Page 23 of The Scent of Snow
Black overcame white as Erebus reacquainted himself with the mare, neighing and nipping her. Hemera pricked her ears, ever poised, while Erebus reared up, punching the air. Anne observed until Hemera’s gentleness broke through Erebus’s eagerness, and he settled into nosing her neck and blowing on her mane.
They were impressive apart — he the God of Darkness conjured out of muscles and shadows, she the Goddess of light, made of graciousness and snow — but together, they dazzled. Anne sighed, mesmerized by the sight.
Then, in a blur of shadows and light, they took off for the forest, no fence tall enough to keep them fettered.
Hemera had stood her ground, and Erebus didn’t trample her as Pedro had feared. If Hemera dared to face Erebus, why couldn’t Anne confront her husband?
She would speak with him now and demand to be included in their decisions. Holding on to her determination, Anne left the stables and headed towards the house. During the walk through the formal garden, her resolve solidified. She loved him. Without him, her life was like an empty white space, no textures, no scent, no colors. She knew he loved her too, in his intense, protective way. Once he understood she was ready to leave the pedestal, that she craved space by his side, he would allow them to be partners.
The family gathered around the lawn. Henrique played tennis with her brother, their grunts loud and turning louder. While Julia and Isabel watched the game, no doubt cringing at the not-so-subtle competitiveness streak between their soul mates, Tony hacked at an olive tree with a racket, and Clara waltzed with her doll. Pedro was nowhere nearby. For once, Anne thanked her husband’s isolation. He had to be in his study.
Inside the house, the housekeeper tried to get her attention. “Lady Daun, a moment, if you please. About theluminariasyou sent to the village.”
“Not now, Leonor, I’m sorry.” She felt the need to add, and clutching the black cape closer, she kept on.
Conscious of her nakedness, she raced down the stairs to his study. Midway, she stopped, her righteousness giving way to uneasiness. Why did Pedro’s private room have to be down in the bowels of the fortress? Holding the railing, she negotiated the dank steps.
Outside his door, she paused.
Should she do this? What if it ruined everything they had? Perhaps she should leave… Return to the family and enjoy the last days of the holiday. Her marriage didn’t have to change. She was happy with him.
Anne traced the oak, trying to divine a course in its intricate design. She paced a few steps, her movements hesitant and unsteady, her body torn between two directions. If she left, she would remain in the shadows, never truly a part of his world.
She didn’t want the pedestal. After a deep breath, she pushed the heavy oak out of the way and tiptoed inside. The heavy curtains had been drawn, and shadows thickened the corners. Silence greeted her, the brass clock admonishing her for invading her husband’s private space.
Pedro wasn’t inside.
Anne wandered to his desk.
The gaslamp flickered, its wavering light reflecting over a shiny object atop the rosewood top. It was a ring. Anne caught the strange piece and recognized Pedro’s father’s signet, a crown and a sword. Why would this be here when the duke lived in London?
A letter rested under the ring. Anne took it with trembling fingers, her gaze straying to the door. Dated nearly two weeks before and signed by The Duke of Palmela, Portugal’s diplomat in London. Anne scanned the lines. Pedro’s father had passed away.
Anne’s body froze, her eyes widening. That’s why Pedro was so distant, so burdened. It all made sense now — the shock, the isolation. Pedro grieved.
Love, why didn’t you confide in me?She exhaled deeply, her hand brushing against her chest to steady her heart.
Anne dropped the letter on Pedro’s desk. His father had died. His father had died, and Pedro didn’t tell her. She was less than an angel on a pedestal for him. At least an angel had the sinner’s faith.
Chapter 8
Pedropacedthelengthof the lookout tower. She had wanted to seduce him. His little angel had shed the wings and devised a plan to get what she wanted. A little smile tugged the corner of his lips, and though he was painfully hard, he had to admire her cunning. Perhaps it was not only in the bedchamber that he had chipped her innocence.
The river had turned tumultuous, the water scraping to show the pointed rocks beneath. It was here at this very spot, holding a chassepot rifle, that he had made the decision that forever changed their lives. He could have returned Anne to her family, and she would’ve gone on with her life and married another.
The thought poisoned him, and he gripped the railings, shutting his eyes.
He had given her a choice. She could’ve gone back to Maxwell when the slave trader was arrested.
After he seduced her? Hardly.
There was no point in reenacting the past. Anne was his, his angel, his wife, to protect, to seduce, to cherish, to debauch. He couldn’t give her a child, but he would keep lavishing her with everything else.
Nothing would change their lives. Didn’t he deserve the peace?
Movement below caught his attention. A flash of black and white raced toward the woods. Pedro grabbed his binoculars. Erebus and Hemera. How had the stallion escaped?
In the past, he had tried breeding the war horse to a draft mare, sturdier than the delicate Hemera, and the poor animal had almost died.
