Sylvia Day - The Stranger I Married

She waved her hand carelessly. “Your mother is stirring the pot again. It’s nothing. A moment and I will regain my composure.”

The warning rumble in his throat soothed her, the sound of a man ready to defend his mate. “What did she say to you?”

“Lies, lies, and more lies. What recourse is left to her? You and I are no longer estranged, and we share the same bed, so the only thing she could wound me with was the topic of children.”

Gray tensed visibly, something she noted with a flare of unease.

“What about children?” he asked gruffly.

“She claims you do not want any with me.”

He stood unmoving for a long while and then winced. Her heart stopped, and then caught in her throat.

“Is it true?” Her hand lifted to her bosom. “Gerard?” she prodded when he did not answer.

Growling, he looked away. “I want to give you things, all things. I want to make you happy.”

“But no children?”

His jaw tightened.

“Why?” she cried, her heart breaking.

Lifting his gaze to hers, he bit out, “I will not lose you. I cannot lose you. Risking you to childbirth is not an option.”

Stumbling away, Isabel covered her mouth.

“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that, Pel! We can be happy just the two of us.”

“Can we? I remember the joy you felt when Emily was pregnant. I remember your exuberance.” Shaking her head, she pressed her fingertips hard against her lower lip to still its quivering. “I wanted to give you that.”

“Do you also remember my pain?” he asked, on the defensive. “What I feel for you is beyond anything I have ever felt for anyone. To lose you would destroy me.”

“You think I am too old for you.” Unable to bear the sight of his torment, which reflected her own, she stepped around him.

“This has nothing to do with age.”

“Yes, it does.”

Gray caught her arm as she walked by. “I promised you I would be enough, and I will be. I can make you happy.”

“Release me,” she said softly, meeting his gaze. “I need to be alone.”

The blue of his eyes swirled with frustration, fear, and a tinge of anger. None of that affected her. She was numb, as she had learned long ago how to be when pierced with a mortal wound.

No children.

Pressing a hand over her aching chest, she tugged the arm that was still trapped in his grip.

“I cannot allow you to go like this, Pel.”

“You have no choice,” she said simply. “You will not hold me against my will in front of all these people.”

“Then I shall go with you.”

“I want to be alone,” she reiterated.

Gerard stared at his wife’s frigid shell and felt a gulf between them so wide he wondered if they could cross it. Panic made his heart race and his breathing shallow. “For Christ’s sake, you never said anything about wanting children. You made me promise not to spill my seed in you!”

“That was before you made our temporary bargain into a permanent marriage!”

“How in hell was I to know that your feelings on the matter had changed?”

“Foolish me.” Her eyes burned with amber fire. “I should have said, ‘By the way, before I fall in love with you and want children, let me ask if you have any objections.’”

Before I fall in love with you…

At any other moment those words would have raised him to the heights. Now they cut him to the quick. “Isabel…” he breathed, tugging her closer. “I love you, too.”

She shook her head, causing the artless curls at her nape to sway violently. “No.” Her hand came up to ward him off. “That is the last thing I want to hear from you. I wanted to be a wife to you in all ways, I was willing to try, but you refuse me. We have nothing left now. Nothing!”

“What the devil are you talking about? We have each other.”

“No, we do not,” she said, with such finality his throat clenched tight as a fist, cutting off his air. “You took us beyond friendship and we cannot go back. And now…” She choked on a sob. “I cannot make love to you now, so we have no marriage either.”

He froze, the beat of his heart faltering. “What?”

“I would resent you every time you sheathed yourself in a French letter or withdrew to spill your seed. To know that you will not allow me to carry your child-”

Catching her about the shoulders, Gerard attempted to shake some sense into his wife. Isabel retaliated with a booted kick to his shin, causing him to swear and release her in surprise. She raced swiftly back to the waiting landaulet, and he hurried after her as fast as decorum would allow. Just as Isabel clambered without assistance into the equipage, his mother stepped into his path.

“Witch!” he growled, grabbing her by the elbow and yanking her roughly aside. “When I depart today, I am leaving you here.”

“Grayson!”

“You like this property, so refrain from looking so horrified.” He loomed over her, making her cringe. “Save your horror for the day you see me again. I pray you never do, because it will mean that Isabel would not take me back. And if that happens, even God himself will not be able to spare you from my wrath.”

He threw her aside and followed the fleeing landaulet on foot, but found his way repeatedly blocked by reveling villagers. When he finally arrived at the manse, Pel had already taken the traveling coach and departed.

Fighting a near crippling fear that he had damaged Isabel’s love beyond repair, Gerard saddled a horse and gave chase.

Rhys waited in the hallway of the wing that housed Abby’s rooms. He paced nervously and tugged at his cravat, but never took his gaze away from her door. His coach waited out front, and the servants were loading his trunks. Time was growing short. He would be leaving soon, but refused to do so until he had spoken with Abigail.

He had been trying all morning, to no avail. He had attempted to take the seat next to her at breakfast, but she moved too quickly, picking a chair bracketed with guests on either side. A deliberate avoidance.

Blowing out an impatient breath, he heard the lock turn, then Abigail stepped out. He pounced.

“Abby.” Striding toward her quickly, he noted the pleasure that lit her eyes, before she lowered her lids and shielded them.

Damned wench was playing at something, and he would get to the bottom of it, by God! Make him fall in love with her and then toss him aside, would she? He would see about that.

“Lord Trenton. How are you this-Oh my!”

Catching her elbow, he dragged her down the hall and into the servant’s stairwell. He paused on the tiny landing and looked at her, noting the slight parting of her lips. Before she could protest, he drew her to him and kissed her, taking her mouth in near desperation, needing her response like he needed to breathe.

When she whimpered and surged into him, Rhys had to bite back the shout of triumph. She tasted like sweet cream and warm honey, a simple flavor that cleansed his jaded senses, and made the world fresh and new. He had to tear himself away, something he barely managed after spending a miserable, sleepless night without her.

“You will marry me,” he said gruffly.

Abby sighed and kept her eyes closed. “Now, why did you have to ruin a perfect farewell with that nonsense?”

“It is not nonsense!”

“It is,” she insisted, shaking her head as she looked at him. “I will not say yes. So please, cease.”

“You want me,” he said stubbornly, rubbing his thumb across her swollen bottom lip.

“For sex.”

“That is enough.” It wasn’t, but if he had her beneath him whenever he wanted, perhaps he could reclaim the ability to think. Once he could think, he could plan to win her. Grayson was bumbling along that path. He could simply follow the trail of crushed greenery.

“It isn’t,” she argued gently.

“Have you any idea how many unions have no passion at all?”

“Yes.” She set her hand over his heart. “But I do not believe that passion will be enough to bear the things others will say about you taking an American to wife.”

“Curse them all,” he grumbled. “We have more than passion, Abby. You and I rub along well. We enjoy each other’s companionship even out of bed. And we both like gardens.”

She smiled and his heart leapt. Then she dashed it to pieces. “I want love, and I won’t settle for less.”

Rhys swallowed hard. It was obvious she did not love him, but to hear her say it aloud was painful in the extreme. “Love can grow.”

Her lip quivered beneath his thumb. “I do not want to take the chance that it won’t grow. I must feel it, Rhys, in order to be happy.”

“Abigail,” he breathed, pressing his cheek to hers. He could win her heart. If she would only give him the chance.

Unfortunately, before he could press further, a door opened on a lower floor and the sounds of two maids speaking to one another rose up to them.

“Farewell, my lord,” Abby whispered, before rising to her toes and gifting him with a bittersweet kiss. “Save that dance for me.”

Then she was gone, and the sudden emptiness in his arms was echoed in his heart.

Pulling into the drive before the Hammond estate, Isabel was relieved to see Rhys’ black lacquered coach preparing for departure. After spending the last hour soaking her kerchief over the demise of her marriage and her broken dreams, she needed her brother’s shoulder to cry on and advice on how to proceed.

“Rhys!” she cried, descending the steps with the help of a footman and running toward him.

He turned with a frown, one hand set at his waist, the other rubbing the back of his neck. He stood tall and proud, his mahogany hair capped with a hat, his long legs sheathed in trim, fitted trousers. To her aching heart, the sight of her brother offered comfort in and of itself.