To Have & To Hold
Mackenzie Lucas
Copyright ©2012 by Mackenzie Lucas
KINDLE EDITION
Cover Design: Robert Lyons/Roar Desygn/RoarDesygn.com
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This work is fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
To my amazing, talented husband—this one’s for you. Love you, babe.
Chapter One
“God, Cate. You really are the patron saint of lost causes, aren’t you?”
Cate tried to pull free of Michael’s embrace. He brought her right hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. He’d been a good friend to her over the past year, but not one she’d trusted with her secrets. He really didn’t know her at all. And he would never be more than a friend. When he tried to pull her closer, the floor above them rumbled as Cooper raged on the third level of the renovated Victorian she called home. Chills crawled up her neck. His cries sounded frenzied and wounded. “Michael, maybe you should go.”
“I don’t know how you can live with that beast howling and snarling all day and night. I understand he’s a rescue dog. But, damn it, enough is enough.”
She massaged her forehead, trying to ease the headache that always seemed to live just behind her eyes. “You don’t understand him like I do. I really think you should go.”
“See, and that’s exactly what I mean. You’re too emotionally attached. You never should’ve named him after your husband. Ruddy hell, you go on and on about Cooper this and Cooper that. Cate, he’s a damned dog.” He cupped her face. “I’m worried about you. The blasted animal is always snarling and snapping up there. He’s dangerous.”
An emotion she didn’t want to label flickered in his eyes. The intensity of it scared her. Made her want to burrow deep and hold on for her life or run screaming. She wasn’t sure which. Cate turned her cheek into his palm, enjoying his touch for a fleeting second before she pulled back.
Michael was handsome, charming, and usually kind to a fault, other than his vehemence about Coop. And she’d give him the benefit of the doubt on that last one because every time he got close, Cooper went ballistic--fighting to get free and bellowing at the top of his lungs. Coop’s screams could dampen the hottest of passions.
She had no clue what bothered the beast.
And she was quite certain Michael didn’t understand her coolness. Every other woman in his life threw themselves at him. She’d watched it happen too many times to count over the past year. His short-cropped blond hair, tropical blue eyes, and handsome good looks had won over every eligible woman in the isolated seaside village of Porthleven, and even a few English lasses who weren’t available. The wealthy solicitor visiting from London had set tongues wagging on more than one occasion.
“It seemed appropriate to name him after my husband,” she said.
“Grayson Cooper would not be amused to know you’ve named that flea-bitten shag rug after him. Every time I stop by, he’s snarling and rattling his crate up there. And, yet, there you go defending him, thinking he’ll miraculously morph into a harmless lapdog.”
“He’s fine. Cooper settles down as soon as you leave.” It was true. The beast stopped raging the moment Michael James drove away. Every single time. Coop had some sixth sense when it came to Michael’s visits, which had become more frequent and friendlier over the past six months. The moment the white Land Rover drove up the winding road from the village toward the house, Cooper would start to raise hell.
“I don’t want to leave just because your dog has separation anxiety. Not this time. Please, Cate.” Michael slid his hands to her hips and drew her against him. “I want to stay. Overnight. I want to be more than your solicitor or a shoulder to cry on for my best friend’s grieving widow. It’s been a year. Let me stay. Please?” His voice broke. “Let me love you.”
The hopeful look in his eyes made her want to cry.
Cate placed a hand in the middle of his muscled chest. He felt so damned good under her fingers. Hard, strong. Solid and dependable. She wanted so much to succumb to his dogged pursuit of her. But she couldn’t. She gave him a little push to put a few inches between them. He let go, his arms falling to his sides, his shoulders slumped. It took several moments before he looked up to consider her in silence, his chin angled. Hurt radiated from him.
And that made her feel like a total heel.
She turned her back on him and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the clifftop, then she paused to address him over her shoulder. “Look, Michael. You know I can’t offer you anything more. I’ve been very clear with you all along. I’ve never, ever led you to believe there could be anything other than friendship between us. You’ve been my best friend this past year. I don’t know what I would have done without you. But I can’t give you what you want.”
His cheeks flushed. And the blatantly wounded expression on his face squeezed something vulnerable inside her. She hated to hurt anyone, especially someone she cared about. But she’d never love him the way he needed. She’d never love anyone that way ever again.
She looked away and stared out the windows, a sudden chill ran through her. She hugged herself, rubbing her palms up and down her upper arms.
Cornwall in February was a bitch. High, frigid winds whipped water into frothy caps that raced along the turbulent oceanic horizon. Cold sea swells crashing against the monolithic sentinels on the strand below splattered water droplets against the glass. Gray flat-bottomed clouds threatening a storm slipped across the afternoon sky, leaching what warmth and light remained.
“I’m still married,” she said.
“Yes, you’re married, but you’re not dead.” He stood behind her now, hands resting on her shoulders. He tried to pull her back against him.
She resisted. “I might as well be dead. You know I loved my husband.”
“It’s been a year, Cate. A long, dreadful year. I’ve given you all your legal options. You need to move on.”
“Not while there’s still a possibility that he’ll return to me.”
“Damn it. There you go again. Saint Cate. Give it up. Stop holding out hope for the nasty git. He’s gone. He’s never coming back. Don’t you see what he’s done? He stole from you. Faked his death and disappeared. The son-of-a-bitch embezzled from you because he was too weak-willed to divorce the American fortune he’d married. He’s off sipping mojitos on some tropical island in the South Seas, rolling in the millions of dollars he swindled from you.” He turned her around to face him. “While you sit here in this Godforsaken place with that mountain goat of a dog upstairs, pining away for him like a lovesick war widow. Get over it. Let me help you forget him.”
“I’ll never forget him.” As if Cate ever could. A tear slipped down her cheek, blazing a hot trail straight to her battered heart. She didn’t need the fancy Oxford-trained solicitor who’d fallen in love with her to remind her that her husb
and had abandoned her. She knew exactly where the bastard was sleeping. What her husband drank. And that he wasn’t exactly rolling in money.
He was a monster. But not the kind anyone could imagine.
“He hurt you. I saw the marks. The bruises. I don’t care if we did study law together and were once best mates. Grayson didn’t deserve you. Let me take care of you, Cate.” Michael cupped her face and brushed his lips gently over hers. He ran his tongue over the part in her lips, coaxing her to open for him.
God, she wanted to trust someone with the secrets she held so tight they threatened to choke her in her sleep. But she couldn’t do it. She firmed her mouth. Turned her head so that his lips trailed over her cheek. Cate wished she could love Michael. Any woman would be lucky to have him. And yet she’d only ever loved Grayson. “He never meant to hurt me.” The words came out soft, a gossamer wing’s beat. “He couldn’t help himself.”
“Don’t.” Michael pressed his index finger gently against her lips. “Do not justify his abuse.” He pressed his forehead to hers.
Cooper wailed, a long soulful cry.
She eased herself out of Michael’s arms and paced back to the wall of windows. “I’m not justifying anything. In the four years of our marriage, the man never once touched me out of anger.”
She spoke the truth. Those first two blissful years had been the best of her life.
Then the halcyon years had been devoured by a third that had become a living hell; one lost in a flurry of violence--words that cut deep and physical scars that scored even deeper. Cycles of mania and depression that came and went with the phases of the moon. Grand intentions and failed promises. Anger. And a debilitating madness that twisted her gentle, loving, stalwart husband into a monster she didn’t recognize and who’d destroyed everything he touched.
That horrendous third year had then been followed by a fourth of total silence.
Apart. Alone.
Was the man she loved still alive?
Or was he gone forever like her idyllic dreams of happiness which had evaporated like fog the day he’d almost killed her? Yes, the day the yacht capsized, he had almost killed her. Officials had said the accident was staged. It had been staged. He’d meant for them both to die on the Celtic Sea. He’d drugged her and locked her below deck on a sinking boat. Then he’d somehow shot himself in the chest and capsized the boat. Only she didn’t die and she’d saved him by making him disappear. The monster had been banished, vanquished for a time because of her quick thinking and resourcefulness--and because of her grandfather’s key.
“Then how do you explain the cuts and bruises? The broken arm?”
“I can’t.” She couldn’t explain. Michael would never understand. Nor did she want to weave more lies that would entangle her and rip her to pieces.
“How can you still love him after all he’s done to you?”
“I don’t know.” And she truly didn’t know how she could still love the man who had broken her heart. The rat bastard who had lied to her and who had used deception and trickery to trap her in marriage with a monster. He’d known all along just who and what he’d been--he’d detailed it in the letter he’d left behind addressed to The Consortium. The day he disappeared. The day they were supposed to both disappear forever.
One year ago, today.
The Consortium leader had recommended a year away for Grayson. She’d granted him a single year.
And she hadn’t laid eyes on him since that day.
A sudden longing, so strong it almost overpowered her, coursed like molten lava through her veins--a yearning so deep it made her tremble. A longing to love and be loved. A yearning for her soul mate. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window. Michael had been with her every step of the way this past year. He cared about her. Hell, if she could believe the look in his eyes, he loved her. Her resolve weakened. Maybe Michael could stay. One night.
She needed a port in the storm. A safe haven. She didn’t want to be trapped in this dead-end, lonely marriage any more, chained to a monster who had abandoned her.
Cate wanted out. She wanted to be set free and she certainly didn’t want to still love him.
An unholy howl ripped the near-invitation from her lips.
Michael couldn’t stay. Not with Coop frantic upstairs. She lifted her head and squared her shoulders. “Really, you should go.”
“That damned dog. I swear. If you don’t do it, I’m going to take care of him myself one of these days. Wait and see. One day when you walk into the village to get your post, I’m going to kidnap that beast and set him free in a remote area where he can’t hurt anyone.”
“Go home.” She gave him a gentle shove. “I’ll set Coop free. Then, we’ll discuss if you still want to stay.”
He gave her a quick, hard kiss. Her promise to release Coop mobilized Michael faster than anything ever had. He grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed for the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he winked at her, his smile lighting up his face. “I’ll be back in a week. You won’t be sorry you got rid of that rabid mutt. I promise. Thank you.”
If only it were that easy. Cate locked the door and set the alarm system. It wouldn’t help her cause, or Cooper’s, if Michael came back unannounced. She knew what she had to do and she wasn’t excited about the prospect. Not one bit.
Silence filtered through the house like a sacred song in the nave of a cathedral.
She mounted the stairs.
One by one, she counted the steps as she gripped the carved mahogany banister.
Three flights of stairs.
Twenty steps per flight.
Three landings.
Sixty-three steps until she would stand at the door to the attic. If she focused on adding up the steps, she couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember all the despicable things she’d said and done in the past year.
She ran out of stairs and almost returned to the main floor to start over. Who was she kidding? Every night she faced this same attic door. And every night, she faced the same truth. In the last year, she’d become a bigger monster than the one she’d trapped and kept hidden in her attic. For God’s sake, this wasn’t the dark ages. She was no St. George and Grayson Cooper was not a prince in need of rescue.
Surely there were options in the twenty-first century?
Skilled doctors. Medications. Surgery. Something that could castrate the monster on the other side of this door, strip away the beast that roared and thrashed nightly to leave behind the man she’d fallen in love with and married. The man she’d wanted to set free every single day since she’d locked him up.
She sagged against the reinforced steel door, allowing the unforgiving metal to cool the fever that raged within, to assuage the guilt that consumed her, and to overcome her warring conscience. This had become her ritual, her daily act of penance for the past three-hundred and sixty-five days. How pitiable? A woman pining at the prison door of her would-be-killer, her husband, and the only man she’d ever loved.
Cate splayed her hand flat against the smooth surface and pretended she could touch him. She wished for everything she could never have--a chance to caress his warm skin, to kiss his wide, sensual mouth, to love him the way she’d always intended, to start the family they’d planned, and to enjoy the normal storms that couples faced together.
Nothing about her life could be called normal.
Not a year ago. Not today.
Now, alone, she faced the monster. A hot tear slid down her cheek. She swiped it away, angry at herself for giving in to weakness yet again.
One year. She’d promised him one year to fight the battle.
She’d done what she had to do. Right?
The uncertainty of that answer had kept her tied to the isolated Victorian mansion, crouched on the cliffs near Porthleven, when common sense had told her to run. Fast and hard.
Never look back.
The time for the enchantment to end had come, whether she liked it or not. She dipped her finger
below her waistband to snag the gold chatelaine she wore, the legacy of her grandparents. While the warmed metal comforted her today, the ever-present protection of the chain some days felt like a shackle rather than a protective talisman. With a flick of her thumb, she released first a bronze passkey and then a Victorian needle case from clasps on the chatelaine.
The quick prick of a needle she’d pulled from the ornate container produced the bead of blood she needed to release the warded locks of the attic.
She pressed her blood to the solid shaft of the key.
The metal glowed gold. Turned hot, then ice-cold.
Cate gripped her grandfather’s passkey so tight the sharp square edges of the bit pressed hard into her flesh, and the bow threatened to mark its scroll pattern permanently onto her palm. The magic in the old key stung her skin and zipped up her arm.
She didn’t care. Physical pain was better than this hell she lived every day, knowing that she’d been the one to, first, lure the beast, and then, trap and imprison her own husband for an entire year.
She slipped the key into the slot and turned it.
An ancient magic hummed through the hallway. Bands of energy sparkled blue and purple, burning white-hot like magnesium that unfurled with a snap. The Latin words she knew so well blazed above the door, the magic revealing their invisible warning. A cursive trace of fire charred the wooden lintel, scarring it with the words Cave, Hic Sunt Dracones. The acrid smell of scorched wood stung her nose. Orange embers sprayed then fell to ash before they touched the floor.
A magic strong enough to hold a monster at bay for an entire year disintegrated before her very eyes. A trickle of sweat snaked between her breasts. She trembled, her fingers slipping once, twice before she returned the key securely to the chatelaine.
For better or worse, it was done.
God, let it be for better. Please.
The door swung open in a slow, wide arc.
To Have & to Hold Page 1