The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,95

their names,” she ventured. “William, Arabella, and—”

“Luther.” He said the word as if it tasted of ash and filth on his tongue. “Luther Beaufort de Clanforth-Kenway.”

The magnitude of this knocked the wind from her. “De-clan-forth,” she echoed, her heart aching. “De-clan.”

He nodded.

“You … didn’t drown?”

He made a gruff, caustic noise. “No, no, I did. I remember it well. I fought the water in my nightmares.” He put a hand to his chest and filled his lungs, his wide ribs expanding as if he had to prove to himself that he was still able to inhale. “I still do.”

“It’s why your mother died in the asylum.”

“Yes.” His chin returned to touch his shoulder, brushing against her fingertips as if searching for solace. “She was a fragile woman, my mother. Kenway liked to toy with her, to torture her with his cruelty, without even touching her.” He gave a suspicious sniff. “I remember she thought she was saving us from him. She said as much before she … pushed me under.”

“Holy God,” she whispered. “How did you … How are you still…?”

“My father found my mother, I was told. He grappled her away as the servants pulled my … the children out of the tub and dragged her somewhere else, I’m not certain where. I wasn’t conscious.”

She could tell the story agonized him. His muscles twitched and his fingers were restless. Cold sweat bloomed on his skin, and his breaths were slightly uneven.

Crushed by the horror of it all, Francesca could only hold him as his secrets spilled forth, hoping they purged something in the telling.

“Two of his … well, I think they were henchmen … found me. They pressed the water from my lungs. I don’t know how. And after I coughed up everything, I was spirited outside. I remember that. Maybe they weren’t part of the council, or maybe they’d just been struck with a fit of conscience on that day. I’ll never know. But they bundled me up, wet clothes and everything, put me in his carriage, and told the driver to take me somewhere safe. Somewhere else.”

“How did you end up at Mont Claire?”

“The carriage stopped at the priory for the night, and the driver made noises about taking me home. So I ran.”

“Bronwell Priory?” she gasped. “That’s miles away from Mont Claire.”

He lifted his shoulder against her chin. “I just remember running, my legs and lungs burning. My wet clothes filthy and cold. So fucking cold … everything hurt…”

“Stop.” The word tore from Francesca in a low, raw wail. Her tears flowed freely now, dripping from her chin onto his shoulder. “Stop, I cannot bear to hear more. The thought of your suffering. Of the nightmares. God, Chandler, they made you clean out the fountain at Mont Claire.” She let him go so she could cover her eyes, as if that would blind her from the memories, from the images of that little boy staggering up to the manor house. “I would wonder why you were so pale. Why you dreaded the water so … why you bathed in the lake instead of the tub…” Her sobs came harder now, flowing from some fathomless well she was unaware she’d had. “Oh God, oh no,” she chanted, the prayer one of desperate dread. “I’m so sorry.”

Chandler turned at the waist and dragged her into his lap, crooning soft and comforting things into her hair as she cried.

Francesca was distraught, but also embarrassed. She never cried. Never. Not during all the hard times. Not when Serana had blessed the ashes of Mont Claire, of her parents and her friends. Not when she’d had to bury her best friend’s rapist at finishing school. Not when she broke her wrist in Argentina or when she was beat down in training by men who were bigger, stronger, and meaner than she was. She’d fought more tears in the last two weeks than she had in the last two decades.

And now, the storm of her grief for him turned into a flood, and she sobbed twenty years of sorrow against his chest. Sometimes, when she could manage it, she would hiccup a soggy apology. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.” And she was. She was so fucking sorry. Sorry that he’d suffered so. Sorry that he was the one soothing her when it was him in need of comfort. Sorry that—

“I love you,” he said against her hair.

She snapped her mouth closed, lifting her head away from the wet mess she’d made of his