A Night with the Bride(16)
Before he could convince himself otherwise, he strode out of the room and down the corridor. He found her room easily—Larson had informed him where it was days ago. Indeed, he knew everything about her—how late she slept, what she ate. Larson was as thorough in his research as he was loyal.
He stopped in front of her door and contemplated knocking. In the end, he decided to try the door. Mercifully, it was unlocked. He pushed open the thick, oak slab, the hinges creaking as it revealed the room beyond. He stepped over the threshold and clicked the door shut behind him. He slid the bolt into place.
The first tendrils of sunlight spilled in through the opened windows, casting the room in a pink, dreamlike hue. It was early yet, just past five o’clock in the morning.
He glanced at the large, four-poster bed situated at the far end of the room. She laid in the middle of the mattress, prone, a white sheet tangled around her body.
He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t accost her in such an intimate place. But he had to apologize. His mind would never settle, the world would never be set to rights, if he didn’t speak to her. For some unknown reason, the urgency of it weighed on him like an anvil on his chest.
He came around to the side of the bed, and smoothed a strand of honey-colored hair away from her face. He let his finger trail down the curve of her cheek, to the line of her jaw. Her skin was smooth, creamy with just a flush of color. She was beautiful. Exquisite.
More than anything, he wanted to sink into her body and forget. Forget that he was completely, irrevocably broken. She made him feel whole and alive. She made him feel free.
He pulled the coverlets off her and immediately regretted it. Her shift was pulled tightly across her body, accentuating every enticing curve and crevasse—the swell of her hips, the dip of her flat belly, the generous curve of her breasts. He groaned.
“Wake up, love.”
At the sound of his voice, she slowly blinked open her emerald-green eyes and focused on him. It took her a full minute to realize her state of undress, then she sat up and yanked the covers back over herself, clutching the sheets to her chest like a shield.
“Nicholas,” she said, her voice still rough from sleep. “What are you doing in my room?”
“I came to apologize,” he said.
“You could have waited until morning.”
He let out a breath. “I also came to explain.” He didn’t want anything between them. No secrets. She could know everything, right from the beginning. “But I must trust you not to reveal any of this to anyone.”
“Oh.” She sat up, her long hair in tangles around her shoulders, her eyes only half open. She smoothed the blankets over her legs and regarded him patiently. “Very well.”
“When I was quite young, soon after Emmeline was born, my mother became very ill. She paced continually and became increasingly fixated on death, or the possibility of it. She often cried for days and would seldom leave her bedchamber.” His chest clenched, remembering his mother’s misery. “She often erupted into fits, and after she attempted to take her own life, she was diagnosed with hysteria and sent to live in a private asylum, where she remained until her death several years ago.”
Gabriella shook her head, sympathy glinting in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
He stood and hands clasped behind his back, he paced. Pacing gave him something to do, something to focus on besides the pain. This would be the hardest part of his confession, but he would not keep it from her. She deserved to know. “It would seem, Gabriella, that I have inherited my mother’s inclination toward madness.”
The words hung in the air between them, like a specter, until finally she shrugged. “Well, yes, clearly. But aren’t we all mad to some degree?”
“My illness is of a peculiar nature.” He kept his tone even, matter-of-fact. “I see things in my mind, unpleasant things, that are only assuaged by performing tasks—in a particular way, in a particular order. When the task is complete, the images fade and I am free until the next vision arises.”
She swallowed. “What sorts of visions?”
His strides grew longer, clipped, as he moved from one wall to the other, the same number of steps each time—his eyes focused on the patterned rug beneath his feet. His entire body was tense, pulled tight like a bowstring. He didn’t want to remember the visions, and he sure as hell didn’t want to talk about them. “Vile things,” he choked out.
“Can’t you control the thoughts? Stop them from coming?”
“No.” He’d never discussed this with anyone in his entire life. “I have no control over them.”