“MRS. HAMILTON HAS not yet returned, sir,” Barrett said the instant James set foot in the house.
James’s stomach clenched. She wasn’t here, wasn’t in the house, their house. It didn’t surprise him Rose hadn’t returned from her outings. Had not wished to return to a house where she’d been locked in. Where she’d been forbidden to leave. A prisoner in the home he’d promised her love and security.
She was furious with him, and James didn’t blame her.
Shoulders stiff, teeth grinding, he managed a curt nod and waved the butler away.
Even when he slipped into the guest-room bed, her body warm and lax, Rose instantly pulled back. Her body tensed and stiffened away from him. She hadn’t wanted his touch even in sleep, hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her.
James didn’t blame her for that, either. But the fear, the cold fear that settled heavy in his stomach and moved through his veins, refused to abate. He’d known from the beginning anyone else would find him foolish, devoid of his senses. If he, himself, had heard the tale of two doomed lovers in Scotland, James knew he’d find the matter completely mad as well.
He’d likely taunt the man in question until he gave up the ridiculous notion. But it was a wholly other matter when he was the man in question. When the truth haunted him relentlessly; when it had warned him his entire life.
His fingers itched to feel her in his arms again, and every moment that passed without knowing exactly where she was made him want to rip the town apart until he found her. He hated not knowing if she was safe, what she was doing, who she was with.
But he also hated the creeping prickle that made him want to lock her in the house. He’d never been such a man and had loathed such controlling men.
Ignoring Barrett and the tray of correspondence, and everything else, James stalked to his study. He needed to look over the plans for the bazaar; he needed to get his mind away from Rose and his actions with her and focus on something—anything—until she returned.
Exhaustion tugged his limbs, and he quietly closed the door to his study. He hadn’t slept well last night, first without Rose and the terrible dreams of her broken body. Of the racing thoughts of all that might happen to her. After he’d found her, after their latest argument, he hadn’t bothered to sleep again.
What was the point?
Sinking into his chair, he dropped the plans on the desk and closed his eyes. Every time he did, he saw Rose’s face twisted in anger as she yelled at him. He pressed his fingers to his eyelids hard, as if doing so might erase the all-too-vivid image of Rose, dead.
His own actions made him ill, yet the desperation to keep her alive refused to abate. Round and round it went, and he had no idea what to do next.
Barrett’s raised voice carried clearly through the closed door. Who was the man arguing with? Wilson? The driver?
James shoved back the chair and yanked open the door. “What are you gossiping old women dithering about?”
Wilson, hat in hand, took several reluctant steps into the study. Barrett, who looked as reluctant as Wilson, hovered in the doorway. Annoyed, James folded his arms over his chest and glared. He was in no mood for household dramatics.
“Is Mrs. Hamilton upstairs?” James asked.
If Wilson returned, Rose must be in the house. And once again she avoided him. He bit back a sigh. Maybe she was right—this needed to be settled. They could go to the country, where it was only the two of them, and hash it all out.
Maybe then, with her away from her father, he’d be able to breathe easier.
“No,” Wilson said and stopped. He cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
James frowned. “What?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Wilson began again, his voice cracking. He crushed his hat in his large hands and looked down at the floor. “I don’t know where Mrs. Hamilton is.”
Don’t know…? James slowly stood from his position against the desk. His movements slow, he walked the pace between him and Wilson, circling the man.
Rose was gone? Rose had disappeared?
Every single nightmare he ever had about this very instance settled in his limbs. His knees weakened and his fingers went numb. But he stayed upright through sheer force of will, even as the icy tendrils of fear tightened their grip.
“Sir,” Wilson continued, “she went into a shop. Said she had a fitting and it’d take a while. But after a few hours I thought it strange. I went in to inquire after her.”
Wilson stopped and over the roar in his ears, James barely heard Barrett speaking in the hallway.
“They told me Mrs. Hamilton left hours ago through the back entrance,” Wilson whispered. “I looked around, searched the shops, but no one’d seen her.”
Suddenly James’s limbs remembered how to move, and he grabbed Wilson by his shirtfront. He dragged the smaller man up and snarled in his face. “You idiot!”
James shoved the man back. Digby entered and helped Wilson up, but James didn’t care. Rose was missing. Rose had left. Had she left of her own free will? Or had she been coerced? Forced to leave?
Every single nightmare came vividly to life.
“Sir!” Mrs. Shelley gasped.
“Go upstairs and see if she’s returned without these fools noticing!” he commanded. “Find her,” he snarled to Barrett and Digby.
Mrs. Shelley hurried to obey and James, ignoring the men, stalked after her. He went to the gallery, drawn there as always. But it was empty. He didn’t bother to look at the castle painting, though it seemed to mock him.
Taunt him with things that happened and horrors to come.
James stalked through every room but other than the staff, the house was empty. She was not in any of her normal rooms, and while she did a very good job avoiding him yesterday, today the entire household searched for her.
If she was in the house, she couldn’t hide.
Mrs. Shelley rushed down the steps, panting. She looked pale and shaking but was utterly alone. “Sir,” she gasped. “I found this in Mrs. Hamilton’s room.”
She handed him the folded note. James snatched it from her hands and quickly read it. Every word stabbed through his heart, and he didn’t know whether their trust lay in shards beneath his feet or if it had disappeared entirely. Vanished and unable to be stitched back together.
“Wilson!” he bellowed. The driver immediately appeared. “Take me to Kendrick’s house.”
They left immediately. James didn’t remember the ride there, too consumed with Rose’s letter. Nowhere did she say she loved him. And that, more than anything else, shredded him. She told him, voiced the words, and he’d felt the emotion from her.
Not simply empty promises, easily spoken, but true vows of affection and passion.
Cold terror vied with hot, raging anger.
“Where is my wife?” James demanded to the butler.
The man cowered before him. “Sir?”
“Where is she?” James repeated, uncaring that he frightened the man.
“What in hell is going on?” Kendrick roared from his study.
James stormed down the hall and slammed into the room. Kendrick sat at his desk, his face florid and scowling. “Where is my wife?” James snarled.
“She’s not here,” Kendrick said and looked so obviously shocked, James almost believed him.
“I swear to you, Kendrick,” James hissed, a menacing promise, “if you don’t tell me, I’ll take everything you have away from you.”
He swept the plans off the desk and leaned over it.
“I have no idea where she is,” Kendrick spat. He did look intimidated, however, and remained sitting. “What has happened between the two of you? You are her husband.”
“I do not believe you,” James said in a low, threatening voice. “What,” he asked slowly, “have you done to her?”
Before Kendrick could answer, James rounded the desk and yanked the other man up by his collar. Looking frightened, angry, and annoyed, Kendrick scowled again.
“She’s not here.”
But James didn’t hear the lower class English accent Kendrick normally spoke in. He heard the Highlands tone, rolling and rhythmic.
“Where have you hidden her?” he demanded, his mind blank of anything save finding Rose. It was all that mattered, all he cared about.
He saw it then, the flash of Rose’s broken body looking up at him with sightless eyes. It was cold there too, so open and vacant. And the ground, the heather-covered moors they walked through, made love in, now seeped with her blood.
“Hidden her?” Kendrick repeated. “I’ve hidden her no place.”
“Where is she?” he roared.
Kendrick pushed at James’s hold, but he remained unyielding. James shook him once, but refused to release the man. Refused to let go of Rose’s father lest he lash out at Rose.
“It seems,” Kendrick said smugly, “the new husband and wife have fought. I remember those days with my wife.” His smugness scraped along James’s nerves, but he didn’t punch the man as he’d have liked.
“She was a right tetchy woman I often had to put in her place,” Kendrick continued. “It doesn’t surprise me Rose inherited her mother’s disobedience.”
Suddenly ill at those implications, at what Kendrick did to his wife, to Rose, James snarled at the man. He wanted to hurt him, to beat answers from him. Only the faint hope Kendrick that knew where Rose was had stopped James.
“Have you done anything to her?” James asked, his teeth clenched tightly together in a vain attempt to retain his control.
Kendrick broke his hold, shoving hard at James and standing. He didn’t bother to straighten his shirt or touch his neck, but merely glared back as if James hadn’t just tried to strangle him.
The damn man shrugged indolently and sneered. “Perhaps I could find her,” he hinted.
James barely stopped from slamming the man’s head against the desk.
“But my resources are dwindling. Perhaps another project for my company?” Kendrick said, the words slimy and nauseating. “One more prestigious build would help my resources and allow me to find my daughter. Bring her home to you. Even if I have to drag her by her hair back to your townhouse.”
“Produce her,” James said, each word carefully enunciated. “Now.”
How could Rose, his love, come from such a man?
Kendrick’s visage swam before James’s eyes. He saw the smug bastard leering up at him. He saw the battle-scarred warrior standing arrogant over his daughter’s dead body.
Everything in James froze. Horror, fear, and dread crawled up his spine and closed his throat. And then James blinked and only Kendrick stood before him. Rose did not lie at his feet, staring sightlessly.
“I’ll find her when our terms are sweetened,” Kendrick said, mocking him.
With his fists curled at his side, James glared hard at the other man. He didn’t believe Kendrick, not entirely. He pushed Kendrick against the desk and abruptly released him.
“I want Rose back now. No terms.” His voice was hard as steel and just as cold. “Produce her this night,” he warned Kendrick, “or I swear to you, you’ll have nothing left but the clothes on your back.”
Without looking back and without another word, he stormed from the house. James didn’t know where to begin, where to look, but he needed to find her. He needed to see her, to know she still lived.
It wasn’t a want, a nebulous thing, this burning fear for her. He’d lived with this fear his entire life—that he’d find the woman he loved, only to lose her. To not save her from certain death. To not protect her.
He wouldn’t allow it to come true.
Fear pulsed beneath his skin, urging him on to find her. He’d find Rose. He wouldn’t let the past repeat itself. He’d not lose Rose, no matter what he had to do.
Digby stood by the carriage. James stopped and stared at his footman.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
But he didn’t wait for an answer; Digby was his favorite and most trusted ally for a reason. And the man’s loyalty touched a deep part of James.
With the carriage door open and one foot on the step, he turned to Digby. “Destroy him,” he ordered.
Digby merely nodded. “Sir.”
James climbed into the carriage and focused on finding Rose. He thought destroying Kendrick would help the fear clawing around his heart. Now, with his focus solely on finding his wife, he realized Kendrick didn’t matter. He never had.
Only Rose did. Only finding her and keeping her safe mattered.