Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(68)

She looked back at her brother-in-law. He’d moved closer now. “Cleo . . . you came back . . .” His voice faded as he reached for her.

“Where’s Logan?” Her voice rang sharply.

He shook his head at her, his countenance bleak and beyond weary.

Her gaze drifted, lifting over his shoulder. A gasp tore through her throat at the giant pile of rubble where the north-wing wall had once stood. Where she’d last seen Logan.

Her stomach dipped, dropped to her feet as understanding washed over her. She wasn’t aware of anything. Not her scream. Not the hands holding her back as she attempted to launch herself at the pile of ancient stones that buried her husband.

Cleo hefted another rock onto the wagon bed, hardly breaking stride before she turned to fetch another one.

“Cleo, take a rest. Here . . . have a drink.”

Shaking her head, she strode past Jack. After her initial shock, she’d changed into a pair of Josephine’s spare trousers that the girl had been quick to volunteer. Considering that Josie and Abigail had been working alongside everyone else, there was no chance Cleo was going to stand idle.

“Cleo,” Marguerite called from the side where she watched everyone work. She stepped out of her husband’s way as he dumped two buckets of stones into the back of a wagon. “Please . . . you haven’t stopped.”

And she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not until she found Logan. Her mind strayed, inched toward that voice whispering through her mind. He can’t be alive. Not in there. Not beneath the crushing weight of those stones.

“We found someone!”

Cleo dropped her bucket and raced forward at the shout, clambering up the rubble to the spot where several men crowded. Simon and Niall were there, at the head of the group.

“He’d dead!” a voice shouted.

She jerked to a stop, wobbling on the uneven surface, a sob strangling in her throat. No, no, no. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring herself to look. It’s not Logan. Logan couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t have lost him just when she learned how much she loved him.

Jack was there, at her side, his fingers wrapping around her arm in support. She looked at him, her chest a twisting mass. “Is it . . .”

Jack shook his head and released her arm. He hurried ahead, climbing toward the body they’d unearthed and taking position beside Logan’s younger brothers.

She waited, watched with her heart in her throat as he stared down alongside Logan’s brothers. In moments, he whirled around, his gaze locking with hers. “It’s not him!”

Relief sagged her shoulders, poured through her in a wash of gratitude—quickly replaced with the familiar fear again. Logan was still buried under all those stones. Bile rose in the back of her throat. She pressed her hand to her lips until the nausea passed.

Becoming ill would accomplish nothing. Without a word, she turned and gathered another stone, hefting it in her arms.

She paused when she caught sight of Simon’s face. The defeat there, writ upon the youthful lines and hollows, struck a painful blow. He said something to one of the men, shaking his head.

Had he given up? Logan’s own brother?

Fresh determination burned a fiery trail through her. Logan wouldn’t give up if that was her down there. Not until he found her. Dropping the stone in her bucket she picked up another one. Stopping wasn’t an option.

“Cleo.” Jack arrived at her side again.

She faced him, blowing at a strand of hair that dangled before her eyes. “What are you waiting for? Pick up a rock.”

She didn’t wait to see whether he joined her or not. She simply resumed moving, working quickly, past the point of exhaustion . . . telling herself there was still hope. He was still under there. Still alive. She couldn’t let herself believe otherwise.

Opening her mouth, she called his name as she removed stone after stone, convinced he was down there somewhere, and determined that he hear her voice and know help was coming.

Jack spoke her name gently. “Let’s go inside and rest. The others will continue to work.”

“I want to be here when he comes out.”

Jack cleared his throat. She didn’t even look up from her task, determined not to lose even a moment more of time. “Cleo, you have to consider . . . he’s probably gone.”

“No,” she barked. “I don’t have to consider that. I won’t. Not unless I’m staring at his dead body. Until then, I’m digging. We all are. Now cease your prattle and get back to work.”

There was only a moment’s hesitation before Jack continued, tossing rocks into his bucket with a steady clink of stone on stone.

Opening her mouth, Cleo called out for Logan again, unearthing rocks until she couldn’t feel her hands inside her heavy work gloves. She just moved from instinct and memory, her heart driving her.





Chapter Thirty

Logan winced as another stabbing pain shot up from where his foot was pinned.

He cursed himself for making the movement, the slight adjustment of his body that caused the lancing agony. It was too dark to investigate what trapped his foot.

He couldn’t sit up. He splayed his hands flat on the stretch of wood that hovered two to three inches above his chest. It was the bottom of the scaffolding. One of its chains rattled somewhere near his head and he knew without its protection he would have been crushed beneath stone.