“Please don’t,” she’d said.
His hand flattened soundlessly against the cold wood. She’d stood there with the fire behind her burning around her edges and her face cold as marble, a juxtaposition of raging pain and cool control as she upheld her loved ones drowning in grief. The pain of losing his own brother had ripped through him afresh. Would their family never be able to enjoy peace?
He wanted so badly to gather her into his arms and carry her sadness. To run his hand over her smooth hair and whisper that he had her. She’d ordered him to stay put, but he saw the forbidding plea for what it was. A shield on which she carried others to safety before allowing the tending of her own wounds. He saw the cuts on her heart and the sorrow wailing in her soul. When the time came, he would bind her back together.
He knocked softly on the door. When no answer came, he pushed carefully into her chamber so as not to disturb her if she’d returned and managed to fall asleep while he’d been downstairs in his study. The room was dark and cold, and the bed empty. She most likely remained at her mother’s bedside in the east wing of the castle. The opposite wing of the master and mistress chambers, and a wholly separate floor from the bachelor quarters, where he’d sequestered that Russian ex-lover, or childhood friend, or whoever he was supposed to be.
Wynn moved to the window and braced his hands on either side of the cold panes. The temperature bit into his palms and drew out bits of heated anger. The fact was Sergey had a past with Svetlana that at one time may have become a future together, but as far as Wynn could tell the man held no sway over her heart aside from what existed as fond memories. It mattered not how many times Ana cooed over the man or how many references to their Russian life were made, Svetlana was Wynn’s wife now. Nothing could change that. Not even when that greasy mustached weasel kissed her standing in the middle of their home in front of all their guests, claiming her as a husband would. Claiming her in a way Wynn had not yet been able to do.
Then again, could Wynn blame him? There had been an understanding between Sergey and Svetlana for years. The man had escaped death only to discover his good-as-fiancée had wed another man. But to tackle her and force his lips upon hers like that … It had taken every ounce of Wynn’s restraint to keep from knocking the ill-wanted Russian’s block off. Wynn was not a man often given to jealousies, as they were the result of flagging confidence and weak minds, but he couldn’t deny the shaking of his own confidence. What if having Sergey returned to her made Svetlana regret her hasty marriage to Wynn? What if the man’s reappearance ignited romantic feelings long repressed?
Shoving off the window, Wynn crossed through their joined sitting room and into his chamber. A small fire had been lit, its orange glow of heat extending a small radius before chilling at the night’s blue touch pooling through the window. Why had the drapes not been drawn?
Crossing the floor, he stopped in the center of the room at the sight of the figure on his bed. Curled on her side, Svetlana still wore her gown from the previous evening, but the pins in her hair had been removed and the strands tumbled like ribbons of silver across his pillow. He moved quietly to the side of the bed, careful not to wake her. At his approach her eyes fluttered up to meet his and he saw that she hadn’t been asleep at all. Tears rolled down her cheeks and splotched the pillow. A quiet sob trembled between her lips and fair to broke his heart. He was on the bed in an instant, pulling her into his arms.
“Lana, my darling. I’m here.”
She clung to him, face buried into his chest and fingers twisting at his shirtfront as she cried out the pieces of her cloven heart. Wynn gently stroked her hair, murmuring inane comforts as he willed the ability to absorb her pain into himself. But that ability was beyond his limits. All he could offer was holding her tight to catch the falling pieces until her body depleted itself of sorrow and she lay limp and heavy in his arms.
“There now, my heart. I’m here.”
Chapter 24
What comforts Thornhill had offered now stood listless among the grief, like a bright burning lamp that once cast its glow on all who drew near but whose light had shivered into shadow, its purpose extinguished. Svetlana wandered the halls, her black shawl pulled tightly against the cold air knocking on the windows as her heels echoed in lonely staccato against the stone.
Four days. That was how long it had been since her hope and prayers had died. Papa and Nicky were never coming back. They had died for the Russia they loved, their strong presence no longer felt this side of eternity. She had lived with the possibility for well over a year now, a period in which a hundred lifetimes had passed, time enough for the eventuality to plow a dull rut through her heart with a hurt so wide that only numbness could ease it. Was detachment preferable to the sharp sting that felled Mama? Or the quiet sadness yet brave smile of Marina? Grief struck with oddity. Svetlana’s one consolation was that Papa and Nicky were killed swiftly and not destined to languish in a prison cell, subject to torture and prolonged deaths drawn out by the minute. They had died honorably as soldiers, befitting who they were.
Feet given no direction, she drifted to the solarium. It glittered like a winter palace under the falling snow with thousands of ice crystals dancing across the glass panes and white drifts crowding the window corners. The heart of winter had always been her favorite time of year. With its cleansing beauty of white blanketing the bareness left in autumn’s wake, its crispness snapping the air, and its ribbon of rainbow of light shining across the northern night sky, winter seeped into her bones with a vitality held dormant in warmer seasons. Others decried the coldness as a plague to be endured, but where they saw brittleness, she saw beauty. Where they turned from the harshness, she fell into the seductive hold. Winter was an exquisite lady, bedecked in her elegant ice and dripping icicles. She was carved with an artist’s hand, fragile yet strong. Delicate yet deadly.
Or at least that was the memory Svetlana held of winter. Today she felt none of that. She wandered around the solarium, a few dried leaves from the potted plants crunching under her feet. Their crushed earthiness drifted up like a lingering perfume from autumn’s glory. Having taken fully to its new home with delight, her fern’s tendrils cascaded down the sides of its pot like a frothy waterfall. The plant had nearly doubled its size since the night of the charity bazaar.
A lifetime ago, when the world held promise of safety and she had encouraged the possibility of a marriage in more than name. They would have kissed that night. She knew by the intuition women were born with when it came to a man desiring them. More than that, she desired him as well. Then everything had gone topsy-turvy.
She poked a finger into her fern’s dirt. Still moist. It had been hesitant to grow for her at first, even drooping in despair once she planted it in the new pot. She’d fallen into a mild panic at the thought of killing it but quickly learned that all living things hurt when they’re uprooted. Only once they are made to feel safe and cared for do they allow themselves to thrive. The double realization had not gone unnoticed with the changes in her own life. In Scotland her seized roots had unfurled into a richness she never could have expected. All because Wynn gave her the freedom to do so.