Saving Marilee Page 5

  It had been one week since I had been freed from that hand, and I was still so wrinkled that I barely recognized my reflection.

  Chapter Four

  THE NEXT DAY, a carriage rolled up my drive, the side emblazoned with the Winberg coat of arms. I stared out the window as it neared the house, and for one horrible moment I thought that Damian's family had come. But it was only two soldiers, come to deliver word from my father-in-law, the duke of Winberg. The letter was suffused with shock at his son's passing, as well as shock that I hadn't come to the castle myself. He let me know that the two soldiers who had delivered the letter would be escorting me to Winberg castle so that I might be present for the funeral that would take place in two days' time. His insistence wasn't surprising. However, I had no intention of bowing to his wishes. When I said as much to the soldier waiting in my drawing room, he blinked for several moments.

  "I'm sorry, Highness?"

  "I won't be going with you, though I appreciate your willingness to escort me." I tried to stand firm in the face of his disbelief. I knew what he would see when he saw me: an insignificant girl of twenty, barely more than a child, trying to claim her own life.

  "I was given to understand that the letter explained what was—"

  "The letter was very clear. And of course I've penned a response for you to give to the duke as explanation for my absence." I held out the letter.

  He opened his mouth, but Rogue let out a soft growl and the guard seemed to reconsider. Instead he accepted the missive and bowed his head. "Of course, Lady Rockwell."

  I tightened my jaw and excused him with less courtesy than I might have managed had he not addressed me as such. It didn't bother me as much as being called Lady Mary, but the reminder that I would forever bear the name of Rockwell, my husband's name, made my stomach rebel and my heart ache. That wasn't the soldier's fault. My mind knew that these people had no idea what that title meant to me, but my emotions were still raw and volatile.

  I stood on the front step with Rogue dutifully at my side as they drove off, noting the distrust on the face of the second soldier, who looked back at me time and again.

  I was grateful that Damian had met his fate in a public place with plenty of witnesses; otherwise I was certain I would have been under suspicion. As it was, Mr. Tennsworth had told me that there were those who—despite the eye witness accounts of the confrontation and Damian's demise—believed that I was the one who had finally snapped and disposed of my husband. Part of me appreciated the rumor; it was likely the thing that had kept most people away from the house thus far.

  Damian was used to getting his way. As the son of a sovereign duke, there were few who would cross him and Damian knew it. Unfortunately, his rank only influenced those who knew him.

  His death was all very coincidental. Damian frequented a certain inn with his friends, which catered to wealthier patrons. After amusing himself for several hours, he had stepped out the door and stumbled into a man. Mistaking the man for a servant, Damian had shoved him out of the way while spouting some ill-chosen words.

  The man was a stranger to our town, but not a servant and not inclined to take abuse from anyone. He gave a formidable accounting of himself and their tussle had ended up in the street, where wagons and carts did their best to navigate around them. Damian was thrown to the ground, into the path of a horse that stepped directly on his neck.

  I found it very telling that while he was supposedly surrounded by friends, not one of them had stepped in to stop the brawl.

  He hadn't died right away. Vincent had been on his own business in town and stumbled upon the scene soon after it had happened. Someone was calling for a doctor, but Vincent insisted that Damian would only be treated by his own physician. My husband was unconscious but still breathing when they carried him into the house, though his lungs gurgled with blood each time he managed a breath. I stood like a wraith in the doorway and counted five rattling breaths after they'd laid him on his bed. There were no more after that.

  The magistrate showed up only a few minutes later, telling us the story he had gathered from witnesses. Vincent tried to convince him to arrest both the stranger and the man whose horse had ended Damian's life. But despite the weight that Damian Rockwell's name carried, the magistrate was not inclined to obey the whim of a servant. He gave me his condolences and left me to stare down at the broken body of my husband.

  How strange that the death of my husband had allowed me to rediscover myself. It seemed wrong. But then, my whole married life had been wrong.

  I gazed after the carriage until it disappeared around a bend in the road. A breath of relief pushed from my lungs, leaving me grateful that I stood on these steps instead of being shoved inside a carriage and forced to publicly mourn the passing of my husband.

  The fresh air saturated my lungs and I realized that I hadn't taken my morning walk in the garden in the last several days. I descended the stairs and walked the path down to the gardens. There were many things about Bridgefield that I hated; the gardens weren't one of them.

  Winding my way deep inside, I found a patch of grass to stretch out on. I had never done this before. I'd been afraid of a reprimand, or being late, or being called lazy. I reveled in the lightness that came as the worries I'd carried began to slip from my shoulders.

  I lay on my back, my arms stretched out at my sides, and closed my eyes to focus on the cool grass beneath me. Reaching my hands out at my sides, I let the grass tickle my palms. I welcomed the subtle breeze, the sun's rays and the scents of plant and earth. I breathed in. I breathed out.

  This was my life now. I could lie here and breathe the air around me. Whether I stayed for a minute or an hour, no one would tell me I couldn't. I opened my eyes to the sea of green leaves, blue sky and brilliant sun light.

  I was reborn.

  ***

  Not every day gave me a feeling of freedom. In fighting to assert myself in my new life, I discovered that it truly was a fight. One that left me tired. I was tempted, more often than not, to abandon the house altogether, to go home to Dalthia, or to seek some other residence. But that would have felt like defeat, and so long as I kept to the old wing, so long as I left those rooms alone where Damian had dominated and lorded over me, I was quite content. Besides, this house was my responsibility, and I was determined to prove that I was not the silly young girl I had been when I married.

  My parents' reply arrived one week after I had sent the news. I was in my sitting room, making lace—a pastime I enjoyed because of its delicate maneuvers and fine results—when Cecily entered with a letter. She curtsied as she held it out for me. "A letter from the palace of Dalthia, Highness."

  I took it, excited and nervous all at once, and broke the seal.

  Dear Marilee,

  We were distressed to receive your letter and hear the news of your husband's passing. We were even more distressed to realize that you do not seem to be treating the situation with the gravity that it deserves. Despite the differences you may have encountered with your husband, you should not be so foolish as to shirk your duties. We had hoped that marriage would help you to grow up and accept your responsibilities. Life cannot be all parties and entertainment...

  My eyes clouded over, but I blinked back the tears and finished reading. Somehow, I had assumed that my parents' disappointment would sting less now that I was a grown woman. I had been wrong. Their words left me to wonder again if I had imagined Damian's cruelty; if it had been my fault; if I should have expected and accepted it.

  ***

  It was the very next morning, as I stood in my chemise looking through my dresses, that Cecily knocked on the door and entered with yet another letter in hand. She gave a tentative smile, clearly unsure about whether a letter was a good thing. The one from my parents the day before had sent me into a melancholy, which had set my servants to worrying over me.

  I looked at the missive pinched between two of her fingers and forced myself to reach for it. "Thank you." My
voice was hoarse.

  She excused herself and I stared at the parchment for a moment. It was from Lylin. I didn't know if I could handle another letter filled with disappointment, but I couldn't ignore it either. I had longed for words from my family too desperately to set them aside now, despite what the words might say. I breathed deep and opened the letter.

  Marilee,

  I'm so very worried for you. And relieved too. Father informed me of what happened. I am so sorry I did not listen to my instincts and come to visit you long ago. I have been concerned for some months now that your marriage was not only tempestuous, but completely wretched. And now with this news that your husband is dead and that you do not feel to mourn for him.

  What has he done, Marilee? It's been so long since I received a letter from you that I have to suppose that things have only gotten worse. Your silence felt like confirmation of my suspicions, but I didn't dare interfere. Now I see my error. I should have come to you myself. I should have insisted that you answer my letters yourself, that you tell me face to face if you were all right. Because you obviously are not. The Marilee I know would attend her husband's funeral unless there was something very, very wrong. What is it, dear? Tell me what you have suffered. Please tell me.

  Lylin

  This was almost worse. It was so much of what I wanted to hear. Words of vindication and validation. And yet, the pain in her words opened my own wounds, so freshly scabbed over. I sat down there in front of my wardrobe, the bodice of my chemise feeling too tight. How could I respond to such questions? How could I admit the truth? I wanted to write back to her. But I had no words to relieve her worry. I had no reassurances to soothe her fretting heart.

  Chapter Five

  THE COMFORTING WARMTH of Rogue sprawled next to my body greeted me the next morning. I scratched his head and he crept up until his head rested on my arm. Who would have thought I'd fall for the charms of a dog this quickly?

  "Come along," I prompted as I slid from my bed. Rogue leapt down and spent the morning circling my ankles, determined to occupy the same bit of floor that I did.

  Beatrice brought me breakfast, then helped with the laces of my dress and braided my hair before coiling it at the nape of my neck.

  "Thank you," I said, pressing my hair to be sure it was secure as I headed for the door.

  "Mistress?"

  I turned. "Yes, Beatrice?"

  "We've been trying to close up as much of the new wing as we can, but we can't agree what's to be done with his chamber."

  I breathed deep, bracing myself against what I must do and closed my eyes, blowing out in a slow stream. "I'll have to take care of it."

  "Oh no, I didn't mean—"

  "I know. But it needs to be done by me." I nodded, trying to convince myself.

  "Shall we help?"

  "I'll call on you if I need assistance."

  She bowed her head and I turned to go, but couldn't make myself move. I finally turned back. "Would you at least walk there with me?"

  She gave a tremulous smile and linked her arm with mine, and we set off with Rogue right by my side. I ambled in an attempt to avoid the task at hand. I knew I didn't have to do it. Or at least, no one else would make me do it. But there was a tight knot of conviction in my chest that told me if I didn't face it now, it would just keep holding me down.

  Beatrice squeezed my arm as we left the old wing. Her presence was a balm, but it made me miss my mother. I could choose to run home today, but that wasn't a real option in my mind. I knew what I had become. I knew I was broken and that my family would do everything in their power to fix me. But I wanted to fix myself.

  Arriving at Damian's chamber door, I gave Beatrice a reassuring smile before releasing her arm and pushing the doors open.

  Everything was clean and in its place. There was not a stray book on the side table or a boot on the floor. The drapes had been drawn precisely half way.

  Rogue wandered around, likely looking for a rug or fur to nap on. Not finding any, he jumped onto the bed, sniffing at the pillows before making himself comfortable. I smiled. Damian would have been appalled.

  Opening the wardrobe, I stared at his clothes, each article hung with precision on its own hook. The entire house was ordered and organized, but his chamber was obsessively tidy.

  I yanked a coat from its peg and let it drop to the bottom of the wardrobe. Childish, but it gave me a small bit of satisfaction. I considered doing the same to the rest of his clothing, but was distracted by the small latched door set into the back of the wardrobe.

  My breath caught. Damian had plenty of secrets, and I was about to discover one of them without his interference. I yanked it open and a book fell out and bounced on the bottom of the cabinet then onto the floor.

  I hated secrets. I hated knowing that whatever this book was, it likely held the power to hurt me.

  As soon as the book was in my hands, I realized I had been mistaken. This wasn't a book, but a box which had been made to look like a book. I had held it before, and knew exactly what I would find when I opened it.

  ***

  I crept on bare feet through the corridors, trying to blend with the shadows and seep into the night, until I reached Damian's office. I hadn't brought a candle, but moved in the darkness, determined not to alert anyone. Easing the door open, I slipped inside, pressing the door closed so it made no sound.

  A thief in my own home, that's what I was, but I had to find the letters, and they were here. Beatrice had told me that she had seen several letters arrive, bearing my name, and yet I had never seen any of them. Damian claimed to know what was best for me. He said he was protecting me, helping me to be a better wife.

  He was wrong.

  The only reason I knew about the book was because I had gotten into the habit of hiding whenever my husband entered the room. It was easier that way.

  I'd been reading in the drawing room, sitting in the alcove at the window, concealed by the curtain when he had wandered in with Vincent, obviously discussing the latest post. I hadn't paid much attention until he'd said, "Two for Lady Mary. Put them in the book along with the others. And I moved it. You'll need to look on the second shelf from the top, right behind my desk."

  I hadn't fully realized what he had meant at the time, but now that I knew what was going on, something had to be done. He would not deprive me of what was rightfully mine.

  I padded beside the shelves, skimming my hand along them until I was directly behind Damian's desk. I raised up on my toes, stretching my hand up to the second highest shelf. I picked up each book one by one, turning them upside down, shaking them. I had nearly reached the end of the shelf when something rattled inside the volume I held. My heart caught in my throat. Had I actually found it?

  I pulled the cover open and pressed my fingers to the pages, but they weren't there. It wasn't a book. It was a box meant to look like a book. Groping blindly inside, I pulled out several pieces of parchment. These must be my letters. I clutched them to my heart, ready to put the empty box back where it came from, but stopped. I couldn't just take the letters. He would realize they were missing. Perhaps there would be enough light coming through the window that I could read them. I took a couple of steps toward the heavy drapes, but froze when a door shut somewhere deep in the house. If Damian were awake and searching for alcohol, as he was wont to do, I couldn't risk staying in his study. My fingers itched to keep hold of the letters, longing for a connection with my family.

  Just one. Surely he didn't count them on a daily basis. I chose one and shoved the rest into the hollow book before returning it to its place on the shelf.

  Slipping from the room, I padded down the corridor, hugging the wall to keep to the deepest shadows. My letter was fisted in my hand, no doubt wrinkling beyond repair, but I couldn't loosen my grip, too afraid that it would somehow slip from my fingers.

  I was close enough to my room that I was reaching toward the door when a crash echoed down the hall. I spun, listening to the broke
n stillness, and heard Damian curse somewhere in the darkness. I rushed through my door, entering as quietly as possible. I slipped the letter into my trunk before scrambling into bed and willing my breathing to slow enough that anyone checking on me would believe I was sleeping.

  Lying on my side, with my back to the door, I had just started to believe I would be left undisturbed when the handle creaked and the door whooshed open.

  I fought for even breaths as my pulse throbbed in my neck. Had someone heard me? Would I be confined for my willfulness?

  Footsteps crossed the room, the plodding giving away Damian's drunken state. He stopped directly at my back and let out a heavy sigh. If only he would leave.

  I nearly flinched when his hand settled on my head, but all he did was stroke my hair and murmur, "Ah, Mary," before leaving.

  My eyes stung with relief.

  ***

  I pulled on the lid, but it didn't open. I pulled harder, to no avail, and then looked more closely. There was a lock on it.

  Taking in a calming breath, I resisted the urge to scream. I wanted my letters.

  There was a lock, so there had to be a key. I tossed the box on the bed, startling Rogue, and went back to the wardrobe. I checked the hidden cabinet first, then searched every pocket, every piece of clothing, before tossing each one to the floor. When it was empty I ran my fingers along each wall, looking for any little hiding place.

  Nothing.

  I turned to the chest at the foot of the bed, knelt before it and threw it open, systematically emptying its contents onto the floor.