She turned on him viciously. “I find you repellent, my lord, and quite mad. If you believe that I shall ever change my mind or forget Edward Lyndhurst, you are a fool. As to marrying you, I shall see you in hell first.”
She dashed to the cabin door and twisted frantically at the knob. She raised her fists and pounded at the door, blind to anything save her escape from him. She dug her nails relentlessly into the small space where the door met its frame, and tore them on the wooden splinters. A defeated sob ripped from her throat, and she sank slowly to her knees, her cheek pressed against the door.
Anthony Welles rose quietly from his chair and walked to her crumpled figure. He frowned at the sight of her torn fingernails, several of them ripped so deeply that they bled. He dropped to one knee beside her and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Come, Cassandra, you have hurt yourself.” As he slipped his arm about her waist to pull her upright, she twisted about, and with a cry of rage, smashed her fists against his chest. She caught him off balance and he toppled backward, pulling her with him. He grabbed her wildly flailing arms, rolled her over on her back, and pinned her hands above her head. He saw the blind fury in her eyes and slammed his leg down over hers to stop her from kicking him. She lay panting beneath him, her chest and belly moving in deep gulping breaths.
She grew suddenly still. “Let me go,” she said in a voice of deadly calm.
He stared down at her pale, set face. “You were the attacker, Cassandra,” he said finally. “I will release you if you promise to keep your knee away from my manhood.”
Slowly, she nodded.
“Will you also promise to let me take care of your hands? You have torn your fingers quite badly.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and said, “I promise.”
The earl released her and helped her to her feet. “Come and sit down.”
She stared at streaks of her blood on his white shirt and became aware of throbbing pain in her fingers. She sat down on the chair he held for her and splayed her fingers on the table top.
She lowered her head and did not look up even as she felt him lifting her fingers, one by one, sponging off the blood with warm water.
“Don’t move, Cassandra. I must fetch some bandages, several fingers must be bound.”
She kept her head bowed as he wrapped slender strips of white linen about her fingers.
He looked up from his task when she said in a low, tightly controlled voice, “The first time I remember seeing you was when I was a small child. You were very kind to me I recall, even brought me a pastry from a fair stall in Colchester.”
“I remember.”
“But then you left and it was some years before I saw you again. Miss Petersham said you were a great nobleman both in England and in Italy and that you did not spend all your time in England. I also remember now that I had nearly forgotten you when you suddenly returned when I was fourteen. You gave me an ivory chess set for my birthday. I asked Miss Petersham if you had a daughter of my age and whether that was why you were so attentive to me.”
The earl gently cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. “You are the image of your mother and it was her face that was in my mind until yours replaced it.”
“My mother?” she asked, knitting her brows.
“Yes. You see, I loved Constance, even though I was hardly more than a boy at the time, but unfortunately she had already wed your father. That she was my senior by six or so years was unimportant to me. The last time I saw her, her belly was stretched full with child—with you.”
“Then you should hate me, for I killed her.”
“Perhaps I did, for a time, just as I hated your father for planting his seed in her womb. I left England and did not return for some five years. When I came back, I met you, her daughter, and you were the image of her. You were such a lively child, full of wonder, your eyes bright with intelligence. It was in my mind to take an interest in Constance’s daughter, to watch her grow up, to be a part of her life in some way. When I saw you at fourteen, it was only Constance’s face that I beheld, not her character or personality. I was drawn to you as a young girl, Cassandra, and when you turned seventeen, I realized that I wanted you, loved you for yourself.”
“You lie to yourself, my lord. It is my mother you love.”
“You are quite wrong,” he said.
“You do not really know me. You cannot love someone you do not know.”
“But I know you quite well, Cassandra, believe me.”
In her bewilderment, she tried to close her hands, and winced from the pain in her fingers. She felt his long fingers close about her wrists, and she knew it was to keep her from hurting herself. T
he small token of his caring made her sick with despair.
She raised bleak eyes to his face. “How can you want someone who does not love you?”
“There are few things in life that are unchangeable.”