"Price wants me to use this on a patient with depression, but I have no idea how it works." Price's surgeon opened a backdoor of his clinic.
Mark glanced at her in confusion, but followed her and the surgeon in. And as they rounded the corner into a back room, Mark suddenly scrambled backwards, nearly plowing her down.
Tripping to sidestep him, it took a second to realize what was happening.
He was sheet white and backed up into a wall, his chest heaving and beads of sweat springing to his brow. His eyes locked on the contraption on a back counter. Sheer terror filled his eyes.
"Mark?" Slowly approaching, she reached a hand out and touched his arm.
The poor man startled so hard and stumbled to the side to get away as his head whipped to her.
In that split second, her heart shattered. Terror filled his eyes.
"It's only me, honey," she whispered and slowly stepped closer. "It's alright." She glanced at the surgeon. "What is that?"
"It's an electric shock therapy machine." He reached for a probe. "It—"
Mark shot backwards to the doorway, roughly yanking her with him, as if trying to get her away from it.
Oh god, it must look like the one used on him in Bedlaum.
He trembled so hard that it was a wonder he remained upright.
"Get rid of that torture device," she snapped and grabbed Mark's hand, pulling hard to get him out the door.
"It's alright," she promised and held him tight on the back step.
But he didn't seem to register it. He grabbed her hand and made a beeline for home.
"Mark, you're going too fast." She had to trot to keep up.
He didn't react.
"Mark." She tugged her hand.
He only held tighter, his eyes focused ahead but darting around slightly, almost like he was watching a memory play out before him.
"Mark!" On the front porch at home, she jerked her hand free.
The man blinked and glanced around, as if surprised to find himself home.
"You're acting traumatized. Talk to me. Did that machine trigger flashbacks?" She stepped closer.
Shame crossed his face, and he simply turned to the front door and dug the key out of his pocket. Then he pulled her through, closed the door behind her, and locked it.
"Papa! I made a castle with my blocks! Come see!" Charles ran out of the library.
Mark absently set a hand on Charles's head, went into the bedchamber, and shut the door.
Poor Charles stared after him in hurt.
"Papa's sad right now, love. Can you show me your castle?"
The boy looked worried about what could upset his hero, but he took her hand to pull her past Brigands, who met her eyes with concern. It said he recognized that look in Devil Debonairo.
Mark didn't speak the rest of the day, withdrawing into himself in a way she'd never witnessed him.
After dinner, she knocked on Brigand's door with the children in tow.
He answered with a smile that faded the moment he met her eyes.
"May the children stay here for a bit?"
"Of course. Go surprise Grammie," he said, using the children's name for Teresa, and stepped aside to let them rush in. Then he slipped out and closed the door. "He's no better?"
After she relayed what happened, he released a deep sigh. "He didn't talk about it when he returned home from Bedlaum, but he's never been the same." He set his hand over hers as tears filled his eyes. "I know they tortured him worse than in prison. Get him to talk. He needs those demons out, and I think the only way for it to happen is to tell someone. You be strong for him, and then you come cry it out and I'll be strong for you."
Throwing her arms around this man who had become the father she'd never had, she held fast to soak up his strength…because instinct said this was about to become a night that would haunt forever.
Mark sat at the desk in the clinic that had been stripped of everything else in the room to sell. He stared at it blankly, obviously lost in dark memories.
She approached and set a hand on his shoulder, causing him to violently startle. "It's just me."
Shame robbed his face of all other emotion. "I'll get the children bathed." Even his voice came out monotone as he moved to get up.
"They're at Brigand and Teresa's." She knelt.
But he shot up and took a step back, anger darkening his features. "Don't," he hissed and marched to the foyer doorway.
"I told you every single thing, to the point of being mortfied to face you. But you knew I needed to get it out in order to be free."
He stopped and spun, storming closer until he grabbed about the waist and lifted her to her feet. Then he snarled in her face, "That is goddamn different, and you know it. Don't test me, woman." Then he headed for the doorway.
"That is not different! You—" She caught his shoulder.
The next thing she knew, she was pressed against the wall and he held her wrists captive between their chests.
"Don't fucking push me right now," he hissed, his eyes filled with rage. "I'm the same man you wed in England, the same goddamn devil. Leave me alone."
"You're not some monster! You need someone to talk to! I won't leave you alone—"
His grip tightened. "You will!" he roared. "Because I'm so angry I want you hard and fast and so goddamn submissive that I'm scared what I might do to you!" The veins in his neck bulged in rage and he panted like a bull ready to destroy anything in its path.
Tears burned for him. He tried so hard to hide his helplessness and terror, so he pushed everyone away, just like the early days of marriage in England. "You can have me, Mark. You won't hurt me."
He slammed her wrists up against the wall, but let his knuckles absorb the blows. "Stop! I'm not some fucking knight!" His neck reddened and voice dropped. "I want to tear your clothes and take you from behind like a goddamn animal," he hissed. "No kissing or touching or even fucking looking at me, just conquering you like a damn animal as hard as I can. And you'd hate me for it as much as I'd hate myself. Goddamn leave. Me. Alone." He flung himself away and disappeared into the house.
Sexually. They'd hurt him sexually in prison and probably in Bedlam to break him. He needed to feel in control when he felt anything but right now—because he was terrified of his own anger and if it'd turn onto her.
He paced in the library, clearly agitated. The man stilled and glared when he spotted her in the doorway.
"Three conditions: I get the control of taking off my dress and then you can tear off anything else, and you kiss my cheek or lips like you mean it when you're finished."
"Jesus Christ! To you it will be like being raped again!" he screamed. "I will not be your nightmare! Get to Brigand's! Now!" He snatched a book and hurled it at the wall. He was spiraling out of control. And he knew it as much as her that he was past the point of return. "Go! Get out!"
There wasn't a thread of fear. No matter how badly he'd crash and burn, he wouldn't hurt her. Shutting the door, she held his rage-filled eyes. And then slowly unbuttoned the dress and let it pool at her feet. "I'm strong enough to withstand the Devil Debonairo. You won't hurt me."
His pantaloons strained, yet his eyes flashed at that name. "Goddammit, get out!" He roared so loudly it hurt. "Get out!" With one hand, he grabbed the back of the settee and toppled it, sending it crashing into a small coffee table. "Get out!"
Her heart beat calm and steady, and she stepped around the mess to stand before him.
His chest heaved. Those blue eyes darkened from the storm raging within.
She cradled his cheek and searched his eyes. "I won't teach you to be afraid of yourself," she whispered. "I love you. Burying it is how we got here. You can have my body how you need." She unbuttoned the chemise.
But his hand clutched a fistful of the material to keep it shut as he hissed, "You ask for a fuck from the devil."
"I know," she whispered, an ache forming inside seeing so much anger and pain in him. She held his eyes. He wasn't going to follow through, for fear of hating himself and earning her hatred afterwards. But he wanted her to run so he could hate himself for it.
He needed a push to fall over the edge and do what would help free him. "They sexually assaulted and tortured you in ways you won't tell anyone, and you need to feel in control again."
As expected, that triggered a fierce snarl. He tore open the chemise, the material ripping violently. Then he whirled her around to press up against the wall and pinned her with his body. "You want to hate me," he hissed in her ear.
With a small shake of her head, she looked over her shoulder up at him. "I want to help you heal like you healed me."
The anger fled his eyes, and he took a step back.
She turned.
"Please, go," he whispered, the rage gone and grief radiating from him. "Go before I take you down with me."
But she closed the distance and set her hands on his chest. "I'm going with you to Hell and back."
That's all it took for the storm inside him to die. Sadness swept over his face, and he leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. "I'm so angry, and I don't want to hurt you," he breathed.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stood on her toes and held him tight. "Why are you so afraid of yourself? Do you think about hurting me or the children?"
He shook his head.
"Tell me. I don't understand why your temper frightens you so." She stroked his chest.
He drew in a shaky breath and his brow furrowed, but he still wouldn't open his eyes. "Because I want to hit something, tear apart a room, destroy everything I see," he whispered. "You're so small. Even if I spun around to knock your hand off my shoulder, if I instead hit your head, you could die." Then he opened his eyes and searched hers, stroking her cheek as tears shimmered in his gaze. "If I grabbed your arm in anger, I could break it. You'd be afraid of me."
"You never got this angry before Bedlam? Ever?"
The shame that crossed his face as he looked away drew regret for asking the question. "I slightly raised my voice to Anna once, but that was all. Tanya, I'm so fucked up."
She guided his eyes back. "No, you were tortured. That changes a person, but it doesn't make you a monster. It's time you told me what happened in Bedlam and prison, Mark. I should think that in the past five years, I've proven that I can carry equal weight in this marriage. I see these secrets haunt you and—"
He shook his head.
"Yes. It's time to talk. You got me to talk about the attack with Charles's…sire," she finished quickly when he looked angry and opened his mouth to offer a more suitable word. "It helped so much to know that you know everything. It's far past time for you to have the same peace. I'll love you all the more for what you've endured, so don't offer me some pathetic excuse like I won't look at you the same."
"It's too disgusting for you to—"
"I wasn't born a genteel, high-born lady. I've told you things that I've seen in back alleys as a child on the streets. Nothing will shock me, except if you continue to stand here completely dressed while I'm in the nude."
"You're goddamn bossy," he growled and gave a soft swat to her bottom as he kept his arms around her.
"Yes, I am. If you're going to take me like a wild animal, get on with it, because you've conditioned me to expect sex when you hold me naked."
He cracked a smile. "Have I? I should hold you naked more often. But I suppose that'll only lead to more sex."
She held his eyes in all seriousness as he tried to avoid the main subject. "Mark. You can take me in whatever way you need. I trust you." Then she turned away in his arms.
His chest heaved against her back, his arousal pressing against her as his hand cupped her breast. "I can't tonight," he said against her hair. "I might hurt you—"
"I have a mouth to speak up if you get too rough." She reached behind and stroked.
"Won't you be frightened if—"
"No. I know you wouldn't force me. I love you and want you to take whatever will help you." She reached up behind and wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. "I understand that tonight isn't to make love." Then she cupped her hand over his to squeeze her breast harder. "Tonight is about tearing down walls and trying to find a sense of control when spinning out of control. I'll ground you, Mark."
"Promise you'll say if you get scared or I'm too rough," he growled low in his throat and walked her closer to the wall.
"You can't scare me." It was true—the love for him over the years had grown to transcend any old fears.
"Your third condition?" He softly nipped her ear as he flexed against her back, as if removing his shirt.
"We don't do this in the bedchamber."
His breath came harsh in her ear and his voice quivered, as if he struggled to not weep. "Remember that I love you. I need you to shatter me so you can put me back together."
She nodded and wrapped her free arm around his to hug him as best as possible. "I'm right here, honey."
"I'll use a salve so I don't hurt you." His voice broke, something inside already starting to destroy him.
He left the room for a moment. Never had salve been used, as he'd always been extremely careful that she was ready and always had pleasure. Nervousness flickered, not for herself but for him—that he was afraid of shattering so badly that he feared he might get too rough with her.
When he returned, his body pressed her hard against the wall. "I love you," he whispered.
Before she could respond, she gasped when he rubbed for a split second and then thrusted. Hard. He didn't cause pain, but it was an immediate demand, an instant command for control of her body. And every fiber of her willingly surrendered, aroused by his fierceness.
It wasn't lovemaking but an animalistic frenzy as he groped and took control of her body. Just when she was ready to lose her mind with need, he took her down to the floor onto her hands and knees. She cried out in ecstasy, but he was far from done.
She panted and trembled from both exhaustion and the level of raw pleasure he'd invoked. His arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her up to scoop into his arms. Her eyes widened in shock to see he hadn't finished.
He laid her in bed and then took off his prosthesis. "No blankets," he ordered and glanced around, as if to double check the curtains were closed as the sun began to set. Then he climbed across the bed and joined her body again. "Now I'll make love to you," he whispered.
They laid in bed at sunset, with his head resting on her chest as he stared out the window and told the stories far worse than she'd expected.
Softly stroking his hair helped give something to focus on other than weeping. He needed her to be strong right now, and so she was. For him.
He walked her over to get the children. Her shaking started upon stepping onto the porch, so she let go of Mark's arm and pretended to fix her hair. The children ran out with hugs, chattering and full of flour from baking.
Teresa caught one look at her face before snatching her hand and pulling her inside. "I need to talk to Tanya. We'll bring her back home."
Mark looked confused. Brigands appeared worried, seeing through the rouse.
The moment Teresa closed the far bedchamber door, she burst into sobs and sank to the floor right where she stood. Arms wrapped around in a hug as the sobs grew so powerful that it was hard to breathe. The waterboarding, beatings, strapped in a chair suspended from the ceiling and spun to induce horrid vertigo and vomiting, tied in a straightjacket and administered nearly lethal doses of laxatives to 'purge out the devil', electrocutions, wrapped in heavy chains and left in a dark room alone for weeks at a time…and the horrifying sexual abuse. It made sense now why he didn't seem terribly traumatized from the sexual abuse in prison.
Strong arms wrapped around and lifted her into a sturdy lap.
Unable to see through the streaming tears, she wrapped her arms around Mark's neck as held tight as the sobs continued.
"You're to come to me when you're upset," he said softly in her ear.
It took a minute to calm enough to speak. "I w,wasn't going to tell t,them anything."
He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes before helping her blow her nose. "I know you wouldn't tell anyone anything that I said in confidence. I want to know when you're distraught, wife. Let's get the children bathed and in bed, and then we can talk."
"The point wasn't to m,make you talk about it more."
"Hush, woman. We're going to talk about you this time and how I can be a manly protector to you."
That earned a small laugh.
"Hold tight. I don't know how easy this will be." He shifted around and propped his good leg to stand.
"You can't carry me and get up from the floor!"
"Would you hush so I can concentrate?" Somehow, he heaved himself to his feet, but he stumbled forward a step before catching himself. A pinched look squinted his eyes.
"Did you hurt your leg?"
A dry look met hers. "I think I heard you say, ' Husband, you're so strong you figured out how to get up mostly on one leg while carrying me. I feel so safe. You're such a man that I think I might swoon.'"
She bounced in his arms trying to not laugh and set a hand to her forehead. "I'm going to faint."
"Wench," he growled and marched into the living room.
Everyone looked up.
"Is Mama sick?" Charles ran over in concern.
"No, son, Mama was sad. I'm going to carry her. Let's go home."
"Me too?" Della held up her arms.
"And me?" Charles looked up at his father in adoration.
"Oh, loves, Papa can't carry everyone." She tried to wiggle down.
Mark grunted. "Everyone down the steps and then I'll carry everyone home."
She looked up at him in surprise, but he was already busy thanking Teresa and Brigands for watching the children.
He set her down and worked his way down the two steps. Then he swept up Charles for a piggyback ride. "Tanya, carry Della."
So she picked her up and then reached to take Mark's hand. But he scooped her up in his arms.
The children squealed in excitement.
"Mark, is this too much for your leg?" She kept her arms right around Della laying across her lap.
"Papa's carrying all of us!" Charles crowed at the same time.
Mark cracked a smile, pride shining bright in his eyes. "It's not far."
"Papa run!" Della squealed and clapped her hands.
He chuckled. "I'm not steady enough to run while carrying all of you, poppet."
"Why do you call Della 'poppet' and me 'son'?" Charles rested his little chin on the side of Mark's neck.
"That's just what people in England call their children. Do you not like it?"
"I don't glow like the sun."
Mark burst out laughing. "No, s-o-n. The sun in the sky is s-u-n. It means you're my child, who is a boy."
"Ohhhh!" Charles smacked his palm to his forehead. "Is that why you and Mama talk funny compared to the lumberyard workers? Because you're from England?"
She smiled at Mark. "It's an English accent. We came across the sea, and you were born half way here."
Charles's eyes widened. "So I'm a citizen of the ocean?"
Mark snorted trying to not laugh. "Where did you learn 'citizen'?"
"School. They said we're all citizens of the United States of America."
"That's true. But no, you're not a citizen of the sea, too, son." Mark couldn't contain a smile.
As she helped Della strip off her flour-covered clothes in the kitchen next to the tub, Charles pulled off his shirt and then stilled. "Charles, it's late. I need you to help get ready for your bath." She lowered Della into the tub and started washing her messy curls.
"Mama?"
His little voice held so much seriousness that she looked over her shoulder.
"Why can't boys see Della naked, but you and Della can see me?" He looked so confused.
"Oh, sweetheart. I suppose you're getting too big for me to help. Della doesn't know any different yet, and I'm your mama. But nobody but Papa or I should see you naked."
"What about Grandfather and Grandpapy?"
"Well, if you need help getting dressed or something, it's alright for them to help since they're boys. But no one should touch your privates."
Mark walked out from the bedroom after changing his shirt from getting covered in flour from Charles riding on his back. He looked from her to Charles. "Is everything alright?"
She gave him a pointed look. "Your son is asking why boys can't see Della naked, but Della and I can see him."
His eyes widened and he slowly backed toward the bedroom.
Her jaw dropped. "Get back here! You're the physician and his father!"
He chuckled and came back. Then he pulled over a chair and set Charles in his lap.
"And why does Della look like Mama, but I don't look like you? Am I adopted, like Jimmy at school?" Charles looked up at Mark, and Mark looked at her with sad eyes, uncertain what to say.
Charles was quite bright for his age, and he would be incredibly hurt to later find out he was lied to.
Mark cradled Charles close and held his gaze. "I love you and your sister more than the whole world and equally, understood?"
Charles nodded.
"I met Mama after you were in her belly."
Charles frowned. "But, I thought you had to get married first."
"Well, it's a bit like how I was married before meeting your mama, and then my first wife died. But I love your mama with my whole heart. I was still very sad when I met Mama. You see, I first met her father and he told me about Mama and that he was dying, so she'd need a better home. I promised to marry and take care of her."
"And me, too?"
Mark cracked a smile and met her eyes for a moment. "I didn't know about you until I went to fetch Mama. She slammed the door in my face and said she didn't need a man to run her life."
Charles laughed. "So Mama was the boss of you even before you got married?"
She had to turn her head away to not smile as Mark laughed.
"Yes, son. We married the day I met her. I wasn't used to anyone else but me being the boss, but Mama came in and bossed me so much that I couldn't help but love her. And you."
The glee fled Charles's eyes all the sudden. "So you're not my papa?"
She reached over and set a hand on Charles's knee. "He's your papa more than any other man in the world. It takes a piece of a man and a woman to make a baby, but the people who love and raise that baby are the parents. I didn't have much food when I met Papa, so I was very sick and you were very sick in my belly. Papa took care of us, and he'd read stories to you when you were still in my tummy. Papa loves you so much that he adopted you so you're his son in his heart and his son by law."
Charles looked up at Mark. "But, I'm a piece of Mama and a piece of another man? Didn't he want me?"
She stroked his knee. "He died, sweetheart." In prison last year, according to Mark's intel.
A tear ran down Charles's cheek. "A piece of you is in Della, but not me?" Those gray eyes looked up at Mark, begging it not to be true.
Mark pressed a kiss to Charles's head and said in a thick voice, "There's a piece of me right here." Mark pointed to Charles's heart. "Do you know how I get it in there?"
He shook his little head.
"Like this." Mark held him tight, pressing his heart to Charles's and cradling the back of his head. "I love you so much," he whispered and a tear ran down his cheek. "You're my son as much as Della is my daughter."
Charles held tight around his neck. "Will the piece of you go away?"
"No, son. That's the beautiful thing about love. Once someone puts a piece of it in your heart, it stays there forever."
"Papa?"
"Yes, my boy?"
"If there's a piece of you in Della, then there must be a piece of her in you. Hold still." Charles grunted as he gave Mark a hard hug. "There! I think I put a piece of me in you, too." He pulled back, holding onto Mark's shoulders, and grinned.
Mark cupped his son's face in his hands, not even trying to stop another tear from rolling down his cheek. "You put a piece of you in my heart the moment I felt you kick in Mama's belly."
"Papa? I'm gonna grow up and be a doctor just like you. I want to work with you and Mama someday."
Mark smiled. "We would like that. You'll make a fine doctor."
"Are you going to show me in the doctor books now why my privates look different from Della's?" Charles hopped up and grabbed Mark's hand to pull him toward the library.
Mark's eyes bugged. "Are you looking at medical books by yourself?!"
Charles nodded. "How else am I supposed to learn it all by the time I'm grown up. I don't understand what a 'pen is' is doing in a book—you're supposed to write with it."
Mark looked confused.
She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. "He means penis."
He blanched.
"Go teach your son about the birds and bees," she laughed.
"Penis! Penis! Penis!" Della yelled and stood up at the edge of the tub. "Me too!" She tried to climb out.
"Oh, love, we need to finish your bath." She caught Della's bad leg that she was trying to swing over the tub lip.
"No! Me, too!" She started to cry in a tantrum from being overtired.
Charles ran over and patted her wet arm. "You get your bath. You don't want to learn about privates."
"Me, too!"
He wrinkled his nose. "Do you want to be a doctor when you grow up?"
She gave a fierce frown. "Papa doc-or."
"No, what do you want to be when you grow up?" Charles gave an exasperated sigh.
"Play dollies."
Charles dropped his head back. "That's not a job! I have to go study for my job." He took the rag from Della's hand that she'd been playing with and held it over her chest. "Don't show boys your beasts."
Mark cleared his throat uncomfortably, obviously unsure how to handle this situation.
"Breasts," she corrected and took the rag from him. "Thank you, Charles, but I think you're too young to be looking at Papa's doctor books to learn private parts."
Charles set his hands on his hips, the perfect image of Mark whenever he was irritated. "I need to learn about being a doctor. I won't go saying private words at school. I'm not a baby!"
She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say you're a baby, and you don't raise your voice to me. Papa can help you with your bath and teach you what your privates are called, but that's all that you will learn about it until you're older."
"I'm almost six!"
"Which means you're old enough to understand why you shouldn't try to argue with your mother." She resumed washing Della.
"That's not fair!" He spun around to Mark. "Tell Mama that I need to start studying! I have five million books to learn before I become a doctor!"
Mark frowned. "Charles! What has gotten into you? Mama gave her answer, and I agree with her that you're too young to learn about private parts in a medical book."
"You're not my father! You can't tell me what I can't do!" He shouted.
"Charles!" she snapped.
Mark looked shocked, as if his heart had just been ripped out.
She grabbed Charles's shirt to turn him to look at her. "Don't you ever, ever say that to your father, do you understand me?! He is too your father, and he loves you as much as if he made you from his own blood—"
"No!" Charles burst into sobs. "He's not going to want me one day! Jimmy said he's going back to the o,orphanage next week because h,his fake parents don't w,want him anymore!" The poor boy sobbed so hard that he could barely speak.
Mark crossed the room and dropped to his knees hard and spun Charles around. "How could I ever not want you?" Tears welled in his eyes. "I don't know what I'd ever do without you. I love you so much that I would die for you."
She touched Charles's shoulder as he choked on his tears. "Bad guys stole me right after I married Papa. You kept trying to be born early. Papa had to come find us so you wouldn't be born early from the bad guys making me get out of bed. Papa lost his leg because he loved you so much he had to find us to save you."
Charles looked at Mark in shock, his little lip still trembling.
"And not for a single moment have I ever regretted trading my leg to save you and Mama."
Charles burst into harder sobs and flung his arms around Mark.
"I'll always love you, my boy," Mark whispered.
"Me too?" Della looked uncertain what was happening, but she felt left out.
Mark scooped her up with his other arm and held his sopping wet daughter to his chest. "I love you all."
She laid a towel over Della so she wouldn't chill and then wrapped her arms around her family.
When Mark came in the bedchamber from tucking the children in, he looked exhausted. He sank onto the side of the bed with a deep sigh and started stripping so he could get the prosthesis off. "I didn't think we'd have to have that conversation until he was much older."
"He's bright for his age. If he's starting to wonder about things, I think it's good he simply asked. I think it's better to not tell him exactly about his conception until he's nearly an adult." She scooted closer and sat up to rub his tight back. "He may need extra reassurance from you now and then, but I have a feeling that was the worst of the storm."
"God, I hope so. That was awful." He leaned his elbows on his knees and held his head. "Do you need to talk about earlier?"
"No, honey. I think we're too exhausted to have any constructive conversation tonight. Things always look better in the morning, too. I do have one question, and we don't have to go into any explanation. Does it bother you because of them if I touch you down there? You often move my hand away after a few seconds."
He was very still and quiet for several moments. "If there was a response to stimulation, it was met with shocks or beatings to 'get the devil out'. It took years afterwards to not panic every morning just naturally waking up with an erection like every man does. I can handle touching if it doesn't involve wrapping your hand around."
She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "If there's anything I do that you don't want me to, I need you to tell me. I had no idea that I shouldn't do that. And always tell me if something hurts because I never mean to hurt you."
"I know," he whispered and guided her hands off. "I'm going to sleep in the spare room tonight." His shoulders bowed and he wouldn't turn to look. "I…I'm so ashamed that you know everything. I need some time," he breathed.
"Mark," she pleaded as he stood. "There's nothing for you to be ashamed of. I'm sorry. I just want to help you not have to bear this alone—"
He held up a hand and turned to face her, keeping his eyes on the floor. "I know. I'm not upset with you, I just can't be in here tonight." Then he headed for the door.
Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she rose onto her knees on the bed, stopping at the last minute from going to him. "May I give you a hug goodnight?" A kiss would be too much for him right now.
When he stilled in the doorway, she took that opportunity and raced forward to hug him tight from behind. "I love you so much, I can't even tell anymore where my heart ends and yours begins. I hope you'll come back during the night." She pressed a kiss to his back and slowly let go.
But his hand caught hers around his waist at the last minute, lacing his fingers with hers. "I love you, too," he whispered. And then he let go and slipped out the door.
He didn't return. It took crying past midnight before sleep finally came.
"Tanya," a deep voice whispered in the dark and a hand stroked her neck.
Rolling her head on the pillow toward the sound, she blinked away sleep to open her eyes. It was black, as if the middle of the night. "Mark?"
He gently rolled her onto his chest and caressed her cheek. "Make love with me," he whispered, the pain evident in his voice.
Her heart broke. He needed to feel love—physically and emotionally—to chase away the demons. Sliding up, she laid on him and offered a slow kiss that would show him the love that would follow. But it was difficult to make love and reach his lips at the same time with the height difference. "Sit up so I can kiss you," she whispered and sat back.
The moment he sat up, she eased down to join his body as she ran her hands through his hair and led his tongue in a soft courtship with hers. His arms tightened around her.
"Wait, my leg is falling asleep like this." She adjusted to wrap her lower leg under Hero. "Is this comfortable?"
The smile could be heard in his voice in the dark. "Not really. I think I bruised it with the prosthesis carrying everyone. Hold on." He scooted to the edge of the bed so her lower leg could hang off and the other wrap around his for some leverage. "Good?"
She nodded and then wiggled down again. And lost the leverage with her foot and started to slip off his lap. With a squeak, she grabbed his arms just as he caught her. A giggle burst out. "Why is this so hard all the sudden? Here, scoot back, and—"
"Maybe we should just go to sleep," he said quietly.
"No, I'm not going to sleep until I ravish you so well that you almost scream," she said distractedly and shifted her leg.
He burst out laughing. "I think I'm a little scared if your ravishing will make me scream."
"Shut up, now I can't think straight." She plopped his hand on her breast. "I think I'm hormonal because I don't really care how I ravish you right now, just that I do it," she panted.
Another chuckle. "Maybe I should wake you up in the middle of the night more often."
"You do at least once a week. Ugh, are you alright if I can't reach to kiss you?"
"At this rate, I'll be happy if we get to sex before sunrise."
She pushed him down and climbed on. Then she set his hands on her breasts and squeezed. "Oh god, Mark, your muscles," she sighed and dragged her fingers down his hard chest, careful to not scratch.
"I—Oh, Tanya," he gasped.
The next morning when he sat up and started putting on his leg, Tanya gasped. "Oh Mark, your back." She bounced out of bed and darted out of the bedchamber.
Shifting to look behind in her vanity mirror, a smile tugged. The minx had gotten vigorous last night and scratched up his shoulders.
She ran in with his medical bag and flitted about the room grabbing a basin and fresh rag. "Do you hurt? Let me clean these. Oh, Mark, I thought I was being careful," she chattered and hopped up on the bed, walking across it and then plopping down behind him. A soft kiss pecked his cheek. "You need to tell me if I'm scratching you. Didn't you feel it?" Then she fretted herself with cleaning the scratches.
"You make it a little hard with all of your screaming to notice if my back is being scratched." It proved difficult to not grin.
"I don't scream!"
A chuckle erupted, and he caught her hand to pull her around into his lap. "I can survive some passion scratches, my lady love."
Her smooth brow furrowed. "I need to clean them. Nail scratches have a high risk of infection—"
"For heaven's sake, appease your nerves, woman." He sat her up and slid her around his side.
The softest kiss brushed under the ear. "I love you. You shared a lot yesterday, and I know we have a lot of ups and downs ahead as we work through it. I don't want you to feel pressured for intimacy, so I'm going to leave it to you to initiate for at least a couple weeks." She leaned over his shoulder and met his eye. "It's not because I don't want you. I still think you're handsome, intelligent, and my cuddle bear. But I think you're even stronger and braver."
Turning on the bed to face her, he cupped her delicate face in his hand. "Leaving last night had nothing to do with you not being supportive or doing something wrong."
"I know. And I know you're going to have moments where you have extreme feelings or reactions." She set her hand over his. "Maybe it's from being a mother, but I want to pull you into my lap and just smother you with hugs and kisses. But I also know from experience that's going to be the last thing you'll want sometimes. And then there's the manly factor involved, and…" Worry filled her eyes. "I need you to tell me if I'm smothering so I don't drive you away."
He nodded. "I'm going to work on telling you what I need because I don't want to blow up at you again." He stared at her free hand in her lap and gently stroked her wedding ring, the shame rushing up. "There are times when I get angry before I understand why, like yesterday," he whispered. "I need you to let me be alone if I tell you."
"I will. But Mark?" She ducked to meet his eyes. "You'd never hit me."
A couple nights later after long days of seeing patients in their homes, Mark got into bed. In a nightshirt. And he laid on his side facing away.
"Mark?" She scooted closer to spoon him. "You only wear a nightshirt when you're trying to avoid being intimate. Is this because of our talk the other night?" Her cheek rested against his broad back as her slender arm wrapped arouhand.
"I don't think either of us has the energy to be up late."
"That's not what I asked."
"Tanya," he pleaded.
With a sigh, she pressed a kiss to his back. "I'll always think you walk on water."
He bounced softly from a laugh and slowly rolled onto his back, giving her time to move out of the way. Then he slipped an arm under her head and he tugged her whole body closer to rest against his side like during pregnancy…and almost every night since. "I think God finally took offense to you."
She shrugged. "Then He shouldn't have made you so perfect for me."
Something about those words caused regret. "Tanya?" It was hard to gather the courage to ask.
"Hm?" She snuggled against his side and threw a leg over his to sleep. The light weight of her head on his shoulder didn't offer as much comfort as usual.
"Do…" It took a moment to brace for her answer. "Do you wish we'd met before Bedlam?" Only she could make his heart pound with such nervousness, even after nearly six years of marriage.
"If you're asking what I think you are asking, no, I'm glad we didn't. You'd always doubt if I stayed out of obligation or if it was because I love you. Neither of us are the same people we were even when we wed, and we aren't the same that we'll be in ten years. The essence of you will always be the same and it will always be why I love you. Bedlam or not, I loved you the moment I was born. I suppose that would've put you at…fifteen years old?"
The minx had a way of saying he was being silly for worrying about nothing while putting a smile on his face. "Wench," he growled and swatted her bottom. "It put me at four, and you know it."
"Yes, Mark," she giggled and ran a foot up his shin.
"Behave, woman," he huffed, but tugged up her summer nightdress to her hips.
"Yes, Mark."
Something in her voice changed as she sat up and tossed aside her bedclothes. "You want to sleep naked." It was a statement, said in a way that revealed she remembered he only asked for it when his heart was breaking.
But this time, there was so much shame to lie with her without clothes. She readily returned to her spot against his side, but an unspoken question hung in the air.
Swallowing hard, he took her hand and wrapped it around the pathetic missing erection. And held her there. His heart slammed.
"Mark, trying to force yourself to not react to what you were taught caused terrible pain won't unteach it. Did telling me about Bedlam make everything worse?" Her hand tried to open.
But if she let go, it would open the door for humiliation to take her place. Holding tighter, even though it made her hold too tight, was better than to feel hollow and broken. Tears burned behind his eyes and his throat grew tight from the ache in his chest. She was his best friend. Telling her the dark secrets wasn't supposed to make it all worse.
"Honey, let go. That has to be hurting you." She wiggled her hand free and then moved it to rest over his heart.
Where his chest heaved.
Where she could tell he was losing control.
Where she finally knew how damaged he truly was. Oh god, it was hard to breathe.
"Shhhh," she whispered and gently stroked his chest even though he threw off the blankets and moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
She wasn't supposed to see him like this. It'd been easier trying to pretend that those things had happened to Marquess Debonairo, not him. If anyone found out, she'd be torn away from him again. And the children. She shouldn't have been told. She couldn't possibly look at him the same way anymore. Air. Oh shit, he needed air.
"Honey, it's alright. I think you're having a panic attack." She rose and set a hand on his back.
Christ, she didn't need to witness him have a psychotic break. Grabbing the crutches, he shot out the door and to the closest room—the library. Closing the door, he leaned against it and sank to the floor, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he gasped for air.
"Mark?" The door barely budged as she tried to come in.
Please, no. She couldn't see this. How could she ever feel safe and provided for knowing he was this broken? Everything was too overwhelming, and he clamped a hand over his mouth as silent sobs ripped free. He braced against the door to keep her out.
"Mark, dammit, move or I'll break down the damn door. The worst thing for you is to be alone. I know you're ashamed, but I'm your wife and can damn hold the pieces together when you need to fall apart." A hard thud like she hit the door in frustration. "Mark!" The door barely flexed against his back as she tried to push it open. It stilled. Her voice came from lower, as if she knelt. "Talk to me. This isn't like you to keep running away. I didn't mean to make everything worse." Her voice grew thick. "I love you. Whether you let me walk beside you or I have to chase you, I'm walking through the damn fire with you."
She would, too. For some reason, that only compounded the guilt.
The door stayed closed.
The sky began to lighten hours later as dawn approached. Every fiber in the body ached from exhaustion. Tanya had been silent, probably having gone back to bed. The children didn't deserve to find their father in a broken heap like this, and Tanya didn't deserve to have to bear his patient load today because he couldn't hold it together.
Climbing up off the floor with the crutches, he opened the door and stopped short.
She laid in the doorway curled in a tight ball on her side with her nightdress pulled over her knees, as if she'd been cold. All night she'd stayed. Without even leaving to get a blanket.
An ache formed in his chest, and his heart split open just a bit. Her love poured out and flowed over the raw, invisible wounds, offering relief from the pain.
Leaning the crutches against the wall, he held the doorframe to squat and touch her cheek. Her skin felt like ice.
A tiny smile bloomed on her lips in her sleep. Then her brow weakly furrowed, as if she dreamed of something sad.
"No bad dreams, my lady love," he whispered and stroked her hair.
She hummed in her sleep as peace softened her face. Her legs shifted, causing her poor back to audibly crack from the abuse of sleeping on the hard floor.
"Sweetheart, let's go to bed." He stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles.
Her eyes fluttered open after a moment, and she looked around in confusion. Then she met his eyes and sat up. "Are you alright?"
With a nod, he got up and then held a hand down.
She rose and linked her arm through his as he led the way to bed.
"You shouldn't have slept on the floor," he grunted. It came out a bit harsh.
"I wanted to be close in case you needed me."
"I can walk to get you," he snapped, not entirely sure why he was biting her head off. It seemed the Devil Debonairo had been resurrected last night.
"Your leg isn't the point, and you know it." She didn't bristle or cower, but rose right to the challenge as if a day hadn't passed since leaving England.
In the bedchamber, she turned and blocked his path, with her chin tilted up. "You know full well that I can best the Marquess, and I know he shows up when you're trying to hide your emotions. We can either have a conversation or have a battle of the wills."
A cold glare didn't make her back down. "Get in bed, woman."
"Are we going to talk, or are you going to insist that last night didn't happen?" She set her hands on her hips.
Sitting on the bed, he scooped her up and deposited her behind him. Then he laid down with his back to her.
"I'm not your enemy, Mark," she said softly, the hurt apparent in her voice.
Except she was—she was the one who could shatter him if he wasn't careful to not fall apart in her arms. He had to pull himself together for her and the children. And the easiest way to do that was to let the Marquess return.
It had to be impossible for him to not feel her watching him from across the surgery table that morning.
"Be ready to cauterize." Mark didn't even look up.
She reached in to hold organs aside just as he shifted his hand, movements in perfect synchronization even though this was her first spleenectomy. Then he lifted out the organ and she cauterized a stubborn bleeder that didn't want to accept the sutures. His hands were right back in as she set aside the probe.
He seemed to barely tolerate her presence and only spoke to her when absolutely necessary, so she kept silent. After having been used to years of his warmth and smiles, it was hard to adjust to the cold aloofness that had existed during the early days of marriage. It was as if he resented telling her about Bedlam, so maybe the best thing to do was pretend it hadn't happened—for now. And to return to being quiet and as useful as possible, just like the first week of marriage when he couldn't stand being near her for too long. Even knowing his standoffishness was due to self-preservation to try to handle something painful, it still hurt to be on the receiving end.
Worthless, father's voice whispered in the memories.
The rest of the morning passed anticipating what he'd need, so no words were spoken to each other. He was barely courteous to patients. And she kept out of the way as much as possible.
Even when Teresa announced lunch, he stayed at the desk with his nose in a medical book while waiting for the next patient to come.
"How is he?" Brigands asked quietly in the foyer.
With a small shrug and a poorly forced smile, she barely could meet his eyes. "Marquess Debonairo," she replied softly so the children wouldn't hear. Unable to stand the pity in Brigand's gaze, she hurried to the kitchen before the hurt swelled to be too unbearable.
When she left the children in the library with Grandmama and Teresa after lunch, she came out just in time to see Mark go into the kitchen. So she headed to the clinic to finish cleaning the surgery tools.
As she gave the exam table a final wipe down, Mark stepped into the clinic and stopped on the other side of the table.
Glancing up only to his chest, she dropped her eyes back to the table. "It's ready." Then she turned and took the rag into the lab to let it soak in disinfectant before washing it.
By the afternoon, Mark wasn't even looking in her direction anymore. How quickly Papa's voice returned in her head after all these years to remind her how useless and unwanted she was.
By dinnertime, it was painful to even be in the clinic with Mark.
When the last patient left, Mark locked the clinic door just as she finished cleaning up. He headed over to check the surgical patient. There was nothing else left to do, so she slipped into the house.
Peeking into the kitchen, she said to Grandmama and Teresa, "I'm going for a walk. Don't hold up dinner for me. The children are alright?"
They both looked up in surprise. "Yes. Tiger and Brigands are playing in the yard with them."
She spun on her heel and hurried to the front door, the lump in her throat growing bigger. Brushing at a stray tear, she grabbed the doorknob and dashed out just as Mark came through the connecting clinic door so he wouldn't have time to see.
There was ruckus in the far side of the front yard, so she turned around the house to walk the vast fields behind the house—the side where Mark wouldn't be able to see her from the bedchamber.
Gulping in air, fast strides helped to burn off some of the grief. The grass came up to her shins and the breeze offered a cool enough kiss to keep from growing too hot at her brisk pace.
"Mistress!"
Brushing away any traces of tears, she turned to see Brigands hurrying as fast as his old bones allowed. Concern wrinkled his brow as he approached. "I saw you leave. Do you need an escort?" He was worried about her safety being the sun was beginning to set.
With a sad smile, she shook her head. "Tanya. I just need some air. I won't go out of sight of the house."
Those fatherly eyes searched her face. "Then maybe an ear?"
It sent her right back to England to the days when marriage had been so hard that she needed an ear now and then to let out the tears. Reaching out a hand, she gave his a gentle squeeze as tears welled. "Thank you, but my skin has just gotten soft over the years. He used to breathe fire and I survived; there was no fire today."
His other weathered hand rested over hers. "Fire isn't the only way to be burned. When it comes unexpectedly, it hurts just as much as fire."
"I'll be fine. Please, don't say anything to him. I pushed him into confessing demons that he wasn't ready to, and he shouldn't feel guilt on top of it."
Brigands sighed. "A wise woman once told me on a ship that sometimes you just need to let the hurt, hurt. But I fear this isn't one of those times. He needs to know he's hurt you."
She shook her head. "He couldn't even tolerate to look at me today, much less speak to me. You will not make him feel guilty for being angry with me." There was movement in the distance behind Brigands. Mark was coming from the house. "Please, just tell him that I'm fine and needed to stretch my legs." She pulled her hand free and continued quickly away from the house. At a pace too quick for Mark to catch up on this uneven ground with his prosthesis.
After a few more minutes, she glanced back to see the house a small shape in the distance. And a lone figure limping closer but still quite a ways behind.
Glancing ahead, she stopped and debated continuing forward in hopes that Mark would give up and go home. But he was so stubborn that he'd follow at the cost of his leg. So she turned around and started back toward him.
His face was unreadable, aside from a pinched look of pain, probably from his pronounced limp.
She stopped and he stopped an arm's length away. Looking at his leg for signs of blood, she said, "You shouldn't be out here on uneven ground." She started to raise her eyes to his.
"Then you should stop running," he retorted quickly.
The scolding instinctually dropped her eyes back to the ground, all of the shame rushing back. Her breath quickened to fight back tears.
"What did I tell you about bowing your head as a marchioness?" His words barked out terse and angry. But his touch was gentle as he tilted her chin up with a finger.
His brow furrowed. "Why are you crying?"
Jerking her head free, she glared at him in challenge. "I was going for a walk and then saw you following. I told them to not hold up dinner for me, so why are you following?"
One corner of his mouth curled up and he dropped his hand. "You're angry with me."
"I'm irritated. Do the children need me? You could've sent Brigands."
The smile faded and his eyes grew sad. "I need you."
Blinking in surprise, it took a moment to pacify her expression. "Don't. Don't say what you think needs to be said. You need space, and I think it's best to have some time apart so we don't end up in an argument in front of the children."
A curtain fell over his eyes that masked all emotion when she expected the Marquess snapping and barking. He gave a single nod and squared his shoulders. Then he looked at her for several seconds before ultimately turning and heading back home.
This nagging feeling said he'd been about to open up, but her briskness to keep from being hurt further had ended up hurting him. "Isn't that why you couldn't stand to speak to or even look at me all day? So we wouldn't fight in front of patients?"
He slammed to a halt and his back snapped straight. And he didn't turn for one heartbeat, then two, and three.
Good for nothing but whoring, now not even that.
The vicious memories that were still so fresh and raw when first marrying Mark now whispered. And they ripped open the scars.
Mark still didn't move.
Grabbing handfuls of skirts, she spat, "That's what I thought." Then she hiked the skirts and whirled to march away quickly so he wouldn't see how much she bled.
Upon reaching the edge of the woods, such strong tears threatened that she had to get inside closer to the stream to muffle the noise. He'd come out of guilt when he couldn't even stand to be near her. Trotting faster toward the embankment, she jumped over brush and darted around several trees. Glancing behind to be certain he didn't try to follow, the forest was growing dense enough to hide in. There was no sign of him, probably on his way home.
She turned and caught the skirt on brush. Her leg tangled in the skirt. A foot went down too far back while her top half moved forward to take a step. The ground flew closer, so she tucked and rolled to avoid breaking wrists trying to catch herself. But the roll morphed into sliding down the embankment. And a short drop off.
Terrible pain exploded up her right leg as she splashed into the shallow stream, landing on her foot and then the rest of her collapsed on top of it. A cry of pain echoed in the woods.
Agony zipped from ankle to thigh, making it hard to even breathe at first. Panting hard and slowly pulling up the soaked skirts, teeth grit hard to brace for a shattered ankle. But nothing looked crooked. Reaching into the icy water, ginger palpation didn't reveal any lumps of a break. However, the ankle was rapidly turning purple and swelling.
Slowly moving each limb to check for breaks, everything else seemed only sore. Drawing a deep breath, she slowly got up in the knee-deep water and tried putting weight on the ankle. Horrible pain exploded and she nearly fainted, collapsing back into the water.
This was not good. It was beginning to get dark and being this wet and cold would bring hypothermia on rather quickly. But the men would come looking once night fell…maybe not even coming this far into the woods.
