The Lion of the North by Kathryn Le Veque

himself go. He almost envied her lack of restraint where her grief was concerned. He wished he could let himself go, too.
    “There is nothing to forgive,” he told her evenly. “You have every right to feel sad and angry. I feel sad and angry, too. It is I who must ask your forgiveness. I should have been the one to tell you about Titus. I am sorry it had to be le Bec.”
    Sniffling into her wadded kerchief, Isobeau shook her head. “It does not matter who told me,” she said, sobbing quietly. “The end result is the same. I have been informed of my husband’s death.”
    Atticus watched her a moment; his guard had been up upon entering the room but he could feel himself easing as he came to understand that Isobeau was mourning Titus just as he was. Whether or not he was openly sobbing like she was, they still had that grief in common. That horrific bond of anguish connected them. At the moment, he wasn’t even sure what to say to her so he just started talking. Unfortunately, he gave forth all of the warmth one would when discussing the weather or planning a battle. He came across as unfeeling, cold, and without tact.
    “I was with Titus before he died,” he told her. “His last words were of you, my lady. He asked that I marry you because he said he could not stand it if another man became your husband, so I agreed to his request. We will be taking Titus back to Wolfe’s Lair for burial next to my mother and as soon as he is buried, I will marry you because I do not feel comfortable doing it whilst he is still above ground. There is something inherently disrespectful about that.”
    By this time, Isobeau was looking at him with shock. She had stopped sobbing, now staring open-mouthed at Atticus.
    “He… he asked you to marry me?” she repeated, aghast. “But… this is of no offense towards you, Sir Atticus, but I do not wish to marry you. I have just lost my husband and already I must consider remarriage? I will not!”
    Atticus was actually offended although he tried not to be. He should have been relieved, for it would have made an easy excuse not to marry the woman. She didn’t want him and he didn’t want her. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he had expected from her, but a straight denial hadn’t been a possibility. A man of considerable pride, her refusal was enough to put a nick in the wall of his composure, enough of a nick to weaken him. His jaw ticked as his stinging reply was formed.
    “What you want is of no concern,” he said, his voice hard. “You will do as Titus asked and so will I, regardless of my personal feelings. My brother asked me to take care of you and I promised him I would. Why should this bother you so much? You act as if you have been married to my brother for years rather than months. Two months ago, you did not even know the man so I find your tears at his passing insulting to say the very least. I have been with my brother for all thirty-three years of my life and if anyone has a right to tears, it is I, so spare me your fabricated grief. You did not know my brother as I did and therefore have no right to act as if your grief is stronger than mine.”
    He spouted nasty words, words that shocked and upset Isobeau so much that she visibly flinched when he was finished. Still seated in the chair by the hearth, she could see that he was truly serious. He meant what he said. Isobeau had barely had a few words with the man prior to this moment so to see his bitterness, his pure hardness, was truly something to behold. But in that bitterness she saw the depths of his grief; something flickering in the green eyes told her that he was feeling much more than his stiff demeanor let on. But that feeling did not excuse his rudeness.
    “Mayhap I only knew him for a few weeks at most, but in those weeks, I became quite fond of him,” she said, her voice trembling from anger and hurt. “He was kind and he was affectionate. I mourn for a wonderful life cut short with a man I was quite