Chapter 22

May 1, 1823

Atlas had never been in love before.

He knew that now.

Oh, he'd loved things, but in an easy sort of way. The loss of them never hurt. A flower would return next spring. Each morning held a new sunrise.

But Clara?

Clara could leave. Clara could die. Clara could never love him in return.

And yet he'd still love her. Through every pain and worry, still his heart would sing her name.

He loved Clara best of all. Her the first—the only—woman he'd loved, knowing how much it could hurt him. Not caring. As long as she was safe and happy.

Yet, his heart felt more unsteady than it had before Lord Tefler's arrival.

He should feel nothing but joy. He was in love. And early this morning, Matilda had birthed a baby girl. Katherine. Wailing like a banshee. Or like her grandmother. Raph had already given her a nickname. Several. My Kate, perfect Kate, Kate my tiny, feathered thing.

Kate possessed no feathers. She possessed a wrinkly, red face, tiny little fists, and a perfect set of lungs. She'd be a singer, she would. Atlas would teach her.

And he'd teach Alfie, too.

Had Lord Tefler touched Alfie, Atlas would have ripped his limbs from his body and faced whatever noose they hung around his neck with righteousness. Thankfully, it had not come to that. His mother's theatrics had saved Clara and saved him from resorting to violence.

He didn't have to face a noose.

He could make a life instead.

Seated at his pianoforte, Atlas stared at the open ring box he'd set atop it. The opal glowed in the sunlight, gathering the day's brightness into its endless, milky depths.

Endless and forever did not seem so bleak as they used to. They seemed, like the opal, brilliant and beautiful.

He hummed the tune that had soared through him since they'd sent Lord Tefler packing. A light thing, flying high, almost buzzing. A pink rose petal on the wind, swooping and sailing. His fingers hovered over the keys, not ready to touch them until he knew with absolute certainty the right words to put with the melody.

He closed his eyes. Clara and her bright hair and her curvy body and her big, bold heart. Alfie, who climbed to the sky as often as he could no matter how far he risked falling. Alfie, who had threatened to put shit in Atlas's boots. Alfie, who Atlas thought of simply as his son. Both woman and boy his family, his home, his heart.

The first key cold beneath his fingertip brought the room to life. The melody he crafted with each press of finger against key sang through the air, brushed against his skin.

He hummed, a small prelude to prepare his lips and tongue for truth.

And then he sang. "On distant shores I lost my way, the sky came crashing down. Star-shaped wounds across my skin, the clouds my burial gown. Home was lost and beauty dead, until she gave me life." A good first verse.

He raised an octave for the next. "The ocean brought me home again, but night still held my soul. Home welcomed me with open arms, but my heart had become a coal. Home was lost and beauty dead until she gave me life."

One more verse, and it needed to be just as true. His brows drew together, the words dangling out of reach. More difficult to grasp because the emotions were newer. The song died as he stood, snapped up the ring, nestled it into his chest pocket, close to his heart, and made for the door. But the music still hummed in the air. It followed him like a swarm of bees as he made his way to the dower house.

They'd completed their work on it weeks ago, though he'd been doing his best to extend the project. He could no longer pretend to find fault in order to tear their work down, in order to delay the end of everything. Everywhere he looked in the damn house—perfection. Because she'd made it so.

He could not even guess what she worked on today. Nothing left to do. At least that meant he would not be distracting her. He needed her. Right that moment. He needed the inspiration her mere presence gave him. Because he was so close to finishing the thing he'd been working towards for so long, so close to closing so many dark chapters of his life.

He pushed through the door. "Clara?"

No answer.

He found his way to the small room at the back of the house that she'd been using as a little shop to work on the furniture she repaired and made. She'd lately kept the door shut and locked. Did that mean something?

Well, something other than, Stay out, you nodcock, I'm busy at the moment.

Did it mean she did not want him? Other than as a protector, a provider. Because she no longer needed his protection. And they were done with the house. She could, if she wished, leave. Only their marriage kept her here, a prisoner of the vows that bound them together. Vows she'd only made to save her son.

He rapped on the door. "Clara?"

After a moment of silence, he pressed his ear to the door. "Clara?"

"Go away." Two words muffled but telling—pulled from a raw throat and accompanied by sniffles, suppressed sobs.

Hell. He pushed through, and there she was, collapsed on the floor, her top half draped onto a large chair, her head resting on her folded arms, her body shaking.

He knelt beside her and rested his hand on her back. "What has happened? What is wrong? Are you hurt?"

She jerked upright, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red rimmed and watery but fierce. Glowing with the determination of a battle-ready goddess. "I'm going to destroy it. Don't worry." She dashed at a rolling tear with the back of her hand. "I have the courage to do it." All practiced polish stripped clean of her voice. She was pure, raw Clara, and he could not love her more. No. Hardly true. He could always love her more. Every day showed him a new way to do so.

"Destroy what?" He cupped her face in his hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"This." She pounded a fist into the blue cushion of the chair.

"Why would you do that? It's a beautiful piece. Did you make it?" It was entirely perfect if slightly oddly shaped for a chair. Beautiful, golden wood, curved in elegant lines and blue velvet stuffing lovingly inset on the inside seat, back, and arms.

"I made it for you." She tipped her chin up, defiant gesture. As if the gift were a Trojan horse, a weapon, and she'd just revealed her plans to betray him.

"For me?" The sun streamed through the window, hitting the chair perfectly, making the yellow wood glow. The blue he vaguely remembered from another piece of furniture at Briarcliff long abandoned and broken. And it was not oddly shaped so much as… hugely shaped.

"Go ahead," she said, "sit." She jumped to her feet, throwing an arm out toward the chair.

He rose slowly and sat slowly, his gaze trained on her the entire time. She seemed a wild animal about to bolt. He whistled as his arse hit a cloud of comfort. The chair was the best bloody thing he'd ever sat in. It didn't squeeze him too tightly. It didn't sit too low to the floor. His thigh could breathe here, relax.

"For you," Clara said. "And only for you. I made every inch of it in consideration of your height, your weight, your bulk, your wounds. You"re always so uncomfortable everywhere you go. Everywhere you sit, nothing fits you right. Thisone"—she shoved a finger toward the chair—"fits you perfectly. I made sure of it."

The most wonderful thing anyone had ever done for him. Not just the chair and the giving of it and the making of it—all of that a bloody beautiful miracle—but more than that, impossible though it seemed… what mattered more was that she'd watched him. Observed him so well, come to know him so perfectly, that she could see past his calm, trained masks, see why he always stood and walked about rooms instead of sitting. He avoided the things that made his mask crack so he would not make those he loved uncomfortable.

And she'd seen it all when no one else had. And she'd done something about it. She'd made him a chair. And he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

Except for her.

He held his arms open to her, pulsed his fingers toward his wrists. "Come here, Clara."

She rolled her eyes, but did as he asked, standing before him.

"Closer," he ordered.

"There is no closer. I?—"

He patted his lap.

"Oh."

He patted again. "Closer."

She sat atop him, and he wrapped his arms around her, kissed her cheek. "You're brilliant." He rested his forehead against her, breathed in the scent of her. "Even with you up here there's still room." He placed his hand beneath her chin and turned her face to his. He kissed her, pouring all his gratitude into the embrace, letting his lips tell her without words how he felt. When he pulled away, their chests rose and fell in rapid harmony with each other. "In fact…" He raked her skirts up her legs, raked his fingertips up her stockings and then her bare skin.

"What are you doing, Atlas?"

"Find out." He gripped her hips beneath her gown and shift and turned her, encouraged her to turn until she straddled him, her hands resting like light temptations on his shoulders as she looked down at him, her lips parted with heavy breaths. "I'm glad you're wearing skirts today." He slipped his hand between her legs and found what he wanted, circled and teased it.

She moaned, her head rolling on her neck, her eyes fluttering closed then open again, seeking the window. "Someone may see us."

"They won't."

"There are no drapes."

"There's a garden. No one's coming. They're all too enamored of feathered Kate."

Clara chuckled then gasped as he slipped a finger inside her. "Atlas."

"You clever, beautiful woman." He kissed her jaw, left a string of hot kisses down her neck, slipped another finger inside her. "To make a chair big enough for two."

"Not for two. For you." Each word a breath. And when he curled his fingers just so, those words became a moan.

"For us. Open my fall."

Her eyes widened, but her fingers did not hesitate to comply, finding his buttons in the now-scorching narrow space between their bodies and flicking them open, releasing him.

He pulled his hand out of her and wrapped it round her waist, brought his other hand to her breast to caress her nipple, collect a gasp to remember always.

"Grip me," he demanded. She did. He groaned but grit his teeth and called on every bit of control he possessed. "Look at me."

She'd been looking everywhere but at him, and she froze a bit, but then unfrosted, slowly, like a hesitant spring, and finally met his gaze. He cupped the back of her neck and held her tight.

"Do not look away."

Her eyes fluttered. "No." She bit her lip.

"Ride me, love."

Her already labored breath hitched, then her muscles flexed, and she lifted, positioning his cock right at the apex of her body and sinking down onto him. He'd demanded she not look away, and he had to fight the urge to close his eyes as pleasure rippled through him.

Not too difficult to do so. Not when he could look at her instead.

She rode him up and down, setting a patient rhythm, and he rolled his hips each time their bodies came together. Her lovely eyes sparked and flamed, and the sun illuminated the escaped wisps of auburn hair curling round her face. Her cheeks pink, and every inch of visible skin—not enough visible—pink, too. Her chest rose and fell with each labored breath. And those eyes locked onto his, so full of lust and life, with an amber ring of sorrow on their very edges. Slow, so slow, they moved, bodies leaning ever nearer until her forehead rested on his, until he could not tell where he ended and she began.

Her green eyes sang all his sorrows away. But for the ones she still hid, ringed in amber round her eyes.

Slow, so slow. To make the moment last forever.

But now her breath hitched, came a bit faster, and her legs, sheened with sweat, clenched up and down with a more frantic pace. Him, too, losing control. Their bodies together whirling into chaos.

Beautiful chaos that ripped a roar from his throat as she shuddered and contracted around him. Perfect chaos as he came inside his wife.

She collapsed against him, and he held her close. And the sunlight streamed through the window, pooled around them, like a benediction.

He stroked his hand down her hair, loving her. He placed little kisses wherever he could reach without much movement. Loving her. With a heavy limb, he lifted his hand, patted the chair's arm. "Excellent craftmanship, Clara. Not even a squeak."

She laughed. "I never imagined breaking it in this way. I—" She stiffened, swallowed, and left his lap, smoothing her skirts as they fell back down to her ankles. She gave a harsh laugh, false in every way. "I had not meant to break it in so much as break it. Yes. I remember now. My but you make me forget."

She had said something about breaking it, hadn't she? And she'd been crying when he'd arrived. And he'd just sat and demanded she please him, and—hell.

He jerked to his feet. "Damn, Clara, I'm a cad. I have been insensitive. Selfish. But surely you don't mean to destroy it."

"I do. I must. I made it out of guilt for keeping you here longer than you wish. And this morning I looked upon it and thought perhaps when he sees it, he'll wish to stay anyway. Perhaps I can bribe him to stay with room after room of comfortable chairs made just for him. But I will do everything to help you as you've helped me, including tearing this chair apart until it is nothing but splinters and specks. Alfie and I are safe now, Atlas. There's nothing keeping you here."

Nothing keeping him here? Nothing but his own damn heart. If he stepped beyond this property now, he'd lose that forever. Hate himself forever.

"Think about what we have just done, Clara." He pointed at the chair. "Think about what that means." Her brow furrowed, and he stepped closer. "I came while deep inside you, love."

Her hand flew to her mouth. "We have been so careful not to risk… I cannot believe we forgot…"

"I can. I want to forget, Clara. I want to see your belly swell with?—"

"It will come to nothing." She backed away from him. "It must come to nothing because I will do nothing to force you to stay. I have seen you day after day, week after week, month after month. Your every word and movement a lie. A well-intended one, but a lie nonetheless. To convince everyone you are well. But I have seen that you are not, and I will not have that."

"Clara," he warned, stalking toward her.

She backed away from him with another round of panicked steps, holding her hand out, palm flat, to halt his advance. "You must be well because you deserve it. I love you too well to have it otherwise." Her back hit the doorframe, and she gasped, a tiny thing, distracting her enough for him to take one giant step and gather her into his arms.

God, she felt good there, her every curve the perfect counterpart to his every angle. Her heat better than a bonfire to warm his bones.

"You love me?" he asked, holding back the wonder of it, afraid to believe. Her words might have been disposable, easily tossed out and easily forgotten.

She closed her eyes, her sweet face pale, and wrapped her hands into the linen of his shirt. She nodded, as if she couldn't admit the words out loud. Not again. But she rested her cheek against his chest, burrowed close as if she meant to stay there always.

"Well, isn't that bloody convenient," he said, "because I?—"

"Hand me the sledgehammer." She held out her arm, palm up.

His eyes widened. "No."

"Then I shall do it myself." A few steps only took her across the room, and she lifted the large hammer with ease. She stalked toward the chair, her gaze hard and determined as she lifted the hammer, prepared to swing.

He darted in front of her, grabbed the chair and wrenched it out of her trajectory. He grunted. Damn thing heavier than he'd expected. But he pushed it across the room and stood in front of it, legs wide, arms crossed over his chest. "If you slam that into my chair, you slam it into me. Do you understand, Clara?"

She let the metal head of the hammer rest on the ground before her, her hands folded over the tip of its handle. "I'm stronger than I look. You cannot stop me."

"You look bloody strong. I know just how strong you are. I adore it. It makes me hard, Clara. Tell me, can I seduce that hammer out of your hands?"

"You adore protecting me."

He sat in the chair, leaned forward, and braced his elbows on his knees. "If you hurt this chair, Clara, I'll?—"

"You'll what?" She batted her lashes. "You could never hurt a fly. I don't care how many men you've killed in battle."

"You're right. I wouldn't. Couldn't. But those orgasms you're so fond of me giving you…"

She narrowed her eyes, her grip on the hammer's end tightening until her knuckles shone white. "I won't have them anyway once you're gone. Not from you, anyway. I'll simply have to give them to myself."

"Only if I'm watching."

Her smile possessed a smug arch to it, but that wild thing still peeked out from behind her eyes.

"Do not touch this chair." A direct command. She'd do well to heed it.

"I can bark orders, too. Do not threaten to remain here when you must travel abroad to heal." She walked to the window, put her hands against the sill, and stared out. Her sigh heated the glass. "I will promise not to harm the chair if you promise to leave. The chair will be here when you return." She flinched then swung ever so slightly to peer at him from over her shoulder. "Will you return?"

He wasn't going to bloody leave, but she didn't seem to be in the mood to believe him. He could only ground out, "I will return."

Relief rushed across her face. Such hope in her rosy cheeks, such love in her green eyes, such worry in the biting of her luscious bottom lip.

His entire body lit up at once, a room flooded with candlelight magnified by mirrors—all the words to the rest of his song rushing through him. He stood with a jerk and strode toward her, pointing at the chair. "Do. Not. Touch. That. Put the bloody hammer down and don't pick it up again. I'll return." He kissed her hard, his lips crashing into hers, a promise. "I'll return." Then he released her and ran. Out the door and all the way back to Briarcliff, all the way back to his pianoforte. Where he wrote the love song that had been building in him since he'd met his wife.