Page 10 of The Earl

Every time Cait opened her mouth to speak, he was reminded of the impropriety of this discussion. He imagined closing the distance between them, pulling the only woman he’d ever loved into his arms, and making her his.

This very night.

But Conrad had given up on that dream years earlier.

When she’d abruptly stopped writing him.

“Why, Cait?”

Though he could reach her in two long strides, Conrad did not dare move. He needed her answer like he needed air. The not knowing had been so much worse than waiting for word from Dromsley.

Her letters had brought him more joy than winning his first joust or being named Earl of Licheford. They had partially healed his broken soul when both of his parents had died within a sennight of each other. They had helped soothe his bitter, angry heart after the king turned his back on Conrad’s father—a man who’d always served the crown faithfully.

As always, bile rose in his throat when he thought of King John’s response to his parents’ simple request. Would it have made a difference if he’d intervened? Terric tended to believe not, but then, they would never know. John had refused. His only consolation was that he’d seen his parents one last time before they’d succumbed to the illness that had spread through Licheford like fire through a field of straw.

He had told Cait as much in a letter, and her response had done much to allay his anger.

She sighed, grasping her hands in front of her. “There is much I wish to say.”

Conrad waited. He wanted nothing more than that explanation, and now that she stood before him, ready to give it, his chest constricted with the anticipation.

Cait. Here at Licheford.

Did this mean . . .

“After that day, hatred consumed Terric. It didn’t matter to him that the man who’d attempted to hurt me was dead. He hated him, and he blamed the king for choosing his companions so poorly. He blames John by association!”

“I know it well. But that hardly explains why you stopped writing me.”

“All that hatred changed him.”

Her delicate shoulders rose and fell, the wood crackling behind them making Conrad well aware of their location—and what would happen should anyone find them here. Neither of them dared to move. To sit. To relax for even a moment.

“He blamed himself, though I often reminded him that I was not harmed.”

Conrad shook off the thought of that man on top of her, his hand under her gown. He’d kill him again, if given the chance.

“So many times I tried to tell him. To explain the truth.”

“Cait, do not say it.” He knew what was coming.

“It was my fault. It was my idea to meet you along that river. You warned me it wasn’t safe, but I still insisted, and you were forced to kill that man because of me.”

“You cannot still believe that.” But he could tell she did. Even before the words left his mouth, Conrad knew she did blame herself. She always had. It wrenched what was left of his heart in two. Although he knew it wouldn’t help, that Cait wouldn’t believe him if he told her it wasn’t her fault, something he’d told her many times, he couldn’t stay silent. “You did not ask to be attacked.”

Cait was not even listening to him. “You warned me,” she continued, “said it was not safe.”

He remained silent this time, gently shaking his head.

“He changed after that day.”

“And has become quite a man.” He didn’t dare say it, but he suspected Terric was better, stronger, because of what had happened.

“Why did you stop writing to me?” he asked again.

A knock at the door prevented Cait from answering.

“Cait?”