By the time Peter returned to the Isle of Synne, his momentary fever of hope and excitement was long gone. Nearly three full days of riding hell-bent for leather had effectively cured him of those foreign emotions, leaving only soul-sucking anxiety and a vague kind of panic. What the hell was he doing? He still wasn’t convinced he was good for Lenora, that she could be happy with him. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve her.
Regardless, here he was. Ready to be kicked in the groin by love for the chance to claim her for his own.
He pulled his horse up when he came to the crossroads between Danesford and Seacliff. She was so close, he could almost feel her in his arms. Every bit of him ached to close the distance between them and put himself out of his misery once and for all.
But for the first time since he was a lad, sneaking aboard The Persistence in a desperate attempt to survive, fear reared up, almost choking him. This was nothing like the fear he had felt when Lenora had been lost in the rain. Then, it had only honed his focus and determination to find her and bring her home safe. No, this fear had him wanting to turn tail and run, to return to his old life, where everything was planned and prescribed. Where the only danger to him was to his bank account and there was no chance of having his heart dashed to pieces.
He frowned. No, that wasn’t right. For his heart wasn’t whole to begin with. Lenora had it, held in her small hands, with those talented, graceful fingers. And so there was nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Still he couldn’t urge his mount forward. There was something else holding him back, something unfinished. As his gaze swung to the left, and down the path to Danesford, he suddenly knew what it was. How could he possibly go to Lenora, asking her to make a life with him, when things were so unfinished with Dane?
For too long he had let hate and revenge abide in his soul, to drive him in every decision he made. He had to go to Lenora with no encumbrances, no anchors holding him back. Without giving himself time to think it through, he turned his horse’s head toward Danesford.
As he rode up the drive, he realized with a start that, though this place had been such a huge part of who he was now, this was only his third time traveling up the long, straight drive. The first time he had been a lad full of fear and a desperate hope. The second time he had been a furious man with a cold, hateful heart. Now he had come full circle, for he was once again filled with fear and desperate hope. He only prayed he came away this time free of the past.
He did not expect, however, to be turned away at the door.
“I am sorry, Mr. Ashford, but His Grace cannot see anyone.”
There was a quiet grief in the stoic man’s eyes that chilled Peter to the bone. “Is he…that is, has he…” He could not finish the thought. As much as he had hoped for the man’s demise, that he would end his days in fear over what Peter would do to all he held dear, now the very idea filled him with agony. No, it could not end like this.
The butler’s next words had him nearly collapsing in relief. “No, sir. But he is close.”
He should depart. The duke might even now be insensible to the world. Such had been the way his mother had passed, incoherent, not even able to return the pressure of his hand as he’d begged her to come back to him.
But he had to try.
“Please,” he rasped. “I have come all this way. I must see him.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Ashford—”
“I will take him to see Father.”
Peter looked up sharply and spied Lady Clara on the stairs. Her face was haggard, and thinner than it had been. The rosy blush that so often stained her cheeks was gone, and a dull pain suffused her gentle eyes. She nodded to him, and his heart ached from the coolness there, when before she had been all warmth and welcome. It was not only her father’s coming death that had put it there, he knew. He had done that, had put the wall up between them.
“Mr. Ashford,” she said now as the butler bowed and moved off in quiet respect, “if you will follow me, I shall show you to Father.”
He rushed after her as she made her way back up the stairs. Immediately upon passing the threshold, he sensed it, the still and hushed atmosphere of the house, heavy with the impending death of its master. It was cloying, seeping under his skin, bringing with it that same panic he had felt thirteen years ago. Once again he was that young boy, watching his mother pass into the next world. Once more hopelessness crashed through him.
He shook his head sharply and peered at Lady Clara’s back, her posture brittle and ramrod straight. He longed to tell her all would be well. Empty words, he knew, when her father was about to be ripped from her.
The family quarters were shrouded in silence. She brought him to the door at the far end. Once her hand was on the latch, however, she paused. She bowed her head, and he thought he saw a trembling in her limbs. In the next moment, however, she pushed open the door on silent hinges.
“Father, Peter Ashford is here to see you.”
There was a rasp of sound from the depths of the room, unintelligible to where Peter stood out in the hall. Lady Clara stepped aside and, keeping her eyes on the floor, indicated with a nod of her head that he was to enter.
Taking a deep breath, Peter moved past her and entered the Duke of Dane’s private apartments.
The space was brighter, much brighter than he’d expected a death room to be. The curtains were open, light streaming into the space. Yet a feeling of dismal grief permeated the air. Death was close; he could feel it in his bones. Shivering, he turned toward the huge four-poster bed that dominated the space.
If he had been shocked at Dane’s appearance upon their last meeting, he was doubly so now. In the space of a month, the man had withered away to mere bones. His skin appeared almost translucent, pulled tight over the harsh planes of his face. With pale, cracked lips, he spoke, and the sound of his voice chilled Peter’s very core.
“You have come.”
Peter swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.” After a moment’s pause, he moved into the room. A set of chairs sat next to the bed, no doubt for his daughters to keep vigil over him. Peter took one. Now was not the time for stiff manners and social niceties. His gaze swept the sunken form beneath the pile of blankets, regret sitting heavily on his shoulders. “I am sorry I did not come sooner.”
Dry lips lifted in a shadow of a smile. “But you are here, my boy. That is all that matters.” The smile fell then, as if the will was strong but the body too weak to hold it. “I am sorry, Peter, so sorry about your mother.”
Tears stung Peter’s eyes. The old fury tried to sputter to life, remembering the day the duke had turned him contemptuously away. But it was a weak thing and shriveled before it could find purchase. “I…” The words stuck in his throat. He cleared it and tried again. “I forgive you.”
The man seemed to deflate in relief. His hand twitched, reaching for Peter. Without hesitation, he grabbed it, holding the frail bones gingerly in his own. “But,” he continued through a throat thick with emotion, “only if you will forgive me. It was cruel of me to threaten you. And I promise, here and now, I will not let Danesford go to ruin. I will take care of your tenants, your family, and make certain they do not want for anything.”
The old man nodded, tears spilling over onto his withered cheeks. His skeletal fingers convulsed in Peter’s own. Peace descended, such as Peter had never known. Lenora had done this, he knew, had brought him this healing. His heart swelled, thinking of her and the possibility of a life with her.
But he had forgotten Lady Clara.
“What do you mean, you threatened him?” She stood at the far side of the bed, facing Peter, her hands fisted at her sides. “He’s dying and you threatened him?”
“Clara,” her father tried, his voice a weak whisper.
“Have you no shame?” she hissed, her eyes filled with outraged fire. “It was not my father’s fault. If anyone deserves the blame, it’s me. If not for my actions, he would not have turned you away all those years ago.”
“You?” Peter rasped. He released the duke’s hand and stood. Tension threaded through his body. “What do you mean, you’re responsible?”
For the first time, uncertainty flared in her gaze. “But surely…” She looked to her father, then back to Peter in confusion. “Surely Father told you why he turned you away.”
“Clara, don’t,” Dane tried again, his hand rising toward her.
“Yes,” Peter answered, his gaze darting back and forth between father and daughter, a horrible premonition rising like a floodwater in him. “He told me my father was blackmailing him, that he thought I had come to do my father’s work.”
“Did he not tell you the reason for that blackmail?”
“No.”
Lady Clara sat on the bed heavily. “Papa, why didn’t you tell him?”
The duke only shook his head. With a tearful smile, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “You silly, stubborn, wonderful man,” she whispered. “You cannot protect me forever, you know.”
He gave her a wan smile. “I shall, as long as there is breath in my body.”
She patted his hand, then sighed. “Mr. Ashford, you may as well take a seat. We have much to discuss, you and I.”
Uncertainty coiling in his stomach, Peter did as he was bid. Still it was some moments before Lady Clara spoke.
“I suppose I must start at the beginning, for you to understand fully what was at stake,” she began. “Mr. Ashford, have you heard of the rivalry between the previous Duke of Dane and your paternal grandfather?”
“Peter,” he said.
She smiled wearily. “Peter.”
“I only know my grandfather was cut off without a cent. That when his father died, and his brother, your grandfather, took the helm, there was a falling-out and he was banished.” It had been a favorite topic when his father was in a drunken rage—which had been a good portion of the time before he’d abandoned them to an even more desperate poverty. All their misfortune could be traced back to that one moment.
Clara nodded. “Yes, that’s true. But do you know why they fought?”
Here Peter could only shake his head. His father had conveniently left that bit out when cursing the duke.
“From all accounts, your grandfather refused to take the living that was offered him, instead expecting to be supported in every luxury and extravagance. When my grandfather cut him off, hoping it would force him to take responsibility for his own life, he stole a quantity of jewels and coin and fled into the night.”
Peter nodded, sensing there was more, dreading the telling of it with every fiber in his being.
“Years later…” Here she faltered, looked to her father. But that man had his eyes closed, weary sadness mingling with the subdued pain creasing his gaunt features. She took a deep breath, plowed on. “Years later, your father came to us, begging for help for his family. Despite my grandfather’s misgivings and distrust, my father encouraged him to open his heart, to not put the sins of the father on the son. And so he offered him a generous sum, a place to lay his head that night, and the promise of more help to come. It seems your father was not happy with what was given, however. Like his father before him, he, too, took what he could and disappeared before dawn.”
“When?” Peter demanded. “When did he do this?”
“Nearly twenty years ago.” She smiled sadly. “I know, because I was there and witnessed the entire thing. It destroyed my grandfather, bringing back all the old hurt. He fell ill after that, and never recovered.”
Twenty years ago. After his father had abandoned them. The bastard had used them for personal gain, with no intention of helping them.
If he could strangle the man with his bare hands this second, he would, and gladly.
But the story wasn’t done. For didn’t he already know that his father returned to blackmail the duke?
Seeing the tight lines of pain marring Clara’s gentle face, however, he had no wish to learn what followed.
“You needn’t tell me the rest,” he said, his voice gruff in the heavy silence that permeated the room.
She gave him a small smile. “No, I need to say this. If we are to move past this, I need you to understand.”
There was a fire in her eyes, a determination he recognized all too well. With reluctance, he nodded.
She drew a deep breath. “When I was a young girl, I allowed my head to be turned by a young man who promised to marry me.” She chuckled darkly. “No, it was more than my head, for the rest of me turned right along with it. You are a man of the world; I think you understand what I’m implying.”
Grasping the seat beneath him, Peter gritted his teeth and nodded.
“Unfortunately, his promises were as insubstantial as mist. He abandoned me.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her knuckles showing white. “I became quite ill as a result of it and was near death’s door when your father reappeared, in need of more funds. I don’t know how he learned of my…situation. Perhaps he coerced my maid, for she left soon after, never to return. All I know is he used his knowledge of my transgression to bribe money from my father.”
“Dear God,” Peter breathed.
She nodded. “His Grace thought you were in league with your father, and wouldn’t help you as he would have had not my idiocy put us in such a situation. When he learned from Lady Tesh the truth of the matter, he tried to track you down. But by then it was too late. You were gone.” She looked at him full in the face then. “Peter, it has sat heavy on his soul all these years. No act could be more regretted.”
It was an echo of what Lady Tesh had said to him when he’d first come to the Isle. He shook his head. “Why did no one tell me?”
“No one, not even Lady Tesh, knew of your father’s blackmail or my shame.”
Fury filled Peter, for what this woman had endured. “It’s not your shame,” he growled, “but the shame and dishonor of the man who used you, and my own father for using that shame against you.”
A ghost of a smile flitted over her face. “You’re kind.” She drew in a deep breath. “And so now you know. Though,” she continued, giving her father a mock stern glance, “you should have been told long ago.”
The duke gave her a smile full of love. As father and daughter murmured quietly with one another, Peter was aware of a gradual falling away of the old hurt. Though he had determined to shrug off the last of the shackles of his past days ago, it was only now that he was set free. He took a breath, for once his chest unburdened by the bands of hate and revenge that had so long held him prisoner. And suddenly the future looked bright, and full of a hope he’d dared not ever dream of before.
Over the next hour, he talked in quiet tones with Clara and the duke. The man had seemed to rally some, and listened with bright eyes as Peter talked of the future, his smiles showing more than words ever could of his gratitude that Danesford and all that he loved would be cared for. When it was time for his laudanum, and he fell into a peaceful slumber, Clara guided Peter from the room.
“Thank you,” she said as they walked side by side down the hall.
“I should be thanking you. You’ve entrusted me with a painful truth to bring better understanding of a horrible situation.” He looked down at her. “I had already offered him forgiveness. You didn’t need to, you know.”
“It was the least I could do.” She looked at him then. “I’m sorry, more than you know.”
She still held the burden of her mistake, and would not soon let it go. “It’s in the past,” he said now, his voice gentle, hoping it would give her some peace.
She nodded, seemingly no more convinced. As they reached the top of the grand staircase, however, she paused, her face brightening. “But I’ve forgotten. I have promised to show you something.” With that, she turned about and headed down the west wing. Puzzled, he followed.
They stepped into a long, open room. Portraits graced the walls at intervals, each one grander than the last. “This is the portrait gallery,” she explained as they walked its length. “These, Peter, are your ancestors.”
He gazed at the paintings as they passed them. Centuries of Ashfords stared back at him, and he found himself looking for something identifiable in their faces. It was then he saw it, the cool blue eyes of one, the stubborn chin of another, the pale hair of a third. He saw bits and pieces of himself in all of them. As before, when he’d first learned of Synne and her history, he felt the golden thread connecting him to these people, all dead and gone now. And he the last male of the line. Would he and Lenora keep it going? Would their portraits, and the portraits of their children, and their children’s children, grace these very walls as well?
His musings were short lived, however, as Clara stopped before a small glass cabinet. Small daggers encrusted with jewels, elaborate gilt crosses, small miniatures, all crowded the interior. But one item stood out from the others, though it was the plainest by far. The dull gold ring, roughly hewn, shouldn’t have drawn his attention. Yet he could not keep his eyes from it.
“You’ve found Synne’s ring, I see,” Clara said, a hint of humor in her voice.
He gaped, unable to take his eyes from it. “That belonged to Synne?”
“It did.” There was a pause, and then, “Would you like to hold it?”
Before he could refuse—for he felt if he held such an ancient, brittle-looking piece in his rough, too-large hands, he would destroy it—she opened the case and pulled the ring from its velvet bed. In the next instant, she had hold of his hand and was placing the band in his palm.
The metal should have been cool to the touch, but it felt hot against his skin. It filled him up, erased who he had thought he was, grounded him to where he truly belonged. And he saw that what he had thought to be delicate and in need of protection was, in fact, enduring and strong.
Like Lenora. Like his love for her.
His chest ached. “Thank you,” he whispered. He watched with reverence as the ring was placed back on its bed, and soon he was saying farewell with a promise to return.
He mounted up and turned his horse for Seacliff. There was nothing holding him back now. Soon Lenora would know his heart, and he would do everything in his power to make her his.