Shackles of Honor (56 page)

Lovingly she brushed his cool forehead with the back of her hand. Suddenly, a footstep behind her gave cause that she should gasp and whirl around, expecting to find death at her own door.

But there stood no hooded figure come to carry her to heaven. It was Mason who approached, the lines of fatigue and grief blatant on his face, giving him the look of having aged several years in the space of only a few days.

“I…I am sorry, sir,” she began to apologize
.
“
O
nly it was so…there were so many here this evening that I had no opportunity of my own to…to…” Frantically she brushed the tears on her cheeks with the backs of her hands, humiliated to have been found in such a weakened state as this. Mason had seen not but weak people all the day.

“He could be no happier than to find you at his side were he looking down this night,” he mumbled quietly. He moved past her to stand himself looking down at his father’s body. “I’ll be glad when the deed is done tomorrow. It pains me insufferably to see him as such.”

“I know,” she whispered in understanding. “I’ll leave you to your peace now,” she added, turning to go. But his words stopped her
,
and she looked back to him.

“He loved you instantly, you know.” She nodded her head, surprised in his words, yet knowing them to be true. He raised a hand and took her chin gently in it
,
and his grief was all the more evident in his dark eyes as he said, “He called Mother his dove
,
for he loved her beyond anything in the world. And Jill
,
for she was his silken-tendriled darling. And even your mother, for he felt her to be the best of women. He counted them as treasures from heaven. But he meant it differently for you. For you were his last dove. His final hope.”

Cassidy turned her head from him as tears flooded her cheeks once more.
“What hope was I to him?” she sobbed
,
burying her face in her hands.

“All his hope. All his hope. All his beautiful hope for the future. His hope for Mother’s happiness in you, her friend…and daughter. In you
,
the bearer of his posterity for her to love. His hope in your strength to persevere. His hope for me.” Raising her head from her hands, Cassidy looked to Mason as he gazed down grievously at his father again. “He died in hopeful contentment in you…his last dove.”

“He was unwise to place such hopes in me,” she whispered.

“My father was never unwise,” Mason nearly growled, turning to glare at her disapprovingly. “Many of the aspirations he had in you he lived to see fulfilled…and those giving assurance that all would follow.” Then, turning once more to his father, he begged, “I ask a moment with him now. You are right in that there were too many others today at his side for those of us closest to him to have opportunity.”

She nodded silently and left him to his mourning. She cried bitter tears of loss for hours until the exertion finally led her to sleep.

Chapter Sixteen

It was done. LaMont Carlisle was laid to rest, Cassidy’s parents and brother had returned to Terrill once more, and life, deemed necessary, began anew adhering to routine and schedule. Mason was again gone each morning when Cassidy rose. Lady Carlisle was depressed without question
,
and often Cassidy’s attempts at cheering her left them both sobbing bitterly in each other’s embrace.

Mason was ever scowling, ever working, writing correspondence, checking on properties, going to Haggarty on business. It was rare that he was home, even for a meal. And when he was, he had changed toward Cassidy. The relationship they had begun to develop just prior to his father’s death seemed to have been completely obliterated. He hardly looked at her and never blessed her with a smile or a wink. His company was never her own. Never did she find him reading in the library late at night—only once
,
and it was he that came upon her. It was in his study where he spent his hours at home working diligently on his own affairs.

Lady Carlisle had sent Cassidy to Mason’s study to retrieve a pen and ink that she might compose a letter to a friend. Cassidy entered the study apprehensively. She had never before been within it. The study was marvelous, for it was filled with his essence—the scent of him, his belongings. Carefully she looked about, trying to make a memory of every inch of her lover’s lair. Then, hastening to his desk, lest she were caught by Havroneck or Mason himself, she reached for an inkwell and pen sitting thereon. But something caught her eye, a parchment lying on the floor near the desk. It was handwritten and slightly crumpled. Picking it up, she read aloud quietly.

In the late hour of night, I watch you…sleeping. Seemingly at peace…sleeping peacefully.

The moonlight through yon frosted window streams…falling softly…softly falling
’
cross your beloved face…caressing your hair.

And I whisper, “Would that I were the moonlight and could sleep in such a space.”

Sleep in your hair, softer than dove feathers…fragrant as Heaven.

What price would my will but pay to touch such silken tresses? To feel, just for a moment, such priceless silk
’
gainst my cheek?

To inhale such a perfume as is held in your hair?

“Would that I were the moonlight…and could sleep in such a space.”

My unheard whisper floats through the moonlit air…the air that you breathe. The very air giving you life.

My whisper, my words, my own exhalant filling your lungs…but not your mind…

And exiting once more having become your sweetened breath.

“Would that I were the moonlight,” I whisper again, as I lean near to your mouth and respire the sweet warmth of your sigh…

Wishing that such could fill my lungs forever.

For sweeter than life is the knowledge that you live…that you breathe. Breathe sweet, warm respiration so near to me.

And being near to you, as I am now…unnoticed as you slumber…the moonlight illuminates the smooth beauty of your neck

…of your face. Of one shoulder that has slipped from the diaphanous cloth of your gown.

And I whisper, “Would that I were the moonlight,” and could so caress the ethereal elegance that is your skin.

To feel such perfect satin against my palm would certainly find me a man glad to die for such experience.

You stir then…and I am feared to be found out. So still am I…as you turn your face toward me,

the scintillation of your eyes yet hidden, as you sleep on.

And I study the beauty that is your face. Desperate to touch you and daring not to do it.

And with the moonlight looking on, taking from you what I cannot, in your peaceful slumber you moisten your lips.

Your lips, red as the berry, and ever more sweet.

Would that I were the moonlight
and could taste your lips.

Would that I could sip their craved confection and mingle their so recently replenished moisture with that of my own mouth.

You stir once more, turning from me as your own hand, graceful and small,

slowly caresses the downy swell upon which your flushed cheek rests.

And I whisper, “Would that I were the moonlight and could sleep in such a space.”

And I leave you to your sleep…to
your breathing…to your beauty…

to the moonlight
,
which loves you and holds you in soft embrace each night.

Would that I were the moonlight and could sleep in such a space. Infinitely.

“What have you there?”

The booming sound of his voice gave Cassidy cause to gasp. She whirled around to face him, holding the verse in her hands at her back. “I…I…” she stammered.

“Have you been going through my personal documents?” he bellowed angrily, striding quickly to his desk and shuffling hurriedly through the papers strewn hither and thither.

“No. I…I…” she began.

“What hide you there?” he asked, pointing to her and motioning for her to turn around.

“It fell from your desk to the floor
,
and I merely
—
”

Taking her arm rather tightly, he snatched the paper from her hand and looked at it, his frown deepening. “What are you looking for?” he accused. His wrath was all too evident in his eyes.

“Nothing! I only came in for an inkwell for your mother
,
and that paper had slipped to the floor. I only meant to return it to its place,” Cassidy defended.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “You’ve read it then,” he stated rather than asked.

“I…did not intend to at first…but something in it caught my eye and
—
”

“Did it occur to you that perhaps this was something I wished to keep to myself?” He was completely enraged and battling to keep his wits about him. His chest rose and fell heavily
,
and his eyes nearly burned into her soul.

“You’ve a gift of poetic verse. For I was
—
” she began.

Instantly he tossed the paper back onto his desk and shouted, “You believe that I should’ve written this?”

“It is in a masculine hand. A descriptive poem of a woman who
—
”

“It is a boyish thought scribbled in a fatigued and weakened moment!” he barked. “I was merely sorting through some old…papers and came across it. Here!” he snarled more harshly. “If you’re so inclined to think it poetic and palatable…you may have it—as proof that I was once as nonsensical as any other boy!” Snatching the paper from his desk, he pushed it roughly into her hands.

“No boy ever wrote such verse,” Cassidy mumbled. Was this poem she held in her hand yet another testament of the enduring love that Mason once held or even now held for Gabrielle? There was no other explanation for its existence. No explanation for his anger over having found her with it.

“I see that I am to lose every whit of my privacy heretowith!” he boomed, pointing toward the door in a gesture of dismissing her.

Lowering her head, Cassidy hurried in the direction of the door. Pausing for a moment before leaving him
,
she added, “Thank you for letting me keep this, for I know that I was not its intended recipient.”

He only sighed with irritation and turned from her.



These unpleasant episodes seemed to be Cassidy’s only experiences with Mason since the death of his father. Still, this latest meeting, harsh and hateful as it seemed, haunt
ed her. For the poem was unique, v
ery passionate
—n
ot unlike Mason’s kiss
,
as she so clearly remembered it. Cassidy would often read it
,
h
idden away in a box of sentimental tokens in her room
,
and reflect on it. Had he written it when he was away at sea and thinking on Gabrielle? Had he written it more recently? It spoke of love and of longing.

Does he still feel the heartache he felt when he penned the verse?
she wondered. The poem was a small comfort to her, for it was of him in his own hand, of his heart…that heart with which he had once loved.