Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter Three

Layla is dead.

His words reverberated through Frances. It felt like a bucket of ice water poured over her bare skin. The feeling of hopelessness settled in the pit of her stomach, spreading like poison until it possessed the entirety of her body.

"Are you alright?" the man asked, his words barely audible through the loud thundering of her heart.

No. She tried to speak, but her lips remained stubbornly sealed. She shook her head instead; the action causing the room to tumble, and losing her bearing, she collapsed to the floor. When the darkness faded, he was kneeling before her, one arm around her waist and the other holding her head. Sweat beaded his forehead, glistening like crystals on his bronze skin as his brown eyes held her captive before him. A frown creased the edges of his bushy black brows, and his nose, while slightly crooked, gave him an odd, yet intriguing look.

He was handsome. Very. With tight curls cut fashionably low to his scalp. Her gaze trailed down the length of his neck to his chest, where a button of his white shirt had come undone to reveal his bare chest. Attached to it were muscular arms barely concealed by his long sleeves.

"You fainted," he said, drawing her back to the present.

She raised her gaze to his lips, and instantly, she remembered their kiss. She shook her head inwardly, thinking she mustn't classify the accidental joining of their lips as a kiss. It was a mistake, one she didn't intend ever to repeat... No matter how warm it had made her feel.

"Yes," she managed. "Forgive me."

He shook his head. "You're unwell. It cannot possibly be your fault. Here." The raw scent of his masculinity intoxicated her as he swept her into his arms and rose to his feet. Instinctively, she pressed her head to his firm chest. He smelled of brandy glazed with smoke, and wood, and sweat, and earth drenched in rain.

When he placed her on the couch by the fire, she couldn't help the feeling of disappointment that slowed her heart.

"Tell me, how are you feeling?" He touched her forehead.

"A little..." She thought for a moment, first considering the slight pain in her head, then the emotions that weakened her limbs. "Rattled."

He let out a loud breath. "I didn't mean to upset you with the news of your sister's death. Frankly, I'm a little confused by your ignorance."

"What do you mean?"

"I sent a letter. Two, in fact. The first time was when it became clear to us that Layla had only but a few more months to live, certainly not past the winter. And the second, when she died. I received no response to both."

We didn't know. She bit back on the lie that threatened to slip from her lips, for indeed they'd known. Not her, but her father. He'd received the letter, and in his cruelty and malice, had forsaken Layla to death. Worse than that, he'd denied Frances, not for the first time but certainly for the last, the chance to say goodbye to her sister.

Frances didn't realize she was crying until the man reached out suddenly and brushed her cheek. His touch was comforting, and without stopping to consider her actions, she leaned into him as he traced his thumb down the path of her tears to her jaw.

"I didn't know," she whispered solemnly, her heart drumming in her throat, an odd sensation of warmth washing over her as his fingers fanned across her neck.

He realized his mistake. His eyes flashed, and he pulled his hand away quickly.

"Of course." He cleared his throat. "I do not doubt that. The letters must have been lost."