Page 23 of The Viscount and the Vixen
He didn’t think his father was in any real danger out here. There was the occasional adder and fox, but the creatures were more shy than aggressive. As a boy, Locke had once caught sight of a wolf—not that anyone believed him, as wolves weren’t known for roaming these parts. For a while he’d feared that he was as mad as his father, sighting creatures that didn’t exist. But surely if that was the case, he would have imagined seeing it again. The beautiful creature had mesmerized him.
So he didn’t expect to find his father attacked by some wild animal. But he was frail, and a night out on the moors could serve him no good.
Locke stood, waiting until the sobs diminished, but the laments continued on.
“Why won’t you come for me, Linnie? The boy is wed. He won’t be alone.”
So it was more than want of an heir that had prompted today’s theatrics.
“I’m ready. Come and take me.”
Grinding his teeth together, Locke fought not to hear the desperation in his father’s voice. Finally, when he could no longer stand listening to his father’s pleas, he knelt and rested his hand on the marquess’s shoulder. “Father, it’s time to return to the residence.”
“Why doesn’t she come? You’re married now. My job is done.”
So he’d been correct regarding today’s little drama. It had all been devised as a means to secure a wife for Locke.
“I just want to be with her again,” his father said.
“The fog is rolling in. The chill is going to seep into your bones. You’ll catch your death. We need to leave.”
“I can’t.” He released another sob, one that sounded as though it had been torn from his chest. “I can’t leave her again. She’ll come for me if I just stay here.”
No, Father, she won’t.
“We need to go,” Locke insisted.
“Leave me here. For God’s sake, this time just leave me here.”
“I can’t.”
“I can’t leave her, not again. Don’t make me.”
How many times had they had this conversation? How many times had Locke followed him out here? How many times had he waited until the dampness of the fog soaked through their clothes, chilled their bones? But now his father was too frail to stand up to nature’s harshness. With resignation, Locke cradled his father in his arms. Ignoring his feeble protests, he stood and began trudging back toward the manor.
Normally after his father retired, Locke secured the lock on the door to the bedchamber in which his father slept. Tonight his mind had been on Portia, on escaping into the haven her body offered. He’d overlooked how quickly his father’s mind could slip from reality.
His father didn’t fight him. The sobs diminished, retreated completely just as they reached the manor. Locke made his way down the various hallways and up the stairs. He strode into the master bedchamber and set his father on the bed.
“Let’s get you out of these damp and soiled clothes.” As Locke began removing them, his father barely responded, merely stared at the window.
“I miss her, Locke. I miss her dreadfully.”
“I know.”
“You can’t know. You’ve never loved a woman. You can’t understand how she can become a part of your soul, a part of your whole. When she is gone, she leaves behind an emptiness, a void that no one else—nothing else—can fill.”
Then he was glad not to love, not to give that much power to any one person.
When he had his father down to his drawers, Locke retrieved his nightshirt, slipped it over his head, and began working his rail-thin arms into the sleeves.
“Was I wrong to force you to marry?” the marquess asked.
“You didn’t force me. We could have paid her off. Or I could have allowed you to marry her.”
“You like her then?”
“I think she will prove an interesting distraction, and she is certainly comely enough.”
