Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(58)

“Are you well?” He knew the question was stupid even as he asked it.

Still, she nodded.

Looking down had been a mistake, too. Because now he was caught by the veins in her wrist, that thin spider-tracery that formed a network. He could feel her pulse slamming against his fingertips. And there, at the edge of the lace of her cuff… Oh, God.

Every scrap of discipline kindled into heat. He slid her sleeve up her arm.

He had no words for the inchoate rage that welled up, hot and bitter, in his stomach. He had no label to put to the emotion that filled him in that devastating instant. Because there, tracing up her delicate skin, were the unmistakable red marks that Harcroft’s fingers had left on her. They were branded deep into her skin. The imprints were bright red for now; in a few hours’ time, they would purple and bruise.

That bastard had hurt his wife.

He looked up into Kate’s eyes. He couldn’t think what to say, how to apologize. He’d been enforcing an artificial distance between them because he feared if he spent much more time in her intoxicating presence, he’d succumb to complete savagery.

He’d been right. Language deserted him. There was no room for words in his mind; just that limitless, unspeakable rage. He held her hand—gently, even though every muscle in his body screamed to contract.

And then, as if to tempt his anger, he saw the impression the wall had made against her cheek—the red-on-white mark where that bastard had slammed her into the plaster, the tiny scratch where the rough surface had drawn a bead of blood.

“I take it all back.” He could not clench his hand around hers, could not even squeeze his hand. He had to stay in control. “I am going to kill him.”

It wouldn’t make it better, though. Nothing he did now would heal that cut, would undo the pain she had felt. She’d needed him, and once again, he had been gone, thinking of himself when he ought to have been thinking of her. He’d vowed that he would find a way to be a good husband not two days ago, and already he was forsworn.

Worse, whatever semblance of civility he had, he needed just to keep from crushing her hand. All his dark wants, all his savage desires—they were welling up in him now. A gentleman would walk away until he gained control—but the last thing Kate deserved after her bravery was solitude.

“I am going to kill him,” Ned repeated, “just as soon as I work up the fortitude to let go of your hand.”

“Don’t,” Kate said. And for a second that word, too, was meaningless—that silly implication that Harcroft’s life ought to be spared. She could not have meant anything so vapid.

But she said it again. “Don’t let go. Hold me.” And she looked up at him with those luminous eyes, eyes that betrayed all the fear she had not let Harcroft see. It was, Ned realized, her strength that made her vulnerable. She’d claimed she was weak, but in almost every way she was the strongest person he had ever met. And she needed him now.

And so he didn’t let go. He wanted to clasp her to him, wanted to squeeze her hand until the anger ran out of him. Instead, he pressed her fingers lightly between his palms, willing the hot rage in him to flow out of his hands, to warm the fears that echoed in her eyes. He moved his hand in circles until her hand curled in his, until her shoulders relaxed. As if that spare motion could lift away the pain she’d felt.

And when that scant comfort couldn’t take the past five minutes away—when she looked up at him, her eyes still wide with the unspoken horror of what she’d just experienced—Ned turned her hand in his, exposing her wrist and those damned angry red marks. He leaned in and placed a kiss over them.

She smelled like a summer bower in full bloom. He lingered over that inch of fragile skin and let his breath heat her.

No, he wasn’t going to leave her to assuage his own desire to beat Harcroft’s face in, however pleasant the prospect might seem. He was going to stay here, where he belonged. And not just because she needed him, but because he was too damned weak to do anything but take in the scent of her, taste the sweetness of her wrist against his lips.

He could not take her memories away; he could not eradicate her bruises. He’d failed her enough for one day. But now, when she’d used up her strength, he would stand here while she needed him.

“I’m here,” he murmured against her skin. “If you need me, I am here.”

She stepped toward him, and he put his arm around her. She was cold all over; her shoulders were trembling in the aftermath of her fear. He wrapped his other arm around her and felt her press against him.

“Not as if you needed me,” he breathed into her neck. “You were—you are—marvelous. When I left for China, it was a mistake. I’m not doing it again. Not if the Queen herself asks me.” He rubbed his hands up her shoulders, and then down them again.

“I know.” Her breath warmed the fabric of his shirt. She turned and laid her head on his shoulder; her hair tickled his nose. But still, he held the warm miracle of her against him.

“I know,” she repeated. And then, slowly, she tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes were a solemn gray, and they tugged at some tender spot just inside his breastbone. She laid her hands against his chest.

“You hurt me,” she whispered. “When you left.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There was a time I wanted to hurt you back. I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to feel as awful as I felt. I wanted you to ache the way I did.”