“Where did it all go?” Her head wobbling, she stood straight. “I remember it all, Rowe. I remember all of this. But I do not remember why we left. Our possessions are not here. My paints. My easel. My portraits. It was a home. We had a home. But all of it is gone.”
Rowen was at a loss. He didn’t want to give Wynne hope against what her mind was determined to keep secret. But he held back his pessimism. “Keep walking. Keep remembering.”
She took a deep breath and moved past him, her eyes on the floor. Stopping at the entrance to the back room, she drew aside the curtain.
The instant she looked up, she gasped, her body doubling over. But instead of stepping backward, where her body leaned to escape, her feet took her forward into the room.
Rowen was at her heels in an instant, ready to catch her, and looking over her head into the room.
Empty.
A worn bed. A dresser. That was all.
But Wynne’s body had begun to shake. Shake violently.
Her hand was solid over her mouth, and it looked like she was holding back a heave.
She spun, frantic, and Rowen caught sight of her eyes. Terrified. Terrified and horrified.
“No, Rowe. No.” The words barely formed.
“What is it?”
“He beat her here. I was in the forest and I came in…” She spun slowly in a circle, her eyes glazed. “The blood…I tried to stop him—I went between them and bent to cover her—but he picked me off and threw me into the wall and it all went black… And when I woke, that—”
She pushed Rowen aside, running past him into the main room. He quickly followed.
Her steps halted in the middle of the floor, sending her slipping toward the fireplace. She fell onto her butt. “The poker…”
Scrambling backward on her feet and hands, terrorized, she only stopped when she hit the wall opposite the fireplace. But her feet still moved, pushing her into the wall, toes fighting against the floor—against the horror.
“Tell me, Wynne. Tell me.”
She shook her head violently, the back of her head banging on the wall. But she opened her mouth. “He beat her—with that.” She pointed across the room. “The poker. The poker. And the blood flew. The blood…I went weak. And then he saw me awake.”
Her hand flew across her mouth, her eyes shut hard against the scene in her mind.
“I tried to get my knife out, but I lost it in my bag. And he swung. I rolled. And he swung again. I got past him. And I ran. I ran.”
Her breath heaving, her words stopped.
Rowen looked around the room. Everything seemed somewhat clean and orderly. Whatever had happened here had long since been removed. He took a step backward to look into the bedroom again. Neat and unused.
Just as he leaned forward, his eyes caught sight of a large dark spot on the planks of the wood floor. It wasn’t much, the wood was dark to begin with, but it was noticeable, even under the wood shavings and dust covering the floor.
He moved into the small bedroom, dragging the toe of his boot across the floor to scrape it down to the plank. Noticeably dark. Blood? Long dried, but cleaned up blood?
Stepping back into the main room, Rowen’s gaze fell down to Wynne. Sitting, her back propped against the wall with her arms wrapping herself, her breathing had slowed.
Her eyes opened to him.
Torture, down to the depths of her soul, shook in her eyes. He recognized it instantly, and it twisted his chest. Stole his breath.
“I left her, Rowe.” She whispered the words. “I ran and I left her.”
Rowen took a small step toward her. “Was she alive, Wynne?”
Her eyes closed again, her head hitting the wood behind her, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. “It does not matter whether she was alive, Rowe. I left. I god-damned left her. I never…I never should have left her.”
Rowen took another step, bending to one knee next to her.
“You had to stay alive, Wynne. It would have been death if you stayed.”
“No, I had to take care of her. That was the one thing I was supposed to do—take care of her. I had the knife, but I ran…I ran.”
“Wynne.” His hand went lightly to her shoulder.
She jerked away, scrambling to her feet. “Don’t touch me.”
Standing, Rowen reached for her again. “Wynne.”
“Do not touch me, Rowe. Do not touch me.”
Her words vicious at him, Rowen stopped, hands hanging in midair as she backed out of the door.
Rowen gave her a few seconds, then followed. It was just in time to see her skirts turn the back corner of the building. He stopped, cocking his head to listen.
Her footsteps went around the small house and then stopped.
He went to the back post, rubbing the noses of the horses. He could hear her, muffled sobs just loud enough to reach him.
His heart breaking for her, what he truly wanted to do in that moment was scoop her up and take her away from this place as fast as he could. Make this right for her somehow.
But he knew he couldn’t. He would have to give her this time, as much as it curdled his stomach to have to hear her sobs. As much as it wedged a heavy brick onto his chest that refused to move.
If he couldn’t touch her, he would listen. Even from afar.
It was all he could do.
{ Chapter 10 • Worth of a Duke }
She was drowning. Drowning into depths she didn’t know existed.
Looking around, the world blurred—the forest starting up at the crest of the hill, the backsides of the houses on this end of the village, a slew of chickens pecking at the cold ground.
Wynne wasn’t quite sure how she got to this side of the house.
She sank, sobbing, losing all strength to stand, her back scraping down along the grey wood planks on the house. Chills invaded her body, ravaging all of her nerve endings, pain in every muscle.
She had abandoned her mother.
Ran.
A coward.
Her mother had had such hope for this land. And it—their life here—had descended into depravity so quickly. Her beautiful, kind, mother—the one that had always made the world bright for Wynne—had become the cautionary tale whispered about in the corners of the polite houses.
Her mother had turned into a whore.
The word echoed in Wynne’s head.
Whore.
Whispered behind them, again and again, along the paths of the village.
Wynne crumpled even farther. Her legs curled into her chest, her face deep in her arms, the wall still supporting her back. Her body started to shake again—the chills fighting her sobs for control of her body.
How had Wynne let this happen? Failed everyone so miserably? Her mother. Her grandfather. She was supposed to protect her mother. Take care of her.
She’d failed.
The vicious ache in her muscles intensified, and thoughts disappeared, tears disappeared. Just pain. Pain was all she felt, all she could think.
Minutes…hours…lifetimes passed, she had drowned so deep in time. And just when she was about to lie down—lie down on that cold ground and pray for death to take pity on her—a warm force appeared next to her.
Rowen.
Even with her eyes closed and her body so excruciatingly weak she could not look up, she knew it was him.
Next to her, but not touching. Not speaking. Just there.
There and solid and alive.
A barricade against what she wanted to do—give up.
A long stretch of time went by—Wynne wasn’t sure if it was ten minutes or an hour, she was so fully lost—before the shaking eased enough that she felt strong enough to raise her head.
“I abandoned her.” Eyes closed, the words tore from her throat. The last time she saw her mother—beaten, lifeless—haunted her mind.
“Who was the man, Wynne?” Ever so slowly, she felt Rowen’s arm go behind her, gently wrapping her shoulders.
She couldn’t j
erk away. Not at this moment.
“I do not know. She…” She lost strength and crumbled into him.
His hold on her tightened, and Rowen’s hand went to her temple, tucking her onto his chest. “What, Wynne? She what?” he whispered, his chin on the top of her head.
“We did not find the cousins. We had very little money. I knew it, but she would not tell me how much. Enough to rent this place for a month...maybe two…but then…”
“Then what?”
Another chill ravaged her body, and she trembled violently for a minute. Rowen held her solid, waiting for it to subside.
Wynne took a steadying breath. “She had to make money. So men—she started to entertain men. She tried to hide it from me. She said we were fine, but I knew. I knew. I would see them leaving. Hear things.”
His hand moved softly against her hair. “Whatever she did, Wynne, she did to survive. To take care of you.”
“A whore, Rowe. She became a whore.”
He stiffened around her. “Wynne—”
“It was what it was, Rowe—I let her turn into a whore. She turned into a whore for me. It—”
“You did not turn her into a whore.” His chest vibrated under her, and even in his deep whisper, his voice was harder than she had ever heard it. “Do not take that on, Wynne.”
“I let her do it. I was supposed to take care of her—that was what grandfather was preparing me for—for the day he would die and I was to take care of her. But I failed her. I failed him. I let her do that—become a whore.”
She tried for a moment to sit up, but Rowen wouldn’t let her escape his hold. The small movement depleted her energy, and she relented, sinking further into him, her voice haunted. “She was sophisticated, Rowe. Beautiful, and mannered, and a lady, and I…I let her do it. And then when she needed me most, I ran.”
Wynne drew in a quivering breath. “I ran and now I do not even know where her body…” The words left her, not able to say out loud what she had caused.
Rowen’s hand went deep into her hair at her neck. “We will find out.”
“Eh, there ye be. I seen yer horses, but not ye.”
Wynne wiped her eyes clear, looking up from the cave Rowen had her in to see a robust woman rounding the back corner of the house, her hands on her hips.
“What ye be doin’ back here?” she asked.
Wynne blinked hard at her. “Mrs. Pemperton?”
The woman stopped for a second, looking around her and then narrowing her eyes at Wynne. “Mrs. Pemperton, duckie? Who be that?”
Wynne pushed up off of Rowen, and this time, he let her escape. Her eyes didn’t leave the woman. “You are Mrs. Pemperton.”
The woman shook her head. “Not me name, duckie. I be Mrs. Dewgerd.”
“What? No. Mrs. Pemperton—you know me—I lived here with my mother. My mother—Violet—Violet Theaton.”
“I don’t be knowin’ ye, duckie. Never had no mother and her daughter livin’ here.”
Wynne scrambled to her feet, going over to the woman and grabbing her arm. “It was just weeks ago, Mrs. Pemperton—we lived here for a year.”
The woman grabbed Wynne’s wrist, twisting it as she removed it from her arm. She leaned her girth in on Wynne. “Ye be mistak’n, duckie. There ain’t been no ladies livin’ here—last one in this house be a young gentleman, in town fer work in the fields. Five months he be here.”
“But it was just weeks ago, Mrs. Pemperton.” Frantic, Wynne grabbed Mrs. Pemperton’s other arm with her free hand. “I am Wynne, and my mother is Violet. I paint—I painted you. You have to remember that. On your front stoop—I painted you.”
“I ain’t got time fer this. Get yer hands off me and stop callin’ me Pemperton, duckie. Ye best be gone with ye.” The threat was real in her voice.
Rowen grabbed Wynne’s shoulders, pulling her against her will a step away from Mrs. Pemperton.
“I apologize, Mrs. Dewgerd, there must be some misunderstanding,” Rowen said. “Do you mind if we take one more look around the house? That may help us.”
The landlady’s hands went back onto her wide hips, her face now red. “No. No. Ye be gone. The both of ye. I don’t want no crazies ‘round me. A drunkard be enough to handle. Get gone.”
Wynne tried to step toward Mrs. Pemperton again, hands out to grab her, to shake her, to get her to see that she knew full well both Wynne and her mother.
Rowen held her back.
Struggling against him, Wynne shouted, desperate. “But our possessions—my mother—my paintings—where are they? What did you do with them? What did you do with my mother? You have to tell me, Mrs. Pemperton. You have to tell me.”
The woman took a step backward, her eyes on the house next to her. “Get gone, or I be gettin’ the musket from next door. They be comin’ if I yell. Get ye gone.”
“But—”
“Wynne, come.” Rowen’s voice was low in her ear. “She says she does not know you, and we need to leave.”
Her head whipped over her shoulder to him. “But, Rowe, we—”
“We have to leave, Wynne. Leave now.”
“Good. Yer man’s got some sense. Now get gone.”
“But—”
Rowen started to push her, but Wynne wouldn’t move her feet. She needed answers. She needed to find her mother, and Mrs. Pemperton was her only chance at that. Wynne leaned back against his hands, her feet solid.
So he picked her up.
Picked her up and started walking.
Shock held her still for a moment, and then she realized Rowen was manhandling her away from the one person that knew what happened to her mother.
“Rowe—stop.” Wynne’s arms were clasped to her sides under Rowen’s hold, so she started kicking and squirming, yelling. “Stop, Rowe. Let me go, dammit. Rowe. Stop.”
Not the slightest hiccup in his stride.
They got to the horses, and he set her to her feet, one arm still holding her captive, as he untied the reins from the post.
Rowen went to her honey-colored horse, giving a slight grunt against her struggling as he hoisted her straight up to her saddle.
She waited until he stepped away to Phalos before she jumped off her horse, running.
Nine steps, and the arm around her waist jerked her to a stop, her feet slipping, sending dust into the air.
“Dammit, Wynne. This is not the way. I am getting you out of here.”
Wynne didn’t bother to struggle against him, as his hold around her belly was so tight it was cutting into her breath.
This time, he stomped straight to Phalos. Without setting her down, his boot went into the stirrup, hand on the saddle, and he pulled both of them onto the horse.
Rowen plopped her sideways in front of him. He grabbed the reins, his arms on either side of her torso, holding her captive.
She stole a look at his face. He was not pleased.
But neither was she. The man was insufferable, picking her up like a sack of grain and throwing her onto his horse. Did he not see she needed to find answers here—answers that lived back with Mrs. Pemperton?
“I can ride my own horse, Rowen,” she seethed.
“Not a chance. You have already proven what you will do.” Annoyance overrode the usual smoothness in his voice.
“But my horse.”
“She will follow.” Rowen clicked his heels into Phalos, and Phalos nosed Wynne’s horse as he started to move. The mare fell into line behind them as they went down the lane between the houses and back to the main road through the village.
Wynne sat, arms crossed high over her chest, steaming in silence as she suffered the humiliation of the curious looks from a few residents. The spectacle they were making apparently didn’t bother Rowen in the slightest, as his face stayed calm with his silence.
The only indication that he was still perturbed with her was in his stiff arms, muscles flexing repeatedly on either side of her.
It wasn’t until they were up the hill, well into
the forest with the village long behind them, that Wynne was able to control herself enough to speak without screaming at him.
But she could not look at him.
“She knew something. You took me away and she knew something, Rowe.” Her hands balled into fists. “After running I woke up in the forest not remembering a thing. I do not know what happened to my mother. That woman does.”
Rowen shook his head, sighing. “It does not matter if she knew something or not, Wynne. She was not going to admit to knowing you or your mother. And we were in a town I do not know, and all I have on me is a pistol and a dagger. Against that woman, against three or four more, I could protect you, but beyond that—if more came to her aid—that could have gone very badly for us. If she was lying—”
“If she was lying?” Wynne’s eyes flew from the trees to him. “You do not believe me?”
His dark eyes on hers, he took a deep breath, his chest squishing her upper arm into her body. “I saw enough in that shack to believe you, Wynne. What happened was very real. What happened to you, what you saw—that was real. But there is no proof. There was nothing in that house that gave evidence to you or your mother. And that woman was not going to help us. That woman was, in fact, very set against helping us. She wanted us to leave as quickly as possible.”
Wynne watched his dark eyes, searching for something to hold onto. His words were sensible, she knew that, but all she had now were new memories, more mysteries—and no mother.
What happened to her mother’s body? What happened to the rows of paintings? What happened to their clothes, all her paints? It all couldn’t just disappear like that.
A shudder ran through her body. She was getting very tired—exhausted—and weak.
“Am I crazy?” Wynne’s words came out frail, defeated. She didn’t want to ask the question, but she had to. It was a very real possibility.
Rowen’s eyes swept over her face, searching every corner, searching her eyes.
His right hand came up from the reins and he grabbed the back of her head, holding it still from bobbing with the gait of Phalos.
“No. You are not crazy, Wynne. You are very much sane.” His voice stayed low, raw with the words as his fingers curled into her hair. “I do not ever want to hear you doubt yourself like that again. You have been through a hell. That does not make you crazy. Do you understand?”
Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 11