Bound To You: Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Blanche

My husband has disappeared.

            Oh, I see him all right.

            Brief glimpses of morning sun highlighting the hard planes of his face as he creeps down the stairs at dawn. Or with shadows sweeping over his broad, towering frame as he strides across the lawn in the middle of the night, his shoulders hunched under the weight of the world and his gait stiffer than I’ve ever seen. But never seated across from me at the dining table while I eat and definitely not in bed, where my only companion are the sheets that tangle around my restless body.

            “I’m married to a ghost,” I mutter to the canopy of my four-poster bed. And to my utter lack of surprise, not a single soul answers in commiseration.

            I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

            Then listen, as I have for the last six nights in a row, for the creak of John’s bedroom door opening two minutes after the clock strikes midnight. It’s routine at this point. Him sneaking off to who the bloody hell knows where and me, standing vigil at my window to watch my husband escape the lush grounds of Holyroodhouse like the hounds of hell nip at his heels.

            Pathetic.

            This isn’t who I am. Or rather, tiptoeing around a man’s volatile moods is exactly who I’ve been for too many years. Father would have it no other way. A woman is to be seen, not heard. Since Mum left for the States, I’ve choked back almost every vicious, scathing retort. I wanted freedom more than I cared to engage the earl in battle, needed hope bleeding from my veins more than I ever craved affection from a man with the heart of a viper.

            John may have promised me a life outside my gilded cage, but in the six days since we exchanged vows before the entire world, I may as well have thrown the key away.

            I sit at the dining table, my food growing cold, and wait like a fool for his arrival.

            Each evening, I climb into bed wearing silk and lace—only to grow more furious, more agitated, as the night wears on and my husband departs for destinations unknown.

            “Enough is enough.”

            Flinging off the covers, I strip out of the stupid lingerie that’s yet to get any use and throw on a pair of loose trousers and a heavy jumper that will hopefully keep out the wet, November chill from sinking deep into my bones. As I’m tying the shoelaces on a pair of well-worn trainers, I catch the distinct click of John’s door shutting quietly behind him.

            Time to go.

            I give him a full minute to bypass my apartments, noting the way his pace slows outside my door—as if he’s debating the merit of entering and fucking me into orgasmic bliss—before the heavy tread of his footsteps continues down the corridor. Only then do I leap into motion, gingerly opening the door and watching out for the creaky floorboards just outside my room.

            Pulse racing, I maintain a good distance as I follow my husband down the winding stairwell, through darkened hallway after darkened hallway, until I’m chasing after his shadow-swallowed form cutting across the courtyard. Clearly secure in his dominion as crown prince, he never spares a second glance over his shoulder. No one would dare defy him here. No one would question his motives or his actions or every decision he makes without asking another soul for an opinion.

            Everyone, that is, except me.

            I would dare.

            As if sensing a presence lurking behind him, John draws to a stop and levels a hand against one of the many stone columns that encircle the courtyard. He pauses there, just for a beat, and then his chip snaps toward his left shoulder.

            Like a gazelle that’s been caught in the scope of a hunter’s rifle, I freeze in place.

            Do not make any sudden movements.

            Don’t even breathe.

            The seconds crawl by, one after another, until a tremor begins in my calves and the thud-thud, thud-thud of my heart escalates to a quiet roar in my ears. There’s no avoiding the inevitable. I wait, knowing that I’ve been caught. I hold, knowing full well that in following John for his midnight rendezvous, I’ve destroyed my gilded cage and every bit of safety that its familiarity offers. And when John discovers that I’ve taken to spying on him . . .

            I swallow, roughly.

            Then inch back, one foot behind the other.

            Dry grass crunches beneath my shoe, the sound sending a spike of adrenaline shooting through my veins. Slowly, I lift my gaze to my husband. Only, he’s gone.

            Gone.

            Cursing under my breath, I throw a backward glance toward the heart of Holyroodhouse. Logic tells me that I ought to return to my room, throw myself down in my bed, and sob like a good little wife for wanting her neglectful husband to spare her a little attention now and again. But that woman will never be me, and if I ever sob over John, it won’t be over something as inconsequential as . . . as whatever this is.

            Decision made, I follow the wet footprints marking the stone walkway.

            John wound a path around James IV’s Tower, the soles of his shoes growing less and less damp with each step away from the heart of the palace. Feeling the nip of bitter wind, I tug the neck of my jumper up around my nose and breathe into the warm wool.

            I trudge forward.

            Against a starless sky, the cracked and crumbling façade of Holyrood Abbey appears more akin to the jagged clifftops of Arthur’s Seat than a centuries-old church. It’s prayer that keeps it standing, mixed in with a miracle or two for good measure. Trees dot the left-hand perimeter of the ancient structure, but their shorn branches are barren. Nightmarish. Winter in Edinburgh has almost arrived—for both the climate of Scotland, as well as the temperament of my marriage—

            An ice-cold palm closes over my mouth.

            There’s no time to run or scream for help. The wool of my jumper enters my mouth, the hand firm and unrelenting as I struggle to free myself. It’s a lost cause. I’m dragged into the fold of a hard chest and even stronger arms. Assaulted by the scent of pine and masculine skin. And then, to the soundtrack of my garbled cries to let me go, a dark voice wraps like a noose around my neck:

            “And who do we have here?”

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Guess what? This cliffhanger isn’t going to break you because the next chapter is READY. Go, go, go! I’ll be waiting after Chapter Sixteen!