by Devon, Eva
Good God, he couldn’t do that to her. Or himself.
All her life, those closest to her had used her and it was only her wits and her fierceness that had kept her from falling too far into hell.
“You do,” observed Drake softly. “You do love her.
“I canna possibly love someone that I barely ken,” Tristan retorted.
“That’s not true,” Drake replied with shocking conviction. “I think there’s something deep within us that knows, that knows the moment when we see another person, that that person is for us.”
Drake’s brows drew together as he contemplated the fire. “Oh, of course, I believe love can grow over time. Deep love does grow over time. Truly, great affection and affinity, doesn’t happen in just a moment. But the connection? That moment, that moment when you absolutely know that that person is yours?”
Drake paused then pinned Tristan with a powerful stare. “That can happen in a moment, and I see it in your damned eyes now. You’re connected to her. You are determined to protect her, and you will throw everything away to do so. That’s why you’ve asked us all to come here to help solve your dilemma.”
Drake blew out a breath, shaking his head in awe. “If you didn’t love her, if you didn’t care for her, you would find some easy solution. Something which could be quickly done and without the advice of your friends. You wouldn’t need to bring us all about you to draw upon our combined power. No, you wouldn’t have married her at all. You would’ve found someone else to do that and been done.”
“Ye think verra little of me,” Tristan said, “if ye think I could do something like that.”
“Truly?” Drake asked. “You couldn’t do that in your determination to find revenge for your sister? You could beat men in alleys, you could destroy others, you could bet upon the worst possible things. You could witness the worst possible acts, but you couldn’t find her a different husband, not in the pursuit of vengeance of your sister?”
Drake cocked his head to the side as he challenged, “Have you forgotten that?”
Tristan slammed his snifter down, and it cracked. “Damn ye.”
“Damn me?” Drake repeated. “Don’t be a fool, Ardore. I’ve been dammed since the moment I was born. It’s why I dare to say such things. But it’s true, isn’t it? You do care for her. You care for her so deeply that you risk not destroying the men who hurt your sister so badly.”
Tristan looked away as his friend’s words hit their mark. It was true, but what could he say? How could he ever be willing to destroy another young woman to save his sister who had been destroyed? It was all such a tangle now.
“I. . . I doona ken how it happened,” Tristan whispered, even as it dawned on him that Drake might just be right. The feelings he felt for Annabelle were not just idle lust and admiration. He longed to protect her, and yet, to see her free from any that might control her.
Still, he could not ignore the unavoidable truth. Annabelle was no innocent victim in all of this. Not his wife, not as his sister had been. His sister had once been sweet, and kind, and full of happiness.
She had never had a dark thought for anyone. She had never hurt anyone, and she never could have hurt anyone, not even if someone had hurt her.
Jane hadn’t tried to hurt those who had hurt her. She had tried to hurt herself, but Annabelle? Annabelle was different. Annabelle had hurt others to protect herself. . . and he admired her for it.
There it was.
There was no arguing with it. Annabelle was a woman who fought, and he could not dislike her for it. In actuality, it only increased his regard for her. She had not given way.
She had had faced many dark things, and yet, she had not been drowned by them.
“Richard Heath will be here soon,” Drake broke in. “He’ll tell you things which will no doubt make you shudder.”
Tristan scoffed, “I doubt it.”
Drake arched a brow. “You think because you’ve spent a bit of time in the dirt, slumming with scum, that you know the hell a woman like Annabelle might have faced?”
“Her uncle is a lord,” Tristan corrected. “Her mother was a lady. She—”
Drake narrowed his eyes. “Ask her. Ask her what she’s done to stay alive. I guarantee it would make the most callous blueblood cringe in horror. For while ladies must eat their pride, put up with controlling men, and do as told lest they face punishment, they have never known the degradation of the street and worse.”
Tristan stilled. What the hell was Drake talking about? “The street?”
“Ask her who her father was. You won’t know his name. But Richard Heath does. And even Heath’s blood runs cold at that man’s name.”
Chapter 20
Annabelle took each step slowly, carefully. She traced her hands along the cold, rough stone walls. Her breath slowed, her heartbeat seemed loud to her own ears.
What secret was she about to discover? Her steps made soft, barely audible thuds, for she didn’t want to alert whoever it was at the top of the stairs of her ascent. For she had no wish to frighten them.
It was clear to her that whoever had been watching her was not someone who would hurt her.
Something deep inside her told her that. She wasn’t afraid for herself as she mounted the stairs. She was curious. Who would live in such shadows in the great castle?
Once she reached the top of the stairs, she met a burgundy, silk brocade curtain drawn across the way.
This was the moment.
She could turn back and let the secret remain. She could try to forget what she had heard and seen. But she felt certain that whoever the person was behind this curtain wanted her to come in. Otherwise, the person would not have followed her so closely in the hallway tonight.
Drawing courage in hand, Annabelle reached out and pulled back the heavy folds of the brocade. What met her eyes shocked her.
It was a beautiful, circular room.
Annabelle stepped inside and was met by the warmth of a roaring fire across the space.
Underneath her foot was a beautiful Axminster rug woven of the darkest blues and burgundy colors, interspersed with golden roses.
Books were placed on every possible surface.
From the long mahogany table in the center of the room to all of the shelves which had been artfully arranged along the circular walls, tapestries had been placed in various places with beautiful pictures of maidens and unicorns, knights of old, songs being played to their mistress of love.
She hesitated as she took another step inside.
Where was the person who had come up the stairs?
At present, it appeared that she was alone, but she knew she was not. She could feel that she was not alone.
Carefully, Annabelle looked about.
She spotted the bed. It was a small thing, made up perfectly with a dark blue counterpane. A few feet from it stood a table with wine and water, and fruit.
This was a place where someone could remain for hours, days even, and not have to descend the stairs. In the corner, there was a small instrument. The harpsichord was surprisingly delicate. Even so, she wondered how it had possibly made its way up the small stairs.
Narrow arrow slots made up the windows. Though made of clear, polished glass, they allowed very little light in.
Still, when Annabelle took a glance, she could still see the stars.
From across the room, she spotted a small, almost hidden nook where one might disappear to contemplate their thoughts or read. And in the shadows stood the person who had piqued Annabelle’s curiosity. It was the same woman she had seen on the Highlands the day before.
It was most definitely the girl from the portrait. My God, how a person could change.
Annabelle wondered how much she herself had changed over the years. But she doubted that she had ever looked as sweet, kind, innocent, or as happy as the girl in the picture.
No, she must have, at one point, looked more like the young woman standing across from her now. Haunted, sad,
tormented.
Wild dark hair hung about her face as if she paid no attention to it, nor bothered to dress it.
Dark eyes stared at Annabelle like twin stones, and her face was pale as though she rarely sought the light of day.
“How do you do?” Annabelle asked quietly.
The young woman said nothing.
Unshaken, Annabelle inclined her head. “I’m Annabelle Winters.”
Annabelle hesitated.
Her introduction wasn’t quite true, was it?
She wasn’t Annabelle Winters, not anymore.
The girl cocked her head to the side. “Ye’re my brother’s wife,” she said, as if she, too, had been thinking the same thought as Annabelle.
“Yes, I am,” Annabelle replied quickly but gently. She worried the inside of her cheek for a moment then declared, “You are my sister-in-law.”
The girl stepped out of the shadowy nook and circled around to the fire.
All the while, she glanced at Annabelle from the corner of her eye. The girl stared as if Annabelle were an unknown creature, one that she couldn’t quite trust yet, but was deeply intrigued by.
“Does he love ye?” the young woman asked.
“No,” Annabelle said honestly. “I barely know him.”
“But he married ye,” the girl replied, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Surely that means something.”
“He married me because he had to.” Annabelle informed, determined to be truthful. “There was no choice in it.”
“He had to?” The young woman scoffed. “I doona believe my brother ruined ye. He would never do something like that.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Annabelle agreed quickly, nearly kicking herself for having insinuated such a thing. “He would never do such a thing. He’s not that kind of man.”
“Y-ye have experience of men?” Tristan’s sister asked.
“I do,” Annabelle confirmed, though she took no pride in it. “A great deal. Enough to know their hearts and their souls if they even have them.”
The girl looked at her strangely. “Ye are verra odd.”
Annabelle laughed, “Yes, I am. Forgive me, I am not used to the company of other people. Not truly,” Annabelle added.
“Well, at present,” the girl said, “nor am I.”
“May I know your name?” Annabelle asked. She hoped that Tristan’s sister might trust her.
The young woman took a step back, but she lifted her chin and said firmly, “My name is Jane.”
“How do you do, Jane?” Annabelle said, giving a slight curtsy. “My name, well, you know my name.”
Jane eyed her carefully. “Please, tell me the truth. How did ye come to marry my brother?”
Annabelle considered all the possible answers then settled on a simple one. “Because of the vagaries of men and their manipulations.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Ye are so honest about it.”
“Should I lie to you?” Annabelle questioned. “Should I need lie to another young woman?”
“No! Of course no’,” Jane protested, sounding surprisingly relieved. “Only I am no’ used to women speaking so of men. It seems to me that women in general speak only of pleasantries, of the weather, of lace, of what dance to learn, and how to best please the gentlemen and the company.”
Annabelle grimaced. “I have, of course, known a few of those ladies. But most of the women that I have known have had to choose other ways of life, more bold ways, more distressing ways. They don’t generally choose to speak with reticence.”
Jane stared at her, agog. “I canna imagine such a thing.”
“Can you not?” Annabelle asked. “Was your mother so timid?”
Jane winced. “No, but I did no’ ken her well.”
“I’m sorry,” rushed Annabelle. Of course, Jane had known only genteel ladies. She was born a lady, after all. “I did not know my mother well either.”
“Then we have something in common,” Jane said with a nod.
“I’d wager we have several things in common,” Annabelle said in return.
Jane let out a dry laugh. “I canna countenance that to be true. When I see ye, I see a strong woman. I see someone who is no’ afraid.”
“You’re afraid?” Annabelle asked.
Jane whipped her gaze away.
Annabelle took a step forward, her hand out. “Forgive me, that was far too personal of a question. But may I ask why you are so hidden up here? Why have I not been introduced to you?”
Jane hesitated.
Horrified at the sudden thought, Annabelle closed her eyes. She didn’t want to believe that Tristan could possibly be a villain, that he could do something so cruel, so awful as to hide his sister away. But she would not be a fool either.
Annabelle wet her lips, hating that such a question would even pass her lips. “Does your brother keep you here?”
Jane’s eyebrows lifted and she laughed again, only this sound was full of wild mirth. “My brother? No. He asked me many times to come back down into the castle. He’s asked me many times to join him for breakfast, for dinner, for outings, but I will no’.”
“Why?” Annabelle queried, relieved beyond measure the man she admired so much had not fallen in her estimation.
Jane’s smile dimmed. “It does no’ matter why, but I am no’ fit for company, nor do I have any wish to be with company.”
“But your brother is not simply company, is he?” Annabelle pointed out. “He seems to be a good man and you seem to care about him.”
Annabelle took another step forward, daring to venture further with the very forward question, “Does he not care about you?”
The truth was, Annabelle had no idea how family actually related to each other. She had no experience of it, herself. She had not had brothers or sisters. She had barely had the opportunity to be close to her mother, and her father had been a dark figure. Her uncle had been cruel beyond extreme. Her only experience of family had been deeply unpleasant.
But Annabelle did wish to understand why Jane would hide from someone she clearly loved and who seemed to love her in turn.
“Of course I care about my brother,” Jane replied easily. “And he cares greatly about me. Truthfully, he’s the only reason that I am still here, that I try every day to find some contentment.”
Annabelle swallowed as the room seemed to still at Jane’s sudden confession. Did she mean. . .
“What do you mean that you’re still here?” Annabelle asked softly.
Jane shook her head then said briskly, “It doesna matter. None of it really matters. Would ye care for a glass of wine?”
“I should like it very much,” Annabelle replied gently. “I think it’s wonderful that you have wine in your room. I was never allowed such a thing by my own uncle.”
“A young lady doesna usually have wine in her room,” Jane said before her brow furrowed. “In fact, I canna think of a single unmarried woman who might do such a thing. Even married ladies really,” added Jane. “But I am no’ a usual young lady and my brother has given me a great deal of room to maneuver the dark landscape that I have now entered.”
“Dark landscape?” questioned Annabelle. “That sounds very dramatic.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it is,” confirmed Jane as she turned to the decanter of wine. “I have to say that my life has taken on the aspects of a tragic novel. If only someone else was writing my tale, it would be far happier.”
Jane pulled out the stopper to the decanter then paused. “That woman who wrote Pride and Prejudice perhaps? Yes, I think that might have been much better. Even Sense and Sensibility. I think I could have managed quite happily along with that Colonel Brandon fellow.” Jane shook her head and sighed. “But no, I seem to be in a Radcliffe novel.”
“There are some happy endings in those are there not?” Annabelle asked, uncertain as she had not read any of the famous novelist’s works.
“I suppose some of the characters do have happy endings,” Jane replied, ea
sily pouring out two full glasses of wine. “But I’m no’ entirely convinced that I shall. In fact, I think I’m rather destined for a doomed, horrible end.”
“My goodness,” Annabelle said carefully. “That does sound rather terrible. What makes you think such a thing?”
“Only the circumstances of the last year,” replied Jane. “But, I shall no’ bore ye with my foolish stupidity, my trusting instincts. But I do think them a good reason to educate girls no’ to trust men or take them at their words.”
Annabelle couldn’t agree more. Education, she felt, was the key. After all, when people didn’t know that others could be quite terrible, they didn’t protect themselves. If one didn’t know that one could fall, wouldn’t one jump? Wouldn’t one try to fly if there was no fear of crashing to the earth?
No. It was only knowing that leaping into some unknown and untrustworthy person’s arms could lead to absolute destruction of one’s body, soul, and mind that could protect one.
Hadn’t Annabelle’s own mother taught her that?
Her mother had given up everything for the man that she loved and it had completely destroyed her. So perhaps, Jane was not being dramatic at all. Perhaps, Jane was absolutely correct.
Foolish young girls, daughters of aristocrats, should be more educated about the ways of the world lest they be taken in by them.
“I received my education very early,” Annabelle said. “Truthfully, I knew that the world was an awful place almost from the moment of my birth.”
“Truly?” Jane asked as she took up the wine glasses in her pale hands.
“Yes,” Annabelle said. The word felt so small. So cutting.
Silently, she waited as Jane crossed the room.
The ruby liquid danced a beautiful blood hue in the firelight.
Jane carefully passed her one of the goblets.
Annabelle took it gently in her hands and, for one moment, their fingertips touched and she felt such a connection to the girl.
In that moment, she wished that she could take away all the sorrow and unhappiness that Jane had felt. Because Jane had known happiness once and what a wonderful thing that was.