She knew she had cried out during the worst of it, although she had sworn to herself that she would keep silent. Now her weakness filled her with self-disgust. Perhaps she deserved such treatment. Perhaps she'd invited it with her cowardly cringing. A wave of nausea rose invincible and she rolled off the bed with a moan, reaching for the chamber pot. She could see herself in her mind's eye, crouched on the floor, vomiting helplessly with shock and self-disgust, a trembling, fearful, beaten animal.
But as the heaving of her stomach quieted and cold sweat misted her skin, her brain seemed to clear. The vomiting had somehow purged her spiritually as well as physically. She rose unsteadily to her feet, looking around for something to cover her chilled nakedness. The robe he'd torn from her lay on the floor, and she pulled it on, huddling into it. She looked around the dark room, where the shapes of the furniture stood out gray against the gloom. The window was a black square, but beyond she could see the faintest lightening at the edges of the darkness.
She could not sleep. She could not get back into that bed. She wanted Mathilde, with the deep, overpowering, speechless need of a wounded child for its mother.
Without any clear thought, she left the bedchamber, crossed the salon, and let herself out into the corridor. Candles in wall sconces lit the deserted expanse, and as the door to the apartment closed behind her, a great wave of relief and release broke over her. She was free. Out of the stifling, shackling darkness of her prison. Where she was going or what she was doing were questions that didn't even pose themselves. She clambered painfully onto a broad windowsill overlooking an inner courtyard, gathered the robe securely around her, rested her head on her drawn-up knees, and waited for daylight. Waited for Mathilde.
Leo left a card party just as dawn streaked the sky. He was mildly the worse for cognac. Cards, cognac, and companionship had seemed the only distractions from the niggling unease that made sleep an impossibility. He couldn't separate Cordelia from Elvira for some reason. He was bound to them both by ties whose similarity he couldn't explain to himself. Elvira was his sister, his twin. He loved her unconditionally. Her welfare was his responsibility. And now he was haunted by the idea that perhaps he had failed to meet that responsibility.
Cordelia was a young girl whose life had touched his by chance for a few weeks. He lusted after her. If he was truly honest, he could admit that to himself. But pure lust and a passing responsibility didn't account for what he felt toward Cordelia.
The confused yet obsessional thoughts continued to tumble in his head amid the brandy fumes as he made his way to his own humble room on an outside staircase in the north wing. On an inexplicable whim, he deviated from his course, taking a side stair that led into the corridor outside the von Sachsen apartment. The closer he came to the door, the greater his unease. It was almost like a miasma filling the marble-floored passage.
He walked past the double doors. Turned and walked past them again. Then with an impatient shrug, he swung on his heel and started back the way he'd come. And then he stopped. Slowly, he retraced his steps. A crouched figure huddled on the deep windowsill. The figure was so still he hadn't noticed it at first.
The lustrous blue-black river poured down her back. Her face was turned from him, resting on her knees.
"Cordelia?" He laid a hand on her shoulder.
With a start she turned her head. Her eyes were almost vacant, dark holes in a face whiter than her robe. "I'm waiting for Mathilde."
Leo frowned. "In the corridor? Where is she?"
"I don't know. Michael sent her away. But she won't leave me. I know she won't."
He saw the shadow of the emerging bruise on her cheekbone. And he knew what he had been trying so hard to deny. Gently, he moved aside the robe at her neck. Finger bruises stood out against the smooth white skin. The well of rage was bottomless. Wave after wave broke over him. He saw Elvira, he saw the shadow in her eyes. He saw Cordelia, bereft, her spirit, her courage, her laughter vanquished.
Bending, he lifted her from the windowsill, cradling her in his arms. She said nothing as he carried her away.
He carried her through the quiet corridors and up deserted staircases, his heart filled with rage. She curled against his chest, her arms around his neck. Her eyes were closed, the thick lashes dark half-moons against the deathly pallor of her cheeks, and he thought she slept. Her breathing was deep and regular and he could feel her heart beating against his hand.
At the head of a steep stone staircase, he opened a narrow wooden door onto a small chamber. It was simply furnished with a bed, an armoire, a washstand, two chairs, and a round table beneath the narrow window that looked out onto the Cour de Marbre. It was very much a bachelor apartment.
Leo laid Cordelia on the bed and her eyes opened. They were startled, then frightened, then slowly her gaze cleared and he saw with a surge of relief that she was fully aware, the vacant look in her eyes displaced by knowledge and recognition.
He bent over her and unfastened the velvet robe, slipping a hand beneath her to draw it away from her body. His mouth was tight, his eyes grim as he examined her closely, gauging how badly Michael had hurt her. The marks on her body were not severe, but he knew that the real wounds had been to her self, to the determined, courageous, effervescent spirit that made her what she was.
Cordelia lay still beneath his gaze, her own eyes, fearless now, gazing up at him. She was warm at last and the dreadful shaking had stopped. But Leo's rage and pain were a palpable force in the room. His hands as he raised her arms, her legs, turned her over, were as gentle as a dove's wings, but his eyes were fearsome.
"I don't expect he did this to Elvira," she said softly. "She was different from me. Perhaps she didn't provoke him. I can't seem to help provoking him."
He was not surprised that Cordelia had guessed the source of his mental agony. He had noticed how insightful she was when it came to her friends. He touched her cheek with a fingertip and she smiled.
"It was because I beat him at cards," she said, reaching up to hold his wrist, keeping his hand against her face. "He sent Mathilde away because I made people laugh at him." She turned her face against his hand and kissed his palm. "Please hold me."
Leo sat down and lifted her into his arms. She was fragile, almost insubstantial, reminding him of a skeleton leaf. Her bare skin was soft and warm beneath his hands, and he slid one hand around to cup the roundness of her breast. She moved against him, raising a finger to pull loose his cravat. She kissed the pulse at his throat, and her breath was a sweet rustle of need and longing against his skin.
"I need you to show me how it can be," she whispered with soft urgency. "I need to know that it doesn't have to destroy. It doesn't have to be vile. Once you showed me a little of what it could be like. Show me now, Leo. Please." It was a heartfelt plea, no hint of mischief or seduction.
"Make me whole again," she whispered, raising her head to kiss his mouth, her body lifting slightly on his lap. His hands moved over her of their own accord, tracing the contours of her form, the narrowness of her rib cage, the swell of her breasts, the flat belly.
She seemed to be coming alive under his touch; her body filling again with the vital spirit that made her who she was, opening again like a weather-torn bud under the rays of a sudden sun.
Slipping his hands free, he gently circled her neck, his fingers light as featherdown smoothing away the rough marks of Michael's imprints. He knew that what he was doing was right. Only by vanquishing Michael's prints upon her body could he heal her. "Are you sure you want this now, sweetheart?" he asked quietly. "It's so soon after he hurt you. Are you sure you're ready?"