“Owen.”
He stopped and turned to her, taking her shoulders in his hands. “No, I have to say this, Bethany. In Norisle, I was always the outcast. I think I came to love Catherine because she was part of Norillian life. If I married her, they would have to accept me. They would have no choice, or so I thought. I’m not the first person ever to pretend that others must play by the rules he lays down, and not the first to be deceived by that arrogance. I wanted a life that would give her all the things her friends had, and all the things she desired, because I believed that would mean I was equal with everyone else. But I was wrong.
“I came here, to a land of outcasts-the land of my father, of my birth. Here I found a home among the outcasts. Mystria embraced me not for who I was, but for what I had become, and for what I did. In Norisle I did things to prove I was worthy of being an equal. Here the things I did earned me the respect of others.”
Owen shook his head. “You want to know how I got cut with a troll’s horn? I was out there, in the midst of battle. I’d fired my rifle, I had thrown my tomahawk. I was down to my knife. I saw a troll knock a man to the ground and prepare to kill him. I leaped and grabbed a hank of hair. Riding his back, I started sawing his head off. He cut me as he was struggling, dying, and as he fell I realized the man I’d saved was Ian. But here’s the thing of it: I wasn’t fighting to save Ian. I was fighting because I was outraged that these creatures were attacking my home. I’d have killed that troll if it was standing over Johnny Rivendell, or Guy du Malphias or even my uncle.”
Bethany stepped forward, slipping her arms around him, and he settled his around her. He said nothing, just feeling her there, feeling the brush of her hair against his cheek. Though he ached and felt exhausted, he wanted the world to stop so this moment would last forever.
Again he kissed the top of her head. “What I want you to know is that I love you. I am bound by vows which, ultimately, led me here to you, and yet keep us apart. A small piece of me wishes we had the courage that Nathaniel and Rachel have, but I understand that there are greater issues which mightily complicate things. While it would be easier to give in to our desires, it would destroy us.”
She hugged him a little more tightly. “Promise me you will always let me see your journals, that you will share that intimacy with me. If you will do that, I shall survive.”
“I promise.”
“Thank you.” Bethany pulled back, and starlight glinted from the track of a single tear. “Now, if you would be so kind, Captain Strake, please conduct me to my quarters. I’m certain Clara will be waiting, and I should not want her to fret.”/
Chapter Sixty-one
4 June 1768 Octagon Richlan, Mystria
Ian Rathfield again cast a glance at the flask a subaltern had left on his camp desk. He felt certain the man meant it as a gift, to ward off the chill and perhaps to celebrate the victory. He couldn’t have meant it as a tonic against the void creeping through Ian’s guts, eating him up like a cancer. Ian was certain he had given no clue as to what troubled him, and was just as certain that to take a drink would erode the dam behind which his fears pooled.
No matter how he tried to distract himself, he could not escape the certainty of death as he lay there at the troll’s ponderous feet. He’d given up. He’d closed his eyes. He was ready to die, his only regret that he would never again look upon Catherine’s smiling face, that he would never again feel her caress, or her breath warm against his skin. And even as he thought of her at the very end, he knew he did that because he believed it right and proper. It was the honorable thing an honorable man did as he lay dying.
But he had not died. And even giving free rein to the monster could not erase the image of Owen wrenching the troll’s head back, slashing its throat. Ian could see that first spray of arterial blood arc out, each drop like rain softly falling, a crimson mist in the air. The troll’s bellow drowning into a gurgle, shrinking to a burbling squeak. The sour scent of fear-both the troll’s and his own-still acrid in his nostrils. And Owen, tall, lips parted in a savage grin, acting more savage than any of the Twilight People, his eyes blazing as he saved Ian’s life.
As he saved his wife’s lover’s life.
For a heartbeat Ian wondered if Owen, had he known, would have saved him. The Owen Strake Ian had come to know certainly would have. He was an honorable man, a valiant man, full of courage. He would not have let the troll finish Ian. It was not in his nature to let another do a job for him.
And yet, were our roles reversed, I would not have been so honorable. That realization shook Ian and started his hand reaching for the flask. Had Owen been down, he would not have helped him. He now understood that he moved away from Owen in the battle simply so he would not have been pressed to make that choice. And so no one would notice if I failed to save him.
Ian’s hand retreated, empty. Empty, as I feel inside. He had known for a long time, since he surrendered to the monster at Rondeville and even before, that he was not a hero-not in the way Owen or Nathaniel or Kamiskwa were. Ian had always played by the rules and used them to judge himself honorable. And even when he broke the rules, others allowed him to escape the consequences simply because to expose him would be to expose themselves. They played by unwritten rules, and he was willing to abide by them when the outcome benefited his cause.
He glanced at his shaving mirror, but he had turned it away so he could not see himself. He really didn’t want to see himself because he could see the rot behind his eyes. He had long since abandoned any true claim on being honorable. In doing that he had lost himself. He was not worthy of the love of a woman like Catherine. He’d been willing to die so she would never be forced to learn the truth about him. About the monster…
He rose stiffly from his camp chair and pulled a cloak around himself. He knew what he had to do. He had to go out into the night and find Owen Strake. He needed to confess having had an affair with the man’s wife, and agree to a duel to settle the matter. He expected pistols at dawn, and he resolved that he would not shoot. He had no doubt that Owen would make his shot count, and took some solace in the fact that he could die with honor even if living with it was denied him.
Again he looked at the flask, but eschewed drinking. He would have welcomed the warmth and the false courage, but that would continue his unmanning.
He stepped from his tent and nodded at his men, who sat drinking and mending clothing or themselves. “You all fought splendidly today. This was the Fifth Northland’s finest day.”
The men cheered and saluted him with battered tin cups. He smiled and continued on his way. He really had no idea where he might find Owen, but did not stop to ask. He told himself that he needed the time to properly word the confession. He knew that to be a lie. He dreaded the confrontation and was happy for the delay provided by his aimless wandering.
And then he saw them standing together, Bethany Frost clinging to Owen, and Owen kissing her head. He could not hear what they said. He shrank back into the shadows and watched, making certain it was indeed them. When they began to walk off, arm in arm, he forced himself to remain hidden-an act which went against every fiber of his being. And when they had passed into shadows, he discovered he’d clutched the tree behind which he’d hidden so hard that his fingernails had sunk into the bark.
Ian could not believe it. How dare Owen Strake dishonor his wife? How dare he show her so little respect as to walk freely with his harlot through the Mystrian camp? His brazenness stunned Ian. Suddenly things became very clear. Owen had used his influence with Prince Vlad to place his mistress in the Prince’s entourage. Certainly the Prince must have known of their adulterous relationship-that he would condone it boggled Ian’s mind.