Contradictory emotions churned through him with such violence that he wondered how humans could tolerate the pain.
Hartley glanced at Eden. He did not yet know why she had returned to Hartsmere, but clearly she had not expected this. In her eyes—eyes that had always laughed until that day at the inn—was the bleak weight of sorrow.
She had known sorrow before. He could not guess what that sorrow was, only that she had borne it while he slept in the oak, cursing mortals as he sank into oblivion.
He should have been pleased by her suffering. Was it not what he had wanted, to know that she paid for her betrayal?
But he could still feel her touch, her sympathy when she had claimed to understand how it felt to lose a child. She was not mocking him; how could she, when she didn’t know who he was?
Donal, she claimed, was all she had. When she had admitted it, he’d burned with fierce joy that no mortal had planted a seed where his had grown. That was the wild spirit in him, the horned god of ancient times, who lived by the rhythms and tides of Nature.
The shame that came after was something new and unwelcome. And very human. Eden made him feel, now as before. She had taught him the extremes of human emotion, violent enough to tear an unguarded Fane apart. Chains of that emotion still held him as winter held the countryside.
He had accompanied Eden on this ride for the sole purpose of testing her attraction to him. It had not lessened; to the contrary, it grew stronger each moment they were together. Soon she would begin to trust him.
The inconvenience of emotion was a small price to pay for his son. What was she willing to sacrifice?
“It has changed,” she murmured. “It has changed so much.” She made a loose, helpless gesture with her hand. “It was beautiful, once.”
When had she ever noticed that before? Hartley smiled bitterly, remembering how, when she had known him as Cornelius Fleming, she had spoken constantly of returning to London and introducing him to the ton.
“Winters can be harsh in the north,” he said, knowing that was not the reason. “Perhaps you have forgotten.”
“No. I thought I had, but…” She sighed.
Donal clambered over the rear-seat railing and across the top of the carriage into Eden’s lap. An expression of pleased surprise crossed her face, and then she gathered him close.
“Lady Eden,” Donal said, “why is the land so sad?”
My son, Hartley thought with a deep swell of pride and sadness. He already knows so much.
Eden smoothed Donal’s hair. “The whole country is sad since the war ended,” she said. Her gaze, darting in Hartley’s direction, betrayed her guilt. “We’ll find a way to make it better.”
“Did it ever matter to you, your ladyship, if the land prospered?” he said. “You have not been here for many years.”
She looked at him sharply. “How do you know?”
“Servants talk.”
Her voice faded to a near whisper. “I did not think it mattered. Now I know that it does.”
“And what made you abandon Hartsmere for so long?”
The color left her cheeks. “I will not discuss it. The past is gone. This is my home now. All this is in my care, and I intend to make it right again.”
And for that, you must have my help—if I choose to give it. Hartley clucked to the gelding, though he needn’t have made a sound. Copper knew what he wanted. As they continued down the slushy lane, Hartley reconsidered the changes in Eden.
She had never shown interest in the responsibilities that came with the control of land in this country. She’d been quick to see the pleasure and merriment in everything, slow to notice what she did not wish to see.
Was he so different? Had it been his intention to punish all of Hartsmere’s people in his rage against the Flemings? Or was this the result of the hatred that spread like a sickness within him? His control over nature was confined to this dale, but it was powerful. His merest thought might alter the balance.