“He’s been saying that for so long, I’m certain he practically believes that.”
“And everyone else believed him too.”
Cillian nodded.
“Did anyone find out what happened to Mary?”
“No one knows. She vanished and there was no proof of Marshall having seen her that day.”
He recalled the pointed fingers, Mary’s family asking questions of him, demanding answers as to where their daughter was as if he had surely had a hand in harming her.
“Everyone was quick to believe it was my fault and I could not prove it was Marshall, so I left, just as Mary’s family did. Even Marshall ran to London, probably in hopes of putting distance between himself and his misdeeds,” he said bitterly.
“So no one knows what happened to her and they still blame you.” Ivy shook her head. “You should have told me sooner.”
“And have you terrified of your new husband? Fearing he might well be a murderer?” He turned slightly to peer at the clock on the mantlepiece, not even taking in what time it actually was. “I could not bear to see the horror on your face, Ivy.”
She rose slowly in the periphery of his vision. He twisted to face her, braced himself for whatever was to come next. Her gaze remained soft, understanding. She inched toward him.
“There is no horror here, Cillian. I do not believe for one moment you are capable of hurting anyone.”
He stared at her for several moments. Perhaps this was a dream? Never in his life did he think anyone would actually believe him, let alone someone as wonderful as Ivy.
“Will you forgive me for not telling you sooner?” he forced himself to ask.
“Perhaps,” she said, her lips twitching. “Soon enough.”
“What do I need to do to make it up to you?” He felt like he was begging, and he didn’t care. He’d drop down on his knees for her if he had to.
“Nothing.” She came closer again. “Just be you, Cillian. Just be my husband.”
That, he reckoned, for the first time since their marriage, he could actually do.
Chapter Eighteen
Ivy moved slowly. She met his gaze with hers and held it firmly. This man had been through so much pain in his life—physically and emotionally. She knew all too well what it felt like to be misunderstood, to be thought of as different merely because one did not interact with others with the same ease that they did.
Goodness, she knew what it was like to look physically different too. How many times had she been treated poorly purely because of her size, as though she were some fool woman because she occupied a little more space than others? As though she were slovenly or useless?
She smoothed a hand over his creased forehead and let her fingers drop down the side of his face.
He flinched.
“Forgive me.” She wasn’t quite sure what she was apologizing for.
“Your touch is like torture,” he muttered.
“I—”
“Sweet, sweet torture.” Cillian moved quickly before she could register his response.
He slipped his hands around her and drew her closer. Everywhere was hot and hard. He smoothed his palms up the back of her gown and down again to just above her rear.
A faint tingle of excitement began to trill through her.
Ivy pushed her fingers into his wild hair then down to graze along his stubbled jaw line. He closed his eyes and released a faint groan.
“Pure torture,” he murmured and brought his hands down to cup her rear.