Page 50 of Stolen By the Duke of Ice
Open your eyes; please open your eyes.
Peter shut his eyes tightly, forcing the image from his mind. He took a deep breath, still reaching blindly for relief.
“They are here. They are here with you in the castle.”
He repeated it like a mantra. And if it took all his will to keep them safely there, so be it.
He sighed. Dahlia was right, he had gone mad.
Chapter Eleven
Dahlia had never in her life wanted to do anyone physical harm, but at that moment she sorely wanted to kick her husband. She was indeed very angry at him, but at the same time, she was also confused. She tried to determine his reasoning but could not.
How do I risk my life by playing in the snow? For a winter day, it isn’t even that cold! And he gives no reason whatsoever—just orders and demands!
She walked along the corridor of the private quarters until she found the door she sought. Dahlia took a deep breath to dissipate her anger. She knocked on the door of Mary’s chambers.
It was Claire who opened the door. She looked at Dahlia with a pensive expression.
“Hello, Dahlia.”
“I came to see if you and Mary are all right. Mrs. Baker said that you were both here.”
“Please do come in.”
Mary, who had been on her bed, stood to greet her.
Dahlia hardly knew where to begin.
Is your brother usually so unreasonable? Is he usually so authoritarian?
They sat near the fireplace. Had the earlier experience not happened, Dahlia imagined it could have been such a homey scene, the three of them huddled by the fire, sharing stories.
After a few moments of silence, Dahlia began to speak.
“Tell me, is Peter—” she stopped. Reorganizing her words, she tried again, “I have never seen Peter so angry before.”
Mary and Claire looked at each other.
“But I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend his anger towards our actions.” Dahlia laid her hands flat on her lap, “I would like to understandifthere is anything to understand, for I am extremely bewildered.”
Again, the twins looked at each other.
“You tell her, Mary.”
“I?”
“Yes, you are the older of us; it is your responsibility.”
“You always say that when you wish to avoid a task.”
“Mary?” Dahlia prodded patiently.
“Very well,” Mary sighed.
Mary bit her lip. Dahlia could see her searching for a place to start and waited. The voice that spoke was a soft and sorrowful one.
“Claire and I lost our mother when we were nine. She—she died in a carriage accident during a particularly cold winter.”
