violent crack as the frame hit the back of the stone, the fierce crackling as the flame took hold. She had moved without conscious thought, a sheer rush of emotion, and she had grabbed the fiery image to drag it out. The shock had carried her through for a minute or two. And then the searing pain …
Erik was kneeling before her, holding her hands in his, looking into her eyes. “Why did you do it?”
She gave her head a shake, hardly knowing herself. But his eyes were steady on her, and she tried to put it into words. “You were always there,” she murmured. “A part of the keep. I had seen too many people burnt. She couldn’t burn you, too.” She put her head down, wrapping her arms around her knees. “She couldn’t burn you.”
The room went quiet, and after a moment Erik had put his arms around her, drawing her up against him in a tender carry. He nodded to the other two men, then turned and headed for the stairs. Mary eased against his chest, the aroma of anise surrounding her, comforted by his steady stride. He moved down the hall to her room, pushing the door open with his shoulder.
The thick curtains were pulled shut, and the only light came from the low embers in the grate. He glanced around in the gloom, then took a step toward the large, canopied bed.
Mary tensed, her arms wrapping tightly around his chest. “No.”
Erik froze, looking down at her. “I don’t understand …?”
Mary nudged her head to the right. “By the fireplace,” she murmured.
Erik took the few steps toward the fireplace, and stopped in surprise. He took in the low bunk stretched across the foot of the bed, the small pillow and thin blanket which waited there.
He glanced back at the large, carved canopy bed. “But that bed is –”
“That is the bed Lady Cartwright died in,” stated Mary, her throat tight. “I sat there with her, until her ghost left her, and for hours afterward. I kept hoping I could bring her back with sheer strength of will.” Her voice dropped. “It was Michael who finally pried my fingers loose from hers, who took me downstairs and held me while I sobbed.”
Erik knelt by the small bed, carefully settling Mary into it. He stayed there at her side, his face contrite. “I am so sorry, Mary. I should have been here. I should have carried that burden.”
Mary’s voice was tight. “She would have liked that. She never gave up hope.”
He shook his head, tenderly brushing her hair back from her face. “I was too stubborn to see it,” he murmured in a low voice. “I thought she hated me.”
The corners of Mary’s mouth turned up. “She adored you with a passion that was stunning to see.” She raised a hand to gently trace the planes of Erik’s face. “One I understand well.”
Erik groaned, his lips brushing across hers, first tenderly, then with growing heat, and she was lost.
Chapter 9
Mary blinked her eyes open. Her bedroom was in its perpetual gloom, but the thinnest traces of morning light eased around the edges of the curtains. The fire had all but died out, and she wearily rubbed at her eyes. She would have to get another log onto the fire and give it a chance to catch, before she began her morning routine. She groaned, rolling to a sitting position.
There was someone in the room with her.
It was a moment before the panic eased, leaving behind the realization that Erik was standing there, clad only in his leggings, staring up at the remnants of the painting which hung over the fire. Her eyes followed his, coming to rest on the image she knew so well.
The fire had done its damage. Most of the image was blackened and beyond repair, soot and curling ash visible in fragmented layers. Only the face had survived, the blue-grey eyes staring from a mottled, brown surface.
Erik’s voice was hoarse. “My mother had the image hung here?”
Mary nodded, looking down at her gloved hands. “She felt the guilt of her action keenly, and wanted to always be reminded of what she had
Erik was kneeling before her, holding her hands in his, looking into her eyes. “Why did you do it?”
She gave her head a shake, hardly knowing herself. But his eyes were steady on her, and she tried to put it into words. “You were always there,” she murmured. “A part of the keep. I had seen too many people burnt. She couldn’t burn you, too.” She put her head down, wrapping her arms around her knees. “She couldn’t burn you.”
The room went quiet, and after a moment Erik had put his arms around her, drawing her up against him in a tender carry. He nodded to the other two men, then turned and headed for the stairs. Mary eased against his chest, the aroma of anise surrounding her, comforted by his steady stride. He moved down the hall to her room, pushing the door open with his shoulder.
The thick curtains were pulled shut, and the only light came from the low embers in the grate. He glanced around in the gloom, then took a step toward the large, canopied bed.
Mary tensed, her arms wrapping tightly around his chest. “No.”
Erik froze, looking down at her. “I don’t understand …?”
Mary nudged her head to the right. “By the fireplace,” she murmured.
Erik took the few steps toward the fireplace, and stopped in surprise. He took in the low bunk stretched across the foot of the bed, the small pillow and thin blanket which waited there.
He glanced back at the large, carved canopy bed. “But that bed is –”
“That is the bed Lady Cartwright died in,” stated Mary, her throat tight. “I sat there with her, until her ghost left her, and for hours afterward. I kept hoping I could bring her back with sheer strength of will.” Her voice dropped. “It was Michael who finally pried my fingers loose from hers, who took me downstairs and held me while I sobbed.”
Erik knelt by the small bed, carefully settling Mary into it. He stayed there at her side, his face contrite. “I am so sorry, Mary. I should have been here. I should have carried that burden.”
Mary’s voice was tight. “She would have liked that. She never gave up hope.”
He shook his head, tenderly brushing her hair back from her face. “I was too stubborn to see it,” he murmured in a low voice. “I thought she hated me.”
The corners of Mary’s mouth turned up. “She adored you with a passion that was stunning to see.” She raised a hand to gently trace the planes of Erik’s face. “One I understand well.”
Erik groaned, his lips brushing across hers, first tenderly, then with growing heat, and she was lost.
Chapter 9
Mary blinked her eyes open. Her bedroom was in its perpetual gloom, but the thinnest traces of morning light eased around the edges of the curtains. The fire had all but died out, and she wearily rubbed at her eyes. She would have to get another log onto the fire and give it a chance to catch, before she began her morning routine. She groaned, rolling to a sitting position.
There was someone in the room with her.
It was a moment before the panic eased, leaving behind the realization that Erik was standing there, clad only in his leggings, staring up at the remnants of the painting which hung over the fire. Her eyes followed his, coming to rest on the image she knew so well.
The fire had done its damage. Most of the image was blackened and beyond repair, soot and curling ash visible in fragmented layers. Only the face had survived, the blue-grey eyes staring from a mottled, brown surface.
Erik’s voice was hoarse. “My mother had the image hung here?”
Mary nodded, looking down at her gloved hands. “She felt the guilt of her action keenly, and wanted to always be reminded of what she had
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