Callum roared and lunged at Ross, barreling into him and crashing them both to the floor. Constantine screamed as Callum hit Ross in the nose once, twice, and on the third time, it was as if everyone around her awoke from a stupor. Carrington and Greybourne reacted at the same instant, both scrambling to remove Callum from Ross. They struggled for a moment with him, grabbing at his arms, but his rage was a sight to behold. Finally, they each had an arm and dragged him off Ross, who had blood streaming from his nose. Peter stood looking calmly impatient, as if he had expected no less but had hoped for a different outcome.
Ross staggered to his feet, took the handkerchief that Guinevere handed him, and wiped his nose before pinching its bridge. Callum’s panting filled the silence, and after a moment, Ross said, “You’re insane.” His voice was muffled from the handkerchief.
“Yes,” Callum agreed, startling her with the intense conviction. “I am. And it is you who made me this way, so be fearful, cousin. I’m coming for you, and one way or another, you’re going to end up where you tried to leave me for life.”
With that ominous threat, Callum grasped her hand in his large one, the feel of his skin surprisingly rough and calloused, as if he’d used his hands for hard labor. He tugged her past a gaping Ross, by her friends whose concerned faces she smiled weakly at, around the vicar who scuttled backward in obvious fear, and halfway down the church aisle when the door flung open. Her mother strode in, and then the door slammed shut behind her.
Constantine stared in utter shock. She could not recall seeing her mother move so fast in her life. Her mother marched down the aisle toward them and came to stop in front of them. She frowned as her gaze touched on Constantine’s hand intertwined with Callum’s. “You have ruined this wedding!” she wailed at him.
Constantine’s mouth slipped open. Had her mother gone mad? Another marriage was clearly impossible. Never mind that Constantine felt utterly relieved not to be wedding Ross, she realized with a start. Perhaps it was she who had gone mad?
“My apologies, Lady Longford,” Callum said in a cold, barely civil tone, “to be upsetting your plan for the day, but your daughter is already wed.”
“I have quelled the gossip as best I can,” her mother said, sounding put upon, which was her favorite roll to play.
Dismay and disappointment washed over Constantine. Of all the emotions to feel, of all the things to be vexed about in this moment, her mother was concerned about the gossip? She didn’t know why she was surprised. When her father had left them for his other family, her mother’s biggest concern had been that no one find out, that Constantine do all she could to be pleasing so that her father might want to return and actually remain with them the next time he did come home.
“How fortuitous of you,” Callum mocked.
Her mother had enough sense to blanch at that. “You,” she hissed, jabbing a finger toward Callum. Perhaps her mother didn’t have any sense, after all. “I knew from the moment I saw you approach Constantine at Lady Fortenberry’s ball all those years ago that you would be nothing but scandal for her. Scandal and heartache.”
Whatever did her mother mean? Constantine had not realized her mother had ever known Callum had approached her at that ball. She’d never made mention of it. “Mother,” Constantine said, a foreboding blossoming in her. “If I recall correctly,” she continued, narrowing her eyes on her now fidgeting mother, “the time I asked you to invite Callum to the dinner party you’d planned, you acted as if you did not know him.” Constantine was in no mood to try to be the perfect daughter any longer, to not question her mother. She’d spent almost all her life attempting to make up for the fact that she’d not been loveable enough, pretty enough, exceptional enough to entice her father to stay with them for more than a few days a month. Come to think of it, the only time she’d ever strayed from trying to be perfect for her mother and father was when she had met Callum.
Her mother’s wide gaze shot to Callum, who Constantine swore swayed beside her. But before she could deduce if he truly had done so, her mother spoke again. “I had nevermethim.” Her mother’s attempt to skirt the truth was laughable. Constantine pressed her lips together, even as she watched her mother’s oddly uncertain gaze slither to Callum again. When Constantine glanced to him to see how he’d respond, she realized he was indeed swaying—and sweating profusely.
Alarm shot through her. “Are you ill?” she asked, putting a hand on his arm.
He drew his eyes to her as if it took great effort, and there was an almost desperate expression there. “Yes,” he said, then gave himself a little shake of his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment. When they came to Constantine again, whatever emotion had been there seemed to have been wiped away. It was fascinating and frightening. “Mostly,” he said, his voice sounding stronger than a second ago, “I’m deadly bored.” His gray gaze speared her mother. “I met your dear mother,” he went on, his tone nonchalant, though nothing in his tense visage matched that tone, “the night of the dinner party you invited me to. I came early.”
“What?” Constantine’s brow furrowed. “No, you never came.”
“Oh, I assure you I did. Your sitting room has a green velvet settee, and there is a portrait of you as a girl—I’d hazard seven summers—hanging above that settee. You had on a yellow gown and yellow ribbons in your hair.” Callum paused and pinched his brow as if his head ached.
“Eight summers,” she whispered, the air in the church seemed suddenly so very hot and suffocating. Her father had mocked the way she’d looked in that portrait, all freckles and long, gangly limbs, and her mother had agreed. Then he’d shown her a miniature of his other daughter with his mistress—“the beauty” as he called Margaret. Callum was telling the truth. Hehadcome to her home. There was no way he could know those details if he’d not seen the painting, because he’d never been to her home again. He’d broken her heart of course, by avoiding her after the night he was supposed to come to the dinner party, and then telling her he had not actually wanted to court her, when she had finally run into him, and then five years had passed, until the fateful night she’d rushed to his home after hearing he was injured. They’d been wed one sennight later in his home, and her mother had refused to come, refused to allow him to her home, and Callum had not asked about it. She’d been glad at the time not to have to tell him how horrid her mother was.
She scrutinized him, wanting to ask him how he could remember such detail about her, a woman he had just coldly asked if she wanted to be another’s mistress, but his face was flushed, and the center of his eyes seemed to have grown very large. He was tapping his fingers against his leg in a restless gesture. So instead, she said, “I don’t understand,” wishing the conversation did not have to occur here where others could hear.
“Then let me make it plain for you,” he snapped, surprising her. Her mother, however, did not look surprised. She appeared worried, very worried. “I came to your home—” He paused midsentence and muttered, “Damn it all,” and bent over suddenly. It took her a moment, but she realized he was rubbing his calf.
“Are you—”
“Fine,” he cut in and rose as suddenly as he’d bent over. But when he stood, he was sweating even more, and sniffing, and there was a tic at the side of his jaw. “Muscle cramp,” he said, seeming to shove the words out through clenched teeth. “Your mother had me shown to the drawing room.” Another pause and a curse came. “And there she told me that you would lose your inheritance from your aunt if you wed.”
Betrayal nearly knocked her over. She looked at her mother and read the guilt and the truth of Callum’s words on her mother’s face. And then a memory of the day she’d rushed to see Callum upon hearing he’d been injured, the day she’d blurted the bargain, came to her. After she had made her offer he’d said, “How can you wed and keep your fortune?” She’d never forgotten that because it had seemed so odd. She’d assumed his fever was making his thoughts confused, and ultimately, she’d laughed and said something about her fortune being hers to keep, given to her free and clear by her aunt, as her aunt’s only niece. And as long as Callum did not gamble away her fortune, once it became his, she didn’t see how it could be lost.
“How could you?” Constantine demanded of her mother, not even having to ask why because she already knew. Her mother had deemed Callum unacceptable and had, therefore, done everything in her power to rid him from Constantine’s life. Maybe she’d heard the rumors of his gambling, his scandalous reputation? It hardly mattered. Anger swept through her.
Another realization hit her then, and hope coursed through her. Before she could stop herself or think it over, she looked to Callum and blurted, “Is that why you ended our courtship?”
Callum, who had been folded over once more rubbing his calf, rose. He seemed to have trouble focusing on her, and no wonder! His pupils were truly big now, taking up most of his eyes. “Of course,” he said in the oddest nonchalant voice.
“You were trying to protect me,” she said, her heart thumping. “Was that it?” Had he truly cared about her, after all?
His brows dipped together. “No,” he said, swaying once more.
“Cal,” Peter said in a tone of protestation from behind Callum.
“Not a word,” Callum ordered. He swayed again but managed to keep his gaze on her. “Do not mistake me for s-some pathetic hero.” His words were beginning to slur. “I ended my acquaintance with you to protect myself.Not you. I needed your money.Not you.”
