CHAPTER 93: CHAPTER NINETY THREE

Carcel nodded. It was a small, stiff movement, and he winced as he did it. The motion seemed to send a jolt of pain through his entire body, but he didn’t make a sound. He just leaned back against the dark wood of the bedpost, his breathing heavy and uneven.

The room was quiet again, but the air still felt charged with violence.

Ines stood in front of him. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She looked at his face, and her heart broke into a thousand sharp pieces.

He looked terrible. His left eye was already swelling shut, the skin turning a dark, angry purple. His lip was split deep, a jagged line of red against his pale skin. There was a bruise forming on his jaw, the distinct imprint of her brother’s fury.

She wanted to touch him. She wanted to soothe the pain. But she hesitated. Her hand hovered in the air, inches from his face. She was afraid. She was afraid that if she touched him, she might hurt him more. She was afraid that her touch was the very thing that had caused this destruction.

"Carcel," she whispered, her voice cracking.

He opened his good eye and looked at her. There was no anger in his gaze. Only a deep, weary softness.

Ines finally gathered her courage. She reached out. Her fingertips, light as a feather, brushed the swollen skin beneath his eye.

He didn’t pull away. He leaned into her hand, just a fraction, seeking her warmth.

"You..." Ines choked on the words. Tears welled up in her eyes again, hot and stinging. "You should have fought back."

She looked at his broad shoulders, visible through his unbuttoned shirt. She looked at his arms, strong and corded with muscle. She knew him.

"I heard..." she sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I heard you are stronger than my brother. Everyone says so. You were a soldier."

She traced the cut on his lip, her finger coming away stained with a tiny drop of red.

"And he made your face like this," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow. "You just let him. You just lay there."

Carcel let out a chuckle. It was meant to be reassuring, but it came out sad, broken, and wet. He winced as the movement pulled at his split lip.

"Rowan was only protecting you, Ines," he said. His voice was rough, like gravel. "He is a big brother. It is his job to kill the man who ruins his sister."

He reached up and gently took her hand from his face, holding it in his own large, battered one.

"And he is right," Carcel said, looking down at their joined fingers. "I deserve it. I shouldn’t have touched you in the first place. I knew better. I am the one who is older. I am the one who is his friend."

Ines shook her head violently. Her hair, wild and tangled, whipped around her face.

"No!" she cried. "That isn’t true!"

The guilt was a heavy stone in her stomach, crushing her. She remembered the carriage. She remembered how she had practically cornered him, using his own kindness against him.

"I was the one!" she insisted, her voice rising in hysteria. "I was the one who asked for your help! I begged you to teach me for my novels!"

She gripped his hand tighter, desperate for him to understand.

"Even when you backed out... even in the carriage, when you tried to stop... I pushed you," she sobbed. "I told you to be my friend. I used that against you. I am the one to blame... not you! You shouldn’t be bleeding because of me!"

Carcel looked at her. He saw the raw agony in her eyes. He saw how much she was blaming herself.

He couldn’t stand it. He could take Rowan’s punches all night long, but he couldn’t take Ines’s tears.

He released her hand and reached up. With the pad of his thumb, he gently, slowly wiped away a tear that was tracking down her cheek.

"Don’t cry, Ines," he whispered.

He pulled her to him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her breast, hugging her tightly.

"It doesn’t matter who started it," he mumbled into her soft skin. "It is done. We are here now."

He took a deep breath, inhaling her scent. It grounded him. It made the pain in his jaw feel distant.

"I will make sure," he vowed, his voice muffled but fierce, "that we will be a happy couple. I promise you that. I will make this right. I will be a good husband to you."

Ines stood there, holding his head against her. She felt the heat of his body. She felt the solid strength of him. But the guilt wouldn’t leave.

She looked down at his dark hair.

"You should have just told him," she whispered.

Carcel pulled back slightly to look up at her. "Told him what?"

"The truth," Ines said. "You should have just said it was for my novels. You should have told him about the manuscript. About... about my research."

If he had told Rowan that Ines was a writer, that she was simply curious for the sake of her art, Rowan might have been angry, but he wouldn’t have been murderous. He might have yelled, but he wouldn’t have beaten his best friend. It would have been a scandal of eccentricity, not a scandal of virtue.

"Why?" she asked, her voice shaking. "Why did you do this? Why did you take the label of a seducer? Why did you let him think you... you just took advantage of me?"

Carcel looked at her. His dark eyes were serious. The pain in them was gone, replaced by a solemn intensity.

He remembered the day in the library. The day he had found the page. The day she had looked at him with terrified eyes and begged him.

"Promise me you won’t tell anyone. Never. You must make sure to never and I mean NEVER tell anyone."

He remembered his own hand on his chest. He remembered the oath he had sworn.

"About you writing your novel," Carcel said softly.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I vowed," he said. "I swore on my life. I vowed never to tell anyone. Not Rowan. Not anyone."

Ines stared at him. Her mouth opened slightly.

"That is why," he finished simply. "That is why I took the blame. A gentleman does not break his vow. Even if it costs him a few teeth."

Ines felt her heart stop, then restart with a rhythm that was painful and overwhelming.

He had protected her.

He hadn’t just protected her reputation as a lady. He had protected her secret. He had protected her dream. He had protected Arthur Pendleton.

He had stood there and let Rowan beat him, let Rowan call him a traitor, let Rowan believe the worst of him... just to keep her secret safe. Just because he had promised.

It was the most foolish, noble, romantic thing she had ever heard.

A sob broke from her throat. It was a loud, wrenching sound.

She collapsed. She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest.

"Oh, Carcel," she wept.

She sobbed into his shirt. She cried for his pain, for his honor, for the mess they were in, and for the overwhelming love she felt for this stubborn, silent, wonderful man.

Carcel held her. He winced as her weight pressed against his bruised ribs, but he didn’t let go. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"Shh," he soothed, rubbing her back. "It’s alright. It’s alright."

He held her while she cried, his own body aching, his face throbbing, but his heart... his heart was full. She was here. She was in his arms. And in a few days or months, she would be his wife.

For that, he would take a thousand punches.