Page 99 of The Devil in Her Bed
Crushed by the horror of it all, Francesca could only hold him as his secrets spilled forth, hoping they purged something in the telling.
“Two of his… well, I think they were henchmen… found me. They pressed the water from my lungs. I don’t know how. And after I coughed up everything, I was spirited outside. I remember that. Maybe they weren’t part of the council, or maybe they’d just been struck with a fit of conscience on that day. I’ll never know. But they bundled me up, wet clothes and everything, put me in his carriage, and told the driver to take me somewhere safe. Somewhere else.”
“How did you end up at Mont Claire?”
“The carriage stopped at the priory for the night, and the driver made noises about taking me home. So I ran.”
“Bronwell Priory?” she gasped. “That’s miles away from Mont Claire.”
He lifted his shoulder against her chin. “I just remember running, my legs and lungs burning. My wet clothes filthy and cold. So fucking cold… everything hurt…”
“Stop.” The word tore from Francesca in a low, raw wail. Her tears flowed freely now, dripping from herchin onto his shoulder. “Stop, I cannot bear to hear more. The thought of your suffering. Of the nightmares. God, Chandler, they made you clean out the fountain at Mont Claire.” She let him go so she could cover her eyes, as if that would blind her from the memories, from the images of that little boy staggering up to the manor house. “I would wonder why you were so pale. Why you dreaded the water so… why you bathed in the lake instead of the tub…” Her sobs came harder now, flowing from some fathomless well she was unaware she’d had. “Oh God, oh no,” she chanted, the prayer one of desperate dread. “I’m so sorry.”
Chandler turned at the waist and dragged her into his lap, crooning soft and comforting things into her hair as she cried.
Francesca was distraught, but also embarrassed. She never cried. Never. Not during all the hard times. Not when Serana had blessed the ashes of Mont Claire, of her parents and her friends. Not when she’d had to bury her best friend’s rapist at finishing school. Not when she broke her wrist in Argentina or when she was beat down in training by men who were bigger, stronger, and meaner than she was. She’d fought more tears in the last two weeks than she had in the last two decades.
And now, the storm of her grief for him turned into a flood, and she sobbed twenty years of sorrow against his chest. Sometimes, when she could manage it, she would hiccup a soggy apology. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.” And she was. She was so fucking sorry. Sorry that he’d suffered so. Sorry that he was the one soothing her when it was him in need of comfort. Sorry that—
“I love you,” he said against her hair.
She snapped her mouth closed, lifting her head away from the wet mess she’d made of his chest.
He dragged his knuckles down her cheek, his expression as peaceful and tender as she’d ever seen. His eyes glowed with a light she dared not identify, and it searched her face with a reverence she found both humbling and terrifying.
She blinked up at him, and he answered her unspoken question.
“I love you,” he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard. As if he couldn’t believe it, himself. “I think I was halfway in love with you before I even realized I was falling.”
Francesca’s tears turned to terror and she scrambled from his lap. “You—you can’t say that to me. Not right now.”
He searched his empty arms as if they befuddled him. “Why not?”
“Because…” She swallowed an instant confession, any sort of courage abandoning her. “Youdon’t. You don’t love me. You love who youthinkI should be. Who I was as a child. You are annoyed with me more often than not and—”
“I love you,” he repeated in an infuriatingly calm voice.
“I’m telling you. You don’tknowme. Not really,” she insisted, turning to look for a robe, for something that would make her feel less naked. She’d left one on the back of the chair this morning and now it was gone. Damn her staff for being so efficient. “Think about what you’re saying. You keep telling me what not to do.You insist I must be other than I am. I’ve seen love, and that isn’t it.”
He was behind her in an instant, turning her to face him. “You misunderstand me, Francesca. I love who you are, but I insist you stop risking your life, that is all. I want a future with you, so you have to stop putting yourself in danger.” He gathered her close, burying his face into her hair. “You are mine, Francesca. My woman. My dragon. I… love you.”
Bloody hell, she was going to start weeping again. “But—”
“I love you, dammit, now stop arguing.” He pulled back, his command tempered by a soft light shining on his features and a determined set to his hard jaw. “You’re the hope I have for happiness. The light at the end of this dark tunnel. Can’t you see that? I am irate when you put yourself in danger because youhaveto be there at the end, or it was all worth nothing. I can’t lose you, Francesca.” His fingers tightened on her, a fervent—no, desperate—emotion pushing to the forefront of his gaze. “I won’t survive it a second time.”
Francesca.
She froze as still as the ice needled through her. Was now the time to be honest? And if she was, would he be glad to hear it? Or would she be the woman to kill Francesca all over again? He’d hate her for that. And maybe it would… cause him greater pain. What was the kindest thing to do?
What was the right thing?
He brushed at her cheek, now dry and itchy from the salt of so many tears. “Do you remember what I saidthat night in my carriage, back before you knew who I was?”
She searched her memory. “That I’d ruin you?”
“I knew you would. You would ruin Chandler Alquist and Declan Chandler and Thom Tew, and Lord Drake, Edward Thatch, all of them. I knew, somehow, that you would forge someone new. Someone real. That you would scramble about the sun and stars until I could no longer find them in the night sky without your help. You would make me care about something other than myself. Other than my revenge. That you would become someone to die for. Would give me something to live for. I think I knew, even at the first kiss…” He looked at her lips as if seeing her for the first time.
Francesca stared at him, unable to move. Unable to breathe. Her nostrils flared and her eyes pooled, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to say anything.
