Lord of Regrets by Sabrina Darby Page B

she is.” She clutched her sleeping daughter tighter to her.
    He was a wall, a stone wall. He could show no weakness, or she would think him incapable of following through.
    “I’m certain the local magistrate will agree with me. Lord Parrington has influence, does he not?” Marcus hated himself, but he was desperate. Had he not said just hours earlier that he would not force her? What was this, if not force? “Leona comes with me. I would prefer that you do as well. But that is your choice.”
    “That is no choice,” Natasha cried.
    He steeled his heart against her despairing tone, against the exhaustion and fear he heard. She would remember soon enough, or she would learn, that their solace could be found in each other’s arms. There was no need for this fighting.
    “Come, let me take you home. We will discuss this in the morning.”
    “No,” Natasha said, but her refusal was pointless. Methodically, he went about negating her response. He took her valise and attached it to the saddle.
    Then Marcus pulled Leona from her grasp, aching as he heard Natasha choke back a sob. He mounted, settled Leona in front of him, and held out his hand to Natasha. Reluctantly, she took it, and he swung her up behind him.
    “I hate you,” she whispered, and he understood. This was not the way he had wished it to be, but he would do what he must.
    She tentatively held on to his waist, more firmly as the horse began to move, and the touch of her arms, of her hands clutching him, was the most welcome embrace in the world. With his daughter settled before him, and his future wife behind, Marcus walked the horse back to her house, careful to pick the most cautious route.
    For the first time that evening, his tension dissipated. Despite the wrongness of his actions, the three of them together was right.
    The journey back to Natasha’s house took little time for she had traveled scarcely six miles. It was still night when Natasha firmly shut her bedroom door in his face.
    Marcus settled himself on the floor in the hallway, in front of Natasha’s door, behind which both she and Leona slept. He did not believe she’d try to leave again this night, but there was a point to be made.
    In the morning, when Mary arrived, the maid stared at him in appalled fascination. He crawled to his feet, wincing at the pain of his stiff limbs. He put himself in some semblance of order and left the house, aching but satisfied. At the sight of his man, he stopped and chided him for having let Natasha flee, then set him to a new position from which the servant could see both front and back of the cottage.
    Then, with clear intention, Marcus returned to the village. He had work to do this day and not a moment to waste.
    …
    The day passed slowly, painfully. Leona slept late, exhausted by the night’s adventures. But even after her daughter disappeared beyond the door of the bedroom, Natasha refused to leave her bed. Later, she could hear the girl talking to Mary; Natasha marked the day by the sounds of their activity around the house.
    When the smell of fresh-baked bread rose to her room, she staggered to the washbasin. The water was not fresh, but it was cool on her face as she scrubbed and brushed away the grime of the previous night’s journey. Refreshed, she stared at the door. The different permutations of the day lay out before her. She could descend as she was, eat, then take a bath, or perhaps in the other order, a bath and then a meal. The thought of making a decision exhausted her and she climbed back into bed, drawing the covers up to her cheek.
    Leona entered a while later, and Natasha waved her away, keeping her eyes shut until she heard the solid thunk of the door closing. Even the guilt that stung at her breast was not enough to rouse her from the bed.
    When Marcus returned late in the afternoon, Natasha was still beneath the sheets. She wondered at Mary having let him in, but it hardly mattered anymore. She peered at him from over the veil