hadn’t happened recently and been unnoticed. Someone had wanted to keep the memento even with the imperfection.
Then she studied the spines of the books lining the shelves. Some of the titles she could read, but the English letters her oldest sister, Melina, had taught her years ago were hard to remember. She asked the maid and the woman knew less about the words than Bellona did.
The open-window curtains let much light into the room and the view overlooked where her carriage had stopped. A book lay askew on the desk and another one beside it, plus an uncorked ink bottle. The chair was pulled out and sat slightly sideways. Someone had been sitting there recently, able to see her arrive, and had left a few papers scattered about.
She settled herself to wait, the maid beside her on the sofa. The clock ticked, but other than that nothing sounded. Bellona stood again and noticed the walls. Framed canvases. These were not just paintings, but works of art. When she looked at each piece, she could see something else beyond it—either the thoughts of the person depicted, the way the room had felt that day, or the texture of the object painted.
They were nothing like her father’s paintings. She’d had no idea that such wonderful art existed.
Bellona was seated when the duke stepped into the doorway. She’d not heard him, but the flicker of movement caught her eye.
He stood immobile for a minute, like the figurines, but everything else about him contrasted with the gentle figures on the mantel.
She tightened her fingers on her reticule. When she met his eyes, her senses responded, reminding her of the times she and her sisters had build a fire outside at night on Melos. Sitting, listening to waves and staring at stars. Those nights made her feel alive and secure—the strength of nature reminding her something was bigger than the island.
Lines at the corners of his eyes took some of the sternness from his face, and even though he looked as immovable as the cliffs, she didn’t fear him. Possibly because he seemed focused on his own thoughts more than her presence. When he spoke, his lips turned up, not in a smile, but in acknowledgment of his own words. ‘I regret to say that my mother informs me she will not be able to join you. She is unwell today.’
Bellona stood, moving nearer to the duke. ‘If she is unwell, then I cannot leave without seeing if I might be able to soothe her spirits as I did for my mother. I must see her. Only for a moment.’
The maid rose, but Bellona put out a halting hand and said, ‘Wait here.’
A quick upwards flick of his head caused his hair to fall across his brow. He brushed it back. ‘I may have erred in inviting you. Perhaps another day... Mother is fretful.’
‘When my mother hurt, my sisters and I would take turns holding her hand or talking to her, even if she could not answer for the pain.’
‘She’s not ill in quite that way, but I think her pain is severe none the less.’ Moving into the hallway, he swept his arm out, palm up, indicating the direction. ‘The duchess is rather in a poor temper today. Please do not consider it a reflection of anything but her health.’
‘My mana was very, very ill many days.’ Bellona clasped the strap of her reticule, forcing away her memories. She raised the bag, bringing it to his attention. ‘I brought some garden scents for Her Grace. I will give them to her. They heal the spirit.’
‘If you could only coax a pleasant word from her, I would be grateful.’
* * *
Bellona followed Rhys into the room. He gave a quick bow of his head to his mother and the older woman’s eyes showed puzzlement, then narrowed when she saw he was not alone. Her frail skin, along with the black dress and black cap, and her severe hairstyle, gave her an appearance which could have frightened a child. She pulled the spectacles from her face, slinging them on to the table beside her. She dropped a book to her lap. The pallor in her cheeks left, replaced with tinges of red.
‘Rolleston, I thought I told you I did not want company.’ The words snarled from her lips, lingering in the air. A reprimand simmering with anger.
Rhys gave his mother a respectful nod and looked no more disturbed than if her words had been soft. ‘Miss Cherroll is concerned that you are unwell and believes she has a medicinal which can help.’
The duchess’s fingers curled. ‘I must speak with you alone.’ She didn’t take her eyes from her son. She lifted a hand the merest amount and then her fingers fluttered to the book. ‘You may take whatever frippery she brings and then she can leave. I am not receiving visitors. Even the Prince, should he so enquire.’
Bellona stood firm, forgetting compassion. Her mana had been gentle even when she could not raise her hand from the bed or her head from the pillow. ‘My own mana has passed and I have brought the herbs that made her feel better before she left us. And when their scent is in the air, I feel not so far from her. This will soothe your sleep.’
The duchess’s brows tightened. ‘I sleep well enough. It’s being awake I have trouble with. Such as now. Leave.’
Bellona shrugged, looking more closely at the woman’s skin. She had no health in her face. Her eyes were red and puffed. ‘Then give it to a servant.’
‘I will,’ she said. She examined Bellona and sniffed. ‘Go away and take my son with you. I am not having callers today. Perhaps some time next year. Wait for my letter.’
‘I will leave the herbs with you.’ Bellona reached for her reticule, opened it and pulled the other knife out so she could reach the little pillow she’d made and stuffed with the dried plants.
‘Good heavens,’ the duchess gasped. Rhys tensed, his hand raised and alert.
‘It is only a knife,’ Bellona said, looking at her, flicking the blade both ways to show how small it was. ‘After the pirates attacked our ship, I have always carried one.’
‘Pirates?’ the duchess asked, eyes widening.
‘I am not truly supposed to call them that,’ Bellona said. ‘I did know them, so they did not feel like true pirates, only evil men, and Stephanos was...’ She shook her head. ‘I am not supposed to speak of that either.’
‘You are the countess’s sister?’ The duchess’s voice rose, becoming a brittle scratch. She sat taller, listening.
Bellona nodded. ‘We’re sisters. She’s more English than I am. Our father was not on the island so much when I was older. I hardly knew him. My second sister, Thessa, wanted to go to London. I did not. I like it, but I had expected to always stay in my homeland. But my mana died. Melina—the countess—had left and started a new life with her husband here and with Thessa determined that we should leave Melos I had no choice. The evil fidi would have— I could not stay on my island without either being killed or killing someone else because I was not going to wed.’
‘You are the countess’s sister?’
Bellona smiled at the duchess’s incredulous repetition.
‘Does she carry a knife?’
Bellona shook her head. ‘No. I do not understand Melina, but she has the children and she did not have the same ship journey I had. She did not see the things I saw. I really am not supposed to speak of them.’ Bellona bunched the things in her hand together enough so she could pull the pillow out.
Rhys reached out. ‘I’ll hold that,’ he said of the knife.
She slipped the blade back inside and pulled the strings of the closure tight. ‘I’m fine.’ She gripped the ties.
Walking to the duchess, she held out the bag of herbs. Rhys followed her step for step and her stare directed at him did not budge him.
The duchess took the pillow, keeping her eyes on Bellona. She pulled the packet to her nose. ‘Different,’ she remarked.
‘At night, you are supposed to put them near your head and then your dreams are to be more pleasant. I have one. It doesn’t work for me. But my mana promised it worked for her.’
‘I do not think it will work for me either.’ The duchess sighed, letting her hand rest in her lap.
‘The dreams. The dreams are the worst part,’ Bellona said.
The duchess looked at the cloth in her hand, squeezing it, crushing the centre, causing the herbs to rustle. ‘I know.’
‘Some nights,’ Bellona admitted, ‘I dream my mother is alive and for those moments she is. But I dream she is the one being attacked by the men and I cannot save her. Those dreams are the worst. And they only grow and grow. I cannot breathe when I wake.’
The duchess nodded, eyes downcast. ‘Do not talk of this to me.’
‘No one wishes to hear it,’ Bellona said sadly. ‘I cannot talk about it with anyone. And not to be able to talk with Mana makes it so bad. I did not think I would live when she died, but my sister Thessa started slapping me when I cried. That helped.’
The duchess stared at Bellona. ‘How unkind.’
‘Oh, no. No,’ Bellona insisted. ‘I would get angry and I would chase her and chase her and want to hurt her. I will always love her for that.’
The duchess looked thoughtful. ‘Child. Perhaps a pat or hug would have been better?’
Bellona squinted. ‘That would have done no good. I would have cried more.’
A chuckle burst from Rhys’s lips. A light shone in his brown eyes that she’d never seen before in any man’s gaze and she could feel the sunshine from it. Her cheeks warmed.
‘You might as well sit,’ the duchess said. ‘You’ll make my neck hurt looking up at you.’
While she stood there, unable for the moment to think of anything but the duke’s sable eyes, he slipped the reticule from her hand.
‘Find me in the library when you leave so I may return this to you,’ he said. ‘I have some work to finish and I will have tea sent your way.’
He strode out through the doorway.
‘Do not dare slap me,’ the duchess warned.
‘If you need it, I will,’ Bellona replied.
‘Do not try it. I will not chase you,’ the duchess added, studying her rings, before indicating Bellona sit beside her. ‘I would send servants.’
Bellona shook her head. ‘You’ve lost enough family members for many slaps...’
The duchess nodded. ‘It was not supposed to be like that. My husband, I accepted he might die. He was much older than I. But my babies. My children. You don’t know what it is like.’
