Married By Morning (The Hathaways #4)(18)

“Over there,” she said. “And don’t trip—you’re too heavy for me to catch.”

Profoundly irritated but aware that she was trying to help him, he concentrated on placing his feet and maintaining his balance.

“Is Leo short for Leonard?” she asked, confusing him.

“Confound it, Marks, I don’t want to talk now.”

“Answer me,” she persisted.

He realized she was trying to keep him alert. “No,” he said, breathing heavily. “It’s just Leo. My father loved the constellations. Leo is the … constellation of high summer. The brightest star marks his heart. Regulus.” He paused to stare blearily at the pile she had made. “Well. How efficient you are. The next time I take an architectural commission—” He paused to catch his breath. “I’ll recommend you as the contractor.”

“Just think if I’d had my spectacles,” she said. “I could have made proper stairs.”

He let out a huff of laughter. “You go first, and I’ll follow.”

“Hold on to my skirts,” she said.

“Why, Marks, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

They climbed out together laboriously, while Leo’s blood turned to ice and his wound ached and his brains went to mush. By the time he’d flopped to the ground in an awkward sideways sprawl, he was infuriated with Catherine for making him go to such effort when he’d wanted to stay in the pit and rest. The sun was blinding, and he felt hot and strange. A ferocious ache had settled behind his eyes.

“I’ll fetch my horse,” Catherine said. “We’ll ride back together.”

The prospect of mounting a horse and riding to Ramsay House was exhausting. But faced with her ruthless insistence, he had no choice but to comply. Very well. He would ride. He would bloody well ride until he expired, and Catherine would appear at the house with his corpse seated behind her.

Leo sat there fuming and boiling until Catherine brought the horse. The anger gave him the strength for one last massive effort. He swung up behind her, sat the horse, and put his good arm around her slim body. He held on to her, shivering with discomfort. She was small but strong, her spine a steady axis that centered them both. Now all he had to do was endure. His resentment evaporated, dispersed by thrills of pain.

He heard Catherine’s voice. “Why have you decided never to marry?”

His head bobbed closer to her ear. “It isn’t fair to ask personal questions when I’m nearly delirious. I might tell you the truth.”

“Why?” she persisted.

Did she realize she was asking for a piece of him, of his past, that he never gave to anyone? Had he been feeling even a little less wretched, he would have cut her off at once. But his usual defenses were no more effective than the broken stone wall surrounding the manor-house remains.

“It’s because of the girl who died, isn’t it?” Catherine stunned him by asking. “You were betrothed. And she perished from the same scarlet fever that afflicted you and Win. What was her name…?”

“Laura Dillard.” It seemed impossible that he could share this with Catherine Marks, but she seemed to expect that he would. And somehow he was obliging her. “Beautiful girl. She loved to watercolor. Few people are good at that, they’re too afraid of making mistakes. You can’t lift the color or hide it, once it’s put down. And water is unpredictable—an active partner in the painting—you have to let it behave as it will. Sometimes the color diffuses in ways you don’t expect, or one shade backruns into another. That was fine with Laura. She liked the surprises of it. We had known each other all during childhood. I went away for two years to study architecture, and when I came back, we fell in love. So easily. We never argued—there was nothing to argue over. Nothing in our way. My parents had both died the previous year. My father had a heart ailment. He went to sleep one night and never woke up. And my mother followed him just a few months later. She couldn’t stop mourning him. I hadn’t known until then that some people could die of grief.”

He was quiet then, following the memories as if they were leaves and twigs floating on a stream. “When Laura caught the fever, I never thought it would be fatal. I thought I loved her so much that the power of it would be greater than any illness. But I held her for three days and felt her dying a little more each hour. Like water trickling through my fingers. I held her until her heart stopped beating, and her skin finally turned cool. The fever had done its work and left her.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, when he fell silent. She covered his good hand with her own. “Truly sorry. I … oh, what an inadequate thing to say.”

“It’s all right,” Leo said. “There are some experiences in life they haven’t invented the right words for.”

“Yes.” Her hand remained over his. “After Laura died,” she said in a moment, “you fell ill with the same fever.”

“It was a relief.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to die. Except that Merripen, with his bloody Gypsy potions, wouldn’t let me. It took a long time for me to forgive him for that. I hated him for keeping me alive. Hated the world for spinning without her. Hated myself for not having the bollocks to end it all. Every night I fell asleep begging Laura to haunt me. I think she did for a while.”