James,
I’m writing to let you know my intention is not to stay away forever. I need time. I need time to resolve my own fears regarding you. And you need time so you might see I am capable and safe on my own.
I know how you will react to my leaving. And I am so very sorry that it will disturb you, that it will cause you worry. I truly feel I must do this. What happened yesterday can never happen again.
In the first weeks of our marriage, we formed a bond, a trust. And I know I’m partly to blame for breaking that trust when I saw my father and did not inform you. But I feel this madness that has taken you over is unfounded.
It’s but a nightmare, James, and shall never be a reality.
I’ll write to you in a few weeks, and we shall see.
Yours,
Rose
Chapter Twenty-One
“MRS. HAMILTON HAS not yet returned, sir,” Barrett said the instant James set foot in the house.
James’s stomach clenched. She wasn’t here, wasn’t in the house, their house. It didn’t surprise him Rose hadn’t returned from her outings. Had not wished to return to a house where she’d been locked in. Where she’d been forbidden to leave. A prisoner in the home he’d promised her love and security.
She was furious with him, and James didn’t blame her.
Shoulders stiff, teeth grinding, he managed a curt nod and waved the butler away.
Even when he slipped into the guest-room bed, her body warm and lax, Rose instantly pulled back. Her body tensed and stiffened away from him. She hadn’t wanted his touch even in sleep, hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her.
James didn’t blame her for that, either. But the fear, the cold fear that settled heavy in his stomach and moved through his veins, refused to abate. He’d known from the beginning anyone else would find him foolish, devoid of his senses. If he, himself, had heard the tale of two doomed lovers in Scotland, James knew he’d find the matter completely mad as well.
He’d likely taunt the man in question until he gave up the ridiculous notion. But it was a wholly other matter when he was the man in question. When the truth haunted him relentlessly; when it had warned him his entire life.
His fingers itched to feel her in his arms again, and every moment that passed without knowing exactly where she was made him want to rip the town apart until he found her. He hated not knowing if she was safe, what she was doing, who she was with.
But he also hated the creeping prickle that made him want to lock her in the house. He’d never been such a man and had loathed such controlling men.
Ignoring Barrett and the tray of correspondence, and everything else, James stalked to his study. He needed to look over the plans for the bazaar; he needed to get his mind away from Rose and his actions with her and focus on something—anything—until she returned.
Exhaustion tugged his limbs, and he quietly closed the door to his study. He hadn’t slept well last night, first without Rose and the terrible dreams of her broken body. Of the racing thoughts of all that might happen to her. After he’d found her, after their latest argument, he hadn’t bothered to sleep again.
What was the point?
Sinking into his chair, he dropped the plans on the desk and closed his eyes. Every time he did, he saw Rose’s face twisted in anger as she yelled at him. He pressed his fingers to his eyelids hard, as if doing so might erase the all-too-vivid image of Rose, dead.
His own actions made him ill, yet the desperation to keep her alive refused to abate. Round and round it went, and he had no idea what to do next.
Barrett’s raised voice carried clearly through the closed door. Who was the man arguing with? Wilson? The driver?
James shoved back the chair and yanked open the door. “What are you gossiping old women dithering about?”
Wilson, hat in hand, took several reluctant steps into the study. Barrett, who looked as reluctant as Wilson, hovered in the doorway. Annoyed, James folded his arms over his chest and glared. He was in no mood for household dramatics.
“Is Mrs. Hamilton upstairs?” James asked.
If Wilson returned, Rose must be in the house. And once again she avoided him. He bit back a sigh. Maybe she was right—this needed to be settled. They could go to the country, where it was only the two of them, and hash it all out.
Maybe then, with her away from her father, he’d be able to breathe easier.
“No,” Wilson said and stopped. He cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
James frowned. “What?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Wilson began again, his voice cracking. He crushed his hat in his large hands and looked down at the floor. “I don’t know where Mrs. Hamilton is.”
Don’t know…? James slowly stood from his position against the desk. His movements slow, he walked the pace between him and Wilson, circling the man.
Rose was gone? Rose had disappeared?
Every single nightmare he ever had about this very instance settled in his limbs. His knees weakened and his fingers went numb. But he stayed upright through sheer force of will, even as the icy tendrils of fear tightened their grip.
“Sir,” Wilson continued, “she went into a shop. Said she had a fitting and it’d take a while. But after a few hours I thought it strange. I went in to inquire after her.”
Wilson stopped and over the roar in his ears, James barely heard Barrett speaking in the hallway.
“They told me Mrs. Hamilton left hours ago through the back entrance,” Wilson whispered. “I looked around, searched the shops, but no one’d seen her.”
Suddenly James’s limbs remembered how to move, and he grabbed Wilson by his shirtfront. He dragged the smaller man up and snarled in his face. “You idiot!”
James shoved the man back. Digby entered and helped Wilson up, but James didn’t care. Rose was missing. Rose had left. Had she left of her own free will? Or had she been coerced? Forced to leave?
Every single nightmare came vividly to life.
“Sir!” Mrs. Shelley gasped.
“Go upstairs and see if she’s returned without these fools noticing!” he commanded. “Find her,” he snarled to Barrett and Digby.
Mrs. Shelley hurried to obey and James, ignoring the men, stalked after her. He went to the gallery, drawn there as always. But it was empty. He didn’t bother to look at the castle painting, though it seemed to mock him.
Taunt him with things that happened and horrors to come.
James stalked through every room but other than the staff, the house was empty. She was not in any of her normal rooms, and while she did a very good job avoiding him yesterday, today the entire household searched for her.
If she was in the house, she couldn’t hide.
Mrs. Shelley rushed down the steps, panting. She looked pale and shaking but was utterly alone. “Sir,” she gasped. “I found this in Mrs. Hamilton’s room.”
She handed him the folded note. James snatched it from her hands and quickly read it. Every word stabbed through his heart, and he didn’t know whether their trust lay in shards beneath his feet or if it had disappeared entirely. Vanished and unable to be stitched back together.
“Wilson!” he bellowed. The driver immediately appeared. “Take me to Kendrick’s house.”
They left immediately. James didn’t remember the ride there, too consumed with Rose’s letter. Nowhere did she say she loved him. And that, more than anything else, shredded him. She told him, voiced the words, and he’d felt the emotion from her.
Not simply empty promises, easily spoken, but true vows of affection and passion.
Cold terror vied with hot, raging anger.
“Where is my wife?” James demanded to the butler.
The man cowered before him. “Sir?”
“Where is she?” James repeated, uncaring that he frightened the man.
“What in hell is going on?” Kendrick roared from his study.
James stormed down the hall and slammed into the room. Kendrick sat at his desk, his f
ace florid and scowling. “Where is my wife?” James snarled.
“She’s not here,” Kendrick said and looked so obviously shocked, James almost believed him.
“I swear to you, Kendrick,” James hissed, a menacing promise, “if you don’t tell me, I’ll take everything you have away from you.”
He swept the plans off the desk and leaned over it.
“I have no idea where she is,” Kendrick spat. He did look intimidated, however, and remained sitting. “What has happened between the two of you? You are her husband.”
“I do not believe you,” James said in a low, threatening voice. “What,” he asked slowly, “have you done to her?”
Before Kendrick could answer, James rounded the desk and yanked the other man up by his collar. Looking frightened, angry, and annoyed, Kendrick scowled again.
“She’s not here.”
But James didn’t hear the lower class English accent Kendrick normally spoke in. He heard the Highlands tone, rolling and rhythmic.
“Where have you hidden her?” he demanded, his mind blank of anything save finding Rose. It was all that mattered, all he cared about.
He saw it then, the flash of Rose’s broken body looking up at him with sightless eyes. It was cold there too, so open and vacant. And the ground, the heather-covered moors they walked through, made love in, now seeped with her blood.
“Hidden her?” Kendrick repeated. “I’ve hidden her no place.”
“Where is she?” he roared.
Kendrick pushed at James’s hold, but he remained unyielding. James shook him once, but refused to release the man. Refused to let go of Rose’s father lest he lash out at Rose.
“It seems,” Kendrick said smugly, “the new husband and wife have fought. I remember those days with my wife.” His smugness scraped along James’s nerves, but he didn’t punch the man as he’d have liked.
“She was a right tetchy woman I often had to put in her place,” Kendrick continued. “It doesn’t surprise me Rose inherited her mother’s disobedience.”
Suddenly ill at those implications, at what Kendrick did to his wife, to Rose, James snarled at the man. He wanted to hurt him, to beat answers from him. Only the faint hope Kendrick that knew where Rose was had stopped James.
“Have you done anything to her?” James asked, his teeth clenched tightly together in a vain attempt to retain his control.
Kendrick broke his hold, shoving hard at James and standing. He didn’t bother to straighten his shirt or touch his neck, but merely glared back as if James hadn’t just tried to strangle him.
The damn man shrugged indolently and sneered. “Perhaps I could find her,” he hinted.
James barely stopped from slamming the man’s head against the desk.
“But my resources are dwindling. Perhaps another project for my company?” Kendrick said, the words slimy and nauseating. “One more prestigious build would help my resources and allow me to find my daughter. Bring her home to you. Even if I have to drag her by her hair back to your townhouse.”
“Produce her,” James said, each word carefully enunciated. “Now.”
How could Rose, his love, come from such a man?
Kendrick’s visage swam before James’s eyes. He saw the smug bastard leering up at him. He saw the battle-scarred warrior standing arrogant over his daughter’s dead body.
Everything in James froze. Horror, fear, and dread crawled up his spine and closed his throat. And then James blinked and only Kendrick stood before him. Rose did not lie at his feet, staring sightlessly.
“I’ll find her when our terms are sweetened,” Kendrick said, mocking him.
With his fists curled at his side, James glared hard at the other man. He didn’t believe Kendrick, not entirely. He pushed Kendrick against the desk and abruptly released him.
“I want Rose back now. No terms.” His voice was hard as steel and just as cold. “Produce her this night,” he warned Kendrick, “or I swear to you, you’ll have nothing left but the clothes on your back.”
Without looking back and without another word, he stormed from the house. James didn’t know where to begin, where to look, but he needed to find her. He needed to see her, to know she still lived.
It wasn’t a want, a nebulous thing, this burning fear for her. He’d lived with this fear his entire life—that he’d find the woman he loved, only to lose her. To not save her from certain death. To not protect her.
He wouldn’t allow it to come true.
Fear pulsed beneath his skin, urging him on to find her. He’d find Rose. He wouldn’t let the past repeat itself. He’d not lose Rose, no matter what he had to do.
Digby stood by the carriage. James stopped and stared at his footman.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
But he didn’t wait for an answer; Digby was his favorite and most trusted ally for a reason. And the man’s loyalty touched a deep part of James.
With the carriage door open and one foot on the step, he turned to Digby. “Destroy him,” he ordered.
Digby merely nodded. “Sir.”
James climbed into the carriage and focused on finding Rose. He thought destroying Kendrick would help the fear clawing around his heart. Now, with his focus solely on finding his wife, he realized Kendrick didn’t matter. He never had.
Only Rose did. Only finding her and keeping her safe mattered.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“OH, ROSE, THIS is a lovely cottage,” Faith Hodges said.
Faith turned in a circle, clearly impressed. Rose smiled, a slow tug at her lips. Her limbs ached with exhaustion and weariness. All she wanted was to curl up and sleep, though she knew sleep was as elusive as her understanding of James.
Rose cleared her throat and tried to dislodge the hurt and anger.
“And so large for one person,” Faith continued. “But,” she said as she stopped turning, her happy smile wide and genuine, “I suppose there wasn’t much choice. There aren’t many cottages for rent like this with furnishings in Kingsnorth.”
“No,” Rose murmured in agreement.
And Kingsnorth was the only place she thought of to go when she left London. Faith and her husband Jeremey were close friends of hers from London. They’d left for Kingsnorth two years ago to open their own cobbler’s shop.
And though Rose had lost touch with Faith in those two years, when she’d suddenly knocked on Faith’s door the other day, it was as if no time at all had passed. Faith and Jeremey had taken her in with no questions and had promised her a room and food while she found a cottage and a job, should she need it.
“I was lucky,” she said louder with forced happiness. “Mr. Jones was very accommodating.”
“And the garden!” Faith gushed. “You have rosebushes and lilacs.”
Faith turned, her dark eyes shining brightly. “It’s so beautiful. Would you mind if I came by later for flowers for the house?”
Rose only nodded. While she wanted solitude, to sort through her feelings for James and the sudden turn he’d taken, she also didn’t want to be alone. And Faith, with her happy smiles and enthusiasm, was the perfect friend to spend time with.
“Whatever you like, Faith.” Rose looked at the garden and felt some of her tension ease. “And it is a lovely garden; I could happily spend all day there.”
“Mr. Jones’s wife loves her gardens,” Faith said as a warm breeze blew through the open door. “I know she often tends to the flowers with her sister.”
Faith turned and laughed mischievously. “She may not be too pleased to learn I’ve benefitted from her hard work.”
A little more of the tension eased from Rose’s shoulders. This was why she’d gone to Kingsnorth and not a town where she knew no one. “Well,” she said just as haughtily, “you are my friend, and as such, you may take what you like.”
With another laugh, Faith plucked a nearby rose and carefully threaded it through her hair. “I shall wear it all day.” Kissing Rose on the cheek, Faith ste
pped away from the back door. “But now I must meet Jeremey at the cobbler’s. I shall see you afterwards,” she promised.
“I’ll be by tomorrow for a new pair of slippers,” Rose said as she walked Faith out.
It was the absolute least she could do, considering how easily Faith took her in when she suddenly appeared. Even if they were the second pair she bought in as many days.
Closing the door behind her friend, Rose looked around the cottage. Sunlight streamed in the windows and danced along the floor. It was lovely, highly polished dark wood and hand-painted bone china. Not along the lines of James’s house, but for her purposes, it was perfect.
Crossing to the rear, she once more opened the back door and stepped out. The Joneses clearly took great care of the cottage and great pride in the gardens.
Rose took a deep breath of the fragrant air and walked down the stone path to the bench. She settled on it and simply relaxed.
She’d been serious when she said she wanted to spend all day in the gardens, letting the sunlight warm her skin and chase away the fear and uncertainty she’d felt since discovering James…
She wasn’t thinking of that. No. She’d done naught but think of James and his actions, words, and paranoia since concocting her scheme to leave.
Rose did not want to force him to endure this—her leaving, not knowing where she lived or what she did. But he’d locked her in and ordered the staff to not let her out of her own house. His actions were not an eccentricity but a danger to them both.
In the five days since she sneaked out of the dressmaker’s, lying to her driver and James and the entire staff, Rose had neglected to take into account her reaction to his absence.
She missed him.
As much as she wished he’d change, let go these foolish notions, she did miss James. It had been a short time since their wedding and an even shorter time since she realized not that she could fall in love with him but that she had. She hated the lies between them regarding her father. But that was all she hated about her marriage. Rose loved everything else.
James, most of all.
No, her leaving was the right course, and Rose refused to stray from it. Lifting her face to the sky, she closed her eyes and let the warmth settle on her. Mr. Jones promised to send candidates for the cook and maid positions over for Rose to interview this morning. She needed them only for the month; she’d paid for the cottage for one month, and whether or not she stayed here the entire time, she’d pay her staff for the month as well.
Improper Wedding: Scandalous Encounters Page 16