Sidonie refused to be drawn on the subject of brightening Jonas’s life. Mrs. Bevan was a cunning old vixen. She’d seen more than Sidonie had realized. “No, I’ll wait here.”
“Suit ’eeself.” Mrs. Bevan shuffled away after pausing to light a lamp on one of the wooden chests. “I bid ’ee good e’en.”
Sightlessly Sidonie stared into the darkness, her mind whirling with what she’d learned. She’d always known Jonas had led a difficult life. For heaven’s sake, one only had to glimpse his face to know that. But hearing he’d been set to grow up a completely different man made her heart contract with pity. Even more as she knew that the boy’s generous, affectionate spirit still lived inside him, much as he struggled against acknowledging its existence. She’d seen flashes of it, most recently last night after her wild dash into the storm.
She admired that even a trace of the loving, sweet child remained. His life had been nothing but betrayal, from the moment he was declared bastard. Even earlier than that, when his mother died and his father descended into a chasm of sorrow.
She couldn’t continue to betray him.
Once she returned to Barstowe Hall, she’d make sure Roberta was hidden out of William’s reach, even if it meant her sister was forced to live as a fugitive. Then she’d write to Jonas with the truth about his legitimacy. She probably should tell him immediately, but she couldn’t forget the way he’d spoken to the duke, dismissing Roberta’s claims on his compassion in favor of his quest for revenge against his cousin. Once Roberta was safe, Jonas Merrick was welcome to take back his inheritance.
Stiff and tired, Jonas eased himself off Casimir’s back in the stables. Instead of removing the horse’s tack, he leaned against the beast’s heaving, sweaty sides. It was late, nearly midnight. And cold as a witch’s tit. He’d been out since before dawn after days of interrupted sleep and no sleep at all last night. Leaving Sidonie, he’d fled the house—and temptation—to one of the dilapidated follies that punctuated the overgrown garden.
Casimir whickered and turned his head to bump his master in wordless comfort. The horse’s company was about all he could bear today.
Although encroaching company wasn’t exactly a pressing concern. The vast house awaiting him was empty of the one person who’d given it life. Since boyhood, he’d felt alone and despised, but he’d never before sunk so low. He felt like a mongrel cur booted to the gutter. He felt like shit stuck to his worst enemy’s shoe.
He felt remarkably sorry for himself.
Impossible to summon the joyless, dogged determination that had always kept him going through life’s vicissitudes. All he could manage was the gloomy premonition that he’d be lonely as long as he lived.
He’d done the right thing this morning. Sending Sidonie Forsythe back to her family as innocent as the day she’d arrived put him on the side of the angels.
Almost as innocent.
No, he refused to recall her pleasure. Or her kisses. That way lay only misery. His father always said doing the right thing was its own reward. Just now Jonas would dearly love to take issue with that opinion.
He didn’t know how long he huddled against Casimir. He appreciated the horse’s uncomplaining placidity. But a man couldn’t spend his life skulking in a stable, however much he might wish to. Still, he wondered why he bothered to go through the motions as he settled Casimir, then plodded through the freezing, starry night to the castle. His candle lit the way through the silent, cold house. He’d got used to it as silent and cold before Sidonie arrived. He’d get used to it again.
The assurance rang as hollow as his footsteps on the flagstones.
He could sleep in his own bed tonight. But how could he endure lying in sheets that smelled of Sidonie? Until he arranged for another room prepared to his standards, he was consigned to the dressing room.
Not that he cared. He wasn’t likely to sleep.
Right now, even though his eyes were gritty and every muscle ached after hard riding, he doubted he’d ever sleep again. Castle Craven was rumored to be haunted. For him it was. Sidonie’s memory would linger forever.
With his wicked plan in ashes, he could leave. The problem was, unless Sidonie waited at the end of his journey, he had no interest in going elsewhere. If he could gather the energy, he should get a gun and put himself out of everyone’s misery.
Inured to its atmosphere of ancient malevolence, he stepped into the hall. Nothing, not even the threat of spiteful ghosts, competed with the chill inside him. He would come back to life again. Eventually. People did unless fate took a drastic hand, he supposed.
Jonas was so sunk in gloom, he was halfway across the cavernous room before he noticed a light against the far wall. It was unlike Mrs. Bevan to leave a lamp for him after he’d been carousing. Not that he’d had the stomach for drinking. One day he might find fleeting solace in the bottom of a tankard. Tonight his sorrow extended beyond alcohol’s reach.
He trudged forward to blow out the lamp. And stopped as if he’d crashed into a wall of glass, astonished to realize why it was there.
“Sidonie?” he whispered, afraid if he spoke too loudly she’d disappear. His heart thudded so violently, he was surprised the sound didn’t wake her.
If he’d been drinking, he’d doubt the evidence of his eyes. Unless he’d gone mad indeed since this morning, Sidonie Forsythe hadn’t left at her first chance. Instead she stretched across two of the hellishly uncomfortable chairs that formed the hall’s principal furnishing.
She stirred at the sound of her name, but didn’t wake. With an unsteady hand, he raised his candle to study her. Her cheek upon her hand, she’d curled up like a cat under one of his old coats. Thick lashes resting on pale cheeks lent an impression of innocence. He felt like a satyr for what he wanted from her. This was why he’d lurked in a dank stone pagoda all night, cursing unruly desire and virtuous women and his inconvenient conscience.
Damn it, he should have left a note telling her she was free to go. During the short hours remaining of last night, in his head he’d written thousands of words to her. Because he couldn’t say enough, he’d said nothing. He’d assumed she’d immediately understand that he relinquished all hold over her.
Why the deuce hadn’t she gone?
The world accounted him a brave man. He wasn’t sure he was brave enough to send Sidonie away when she hovered within reach. Such a coward was the infamous Jonas Merrick. After all his weaselly avoidances, now he still had to say good-bye to her face. The prospect of putting a bullet in his brain became more appealing by the minute.
“Sidonie,” he repeated more insistently.