When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (25 page)

Darkness swarmed again. It was raining. No. Not just raining. Pouring in sheets. In buckets directly upon her and the pretty gray mare. She was returning to Shankwood after sitting for Victoria. Exhausted after hours of pretending not to be in dreadful pain, she had hoped the storm would pass quickly. But it hadn’t. Rather than miss the well-dressing celebration that would be held soon, she had ignored Victoria’s pleas to wait, reassuring her new friend that it was only a short ride, only a bit of rain.

Now, the flashes in her vision lit up the darkness. The boom and echo, boom and echo, boom and echo became the crack, creak, and groan of wood undermined by a swollen brook. Her horse screamed. Flailed. She was falling backward, sliding. She gripped the horse’s mane, clinging with slick, gloved fists. The mare’s hooves scraped upon failing wood. Suddenly, they were righted again. Turned sideways on the bridge. Another crack. Another flash. The mare stumbled, her front legs buckling.

And Viola went flying. She hit the water with staggering force, her arms flailing for purchase. Nothing made sense. Water was in her mouth and nose. Cold and merciless, it swarmed. Dragging and shoving. Beating and tugging. Her foot caught something. A stone. She kicked, trying for the surface. Broke free into the air. Spewed and gagged. Sucked in breath instead of muddy water. She fought against the ferocious current, against waters maddened and swollen by the storm.

Soon, her muscles ached and burned. Her lungs ached and burned. Her head ached and burned. She sobbed, watching the bank fly past, kicking her feet to find bottom. At last, she did. Well enough to shove toward land instead of water. She turned her head to look back at the bridge. Splintered wood rushed toward her so fast, she only had time to turn her cheek. The force of the blow was brutal, the pain an explosion of red and gray. Her feet lost their grip. But the curve of the bank caught her again. Everything slowed.

James. She must see James.

Now, her knees knocked into rocks. She clawed and scraped, the pain in her body nothing.

She must get back to James.

Grass tickled her nose. Filled her mouth. Someone was wheezing. She wondered if it was her horse, the pretty gray mare who had tried so valiantly to keep her footing.

Red and gray. Gray and black. Light flashed again. Boom and echo. Boom and echo. Boom and echo.

Then came her name. Viola. Whispered and sweet. Then came the darkness again. But this time, the light did not return.

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“We do not create the storm, Humphrey. We merely endure it.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, in response to his unmistakable disappointment at the abbreviated nature of their afternoon ramble.

Behind him, they were talking. Lucien and Victoria.

“Do you suppose he would eat something? I could have a tray sent up.”

“No, angel. He has no thought but her. I’ve sent for the physician, but with the storm …”

Lucien was right. James was not hungry. He was not tired. He was not anything at all.

He stared down at his wee bonnie lass where she lay in Thornbridge’s sky-blue bedchamber. Half of her face had swelled and discolored grotesquely. Her beautiful black hair was streaked with mud. He knew from his earlier, panicked explorations that her knees were bruised and bloody, her fingernails torn to the quicks.

The horse had survived. It had scrambled back to Thornbridge, which had sent Lucien out searching. He’d found Viola lying facedown on the bank, one hundred yards downstream from the half-crumbled bridge. Then, he’d brought her back here and ridden like a demon to fetch the man who loved her more than his own life. The man who should have prevented this.

James lowered his lips to her hand, which he had held in his for hours as he waited for her to awaken. To look at him. To speak his name.

A hand gripped his shoulder. “It is not your fault, James.” Luc’s voice was low.

“Aye. It is. I should have come with her.”

“Why should you? That bridge has been there since before you were born. It has withstood flood after flood. You had no way of knowing the weather would turn, let alone that the bloody thing would fail.”

“I should have been with her.”

“Be reasonable, man. It was an accident.”

James shook his head. Luc did not understand. She belonged to him. And he had failed her. It was not the first time he had failed someone he loved.

Lucien drifted away. Time passed as James watched his wife breathe in the golden light of the lamp. Victoria came in to check for a fever and set a plate of bread and butter on the bedside table. “Eat something, James,” she whispered, laying a gentle kiss upon his cheek. Then, she was gone, too.

In time, he felt the weight of the day dragging at him, so he rose from the chair, came around to the other side of the bed, and lay down beside his wife, taking great care not to disturb her.

His hand stroked her arm. The uninjured side of her face. He felt for her breath and sighed when the warm, soft air tickled his finger. Then, he moved his hand between her breasts, feeling her heart beat.

He may have slept, because, when he next opened his eyes, it was to see twilight staring back at him.

“James,” she murmured, the word distorted by the swelling of her cheek and mouth.

His head now rested upon her belly as though he’d chosen it as his pillow. His hand lay entwined with hers while her other hand gently stroked his hair.

“I love you, lass.” The words sprang from him wholly formed and without volition. They were as true as anything he’d ever spoken.

A tear tracked down her uninjured cheek. “Oh, James. I love you more.”

“Not possible.”

She smiled, but it quickly became a wince. “Perhaps we could argue about it later. My head aches abominably.”

He swallowed and sat up, not wanting to cause her any additional discomfort. The light from the window indicated it was morning. Had he slept through the night?

“The physician was here an hour ago,” said Viola gently.

Running a hand through his hair, blinking away the fog of sleep, James frowned, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “The physician was here? Why didn’t you wake me? Bloody hell, Viola. How long have I been asleep sleeping? How long have you been awake?”

She pursed her lips, blinking her single open eye. The other was swollen shut, already sickeningly black. “Hmm, let’s see.” She held up fingers to count her responses. “Yes. Because you were sleeping so peacefully, and Victoria said you’d been frantic all night. I would guess four hours, based on her recollection of events. And approximately two hours, though I might have dozed sporadically.”

“What did the physician say?”

She stroked his arm. “I have bruising and soreness which will pain me for a week or so. He focused mainly on the injury to my face. After the swelling subsides, he will be better able to assess whether there are any fractures or damage to my eye, but for now, he sees no indication of either. He suggests laudanum for the pain and a good deal of rest. Oh, and kisses. Many, many kisses.”

It should ease his mind. She was awake. Injured but breathing. Talking. The physician had seen her, and she would heal.

He still felt frantic. Vibrating like a plucked string. Torn apart by visions of her wee, dainty bones being cracked in her fall. Her wee, dainty cheek being slammed by debris. His wee, dainty lass being drowned and taken from him forever. He wanted to hold her in his arms, but he couldn’t risk hurting her. He’d done enough of that already.

Rising from the bed, he began pacing. “From now on, wherever you go, I go.”

“Don’t be silly.”

He pointed a finger at her. “Heed me well, Viola. I’ll not countenance another incident. You may wish to traipse hither and yon on a whim, but I am responsible for your care. Me. You will do as I say. You are my wife.”

“Precisely. Your wife. Not your child.”

His feet stopped in the middle of a sky-blue carpet.

His child. Not his child.

Something was crushing his chest. His hands moved to his hips. A force bent him forward. Buckled his knees. Right there, upon an ornate carpet in front of his wife, he broke open with a grinding groan. Sound faded until it felt eerily like he was drenched with rain and kneeling in mud beneath a grove of willows.

“Ah, God, I canna bear it.”

Bedding rustled. Whispered. A breeze scented with rainwater and peonies brushed him. She was there, standing when she should have been lying, her hands upon his face. “What can’t you bear, my love?” she asked softly.

“Tae fail ye the way I failed my son.”

Her hands and body stiffened for a moment. Then, she drew his head to her chest and wrapped his neck in her arms, cradling him to her. Helpless to stop himself, he encircled her tiny frame, clutched her softness with all the desperation he could not suppress.

“Tell me about your son, James.”

*~*~*

It was a simple story, really. He’d been a boy in love with a girl. Then, he’d become an earl. One year later, he’d returned home, only to discover his girl, Alison, had married another. Also in that time, she had given birth to his son, who had died days after taking his first breath.

The babe had been weakened by a fever. It had been a difficult birth lasting two days. Alison had barely survived, herself, and had never borne another child.

And Viola’s beautiful, honorable husband believed himself responsible. For planting his seed before taking his vows. For leaving to become a “bloody English lord.” For not marrying Alison or taking her with him or bothering to return for an entire year. But, most of all, for not knowing his son. Not holding his son. Not saving his son.

He’d told no one. Not his mother or sister or best friends. He had carried the guilt and shame of it alone as though that would keep his son with him.

Viola held her husband tightly, her chest aching worse than her head. She rocked them together, trying to soothe him in whatever way she could. Laying a kiss upon his head, she said over and over, “You did not know. You are not to blame, my love. You are not to blame.”

He couldn’t hear her, it seemed, for he only clutched her tighter and fell silent. In time, she persuaded him to lie down with her, and they slept.

Upon awakening, Viola found her headache had lessened, and James was already making arrangements to transport her back to Shankwood. Victoria helped her into a fresh, borrowed dressing gown and fed her a bit of tea and a biscuit or two.

James lifted her into his arms, climbed with her into the Atherbourne coach, and held her tightly in his lap for the entire, quarter-hour journey. He then carried her into the house, up the stairs, and into her bedchamber. He did not release her until he laid her upon her bed, drawing the plain, green coverlet over her, kissing her temple, and murmuring, “Sleep, lass.”

When next she awakened, Amy helped her into a bath that James had arranged in front of the fireplace. She sighed upon sinking into the hot, fragrant water. Moaned as the miscellaneous aches, stings, and oddly sore, previously unknown muscles in her arms and shoulders eased. Amy washed her hair clean of the mud from the brook, lathering it twice and rinsing with pitchers full of fresh water. After a while, Viola noted the girl’s uncharacteristic silence.

“Amy? Is everything all right?” She still had swelling in her lips, which made her speech a bit less distinct, but the words were clear enough to be understood.

“Oh! Yes, my lady.”

“You are very quiet.”

“Er—yes, my lady.”

“Why is that?”

“His lordship mentioned your head pains you greatly, and that I should not chatter on like a bloody magpie whilst you recover from your injuries. Begging your pardon for the vulgarity. I am quoting his lordship.”

“That is both very thoughtful of him and very rude.”

Amy did not reply.

“Amy, where is his lordship now?”

“In his study, I believe. Shall I fetch him for you?”

Viola sighed, leaning back against the tub and absorbing the water’s soothing heat. She did not yet have the strength for her next Difficult Conversation with James. “No. I shall find him later.”

“Very good, my lady.”

After her bath, she felt much refreshed, donning a simple white muslin gown, sitting on the edge of the bed, and letting Amy brush and plait her hair. Finally, she was ready to face herself. She had not yet glimpsed the damage, and she dreaded discovering just how hideous she looked.

“Amy, would you be so kind as to bring me a mirror? There is one in the top drawer of my dressing table.”

The girl scurried away and returned in seconds, holding out the small, silver hand mirror.

“Here you are, my lady. If you’re certain, now.”

That did not sound promising. Taking a deep breath, Viola closed her one functioning eye, raised the mirror into position, and then silently counted to three. On the last number, she opened her eye. And slumped. She was hideous. It was not worse than she’d suspected, but neither was it better. The entire left side of her face was swollen, particularly her eye. It looked as though she’d stuffed her eyelid full of stones and lard and sewn it shut. Similarly, her cheek and jaw were puffy and distorted. And the colors. She groaned aloud. Black and blue and red. Even a bit of green and yellow.

“I am monstrous,” she moaned. “How can you even look upon me, Amy?”

“Oh, it’s not so bad, my lady. My great Aunt Sophie took a tumble down a set of stairs once. That was much worse. You’re just a bit puffy is all.”

“That is kind of you to say, but it is not true. I have seen dead, bloated fish more attractive.”

“Well, if you like, perhaps I can do something different with your hair.”

Viola stood, holding the mirror out for Amy to remove from her sight. “Anything. Yes. Let us try a new coif. Perhaps it will serve as a distraction.”

Amy followed her into the dressing room. As Viola approached the oak dressing table, she noted an oddly shaped object resting on its surface, right next to her box of hair pins. She slowed as she drew closer, blinking to be certain she was seeing clearly, as one of her eyes was swollen shut and the other had recently been subjected to a glimpse of her own face. But the object did not disappear.

It was slightly less than a foot in length, perhaps half that in width and height. It appeared to be made of stone, but a most extraordinary stone it was. The base was a swirl of browns from nearly black to pale fawn. Its form was that of a rough-hewn hand, fingers fanned and cupped like a shell, the thumb a branch outstretched. Inside the dark hand’s palm, resting with wings poised as though ready to take flight, was a butterfly. This part of the sculpture was as bright as the hand was dark, an exquisite palette of blue and green and white and red—even a bit of yellow. Every small detail of the wings was carved with loving precision. Every surface of the tiny creature had been polished until it shone mirror bright.

The piece as a whole was astonishingly beautiful, the butterfly an exquisite work of art.

But her favorite part of all was the hand. It was
his
hand. She recognized it instantly, even though he’d formed it to resemble wood or mud, with jagged cuts along the base.

“Amy,” she said softly, struggling to catch her breath. “You may fetch his lordship now. Tell him not to delay, for I must see him immediately.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She worked to compose herself while she waited, rehearsing what she would say in this new Difficult Conversation. She ran her fingers over the curves of his hand, missing the heat of his flesh. She thought of all the ways to say what was in her heart. To ask the questions she must hear him answer. In the end, she elected to keep things simple. As he’d once said, he was a simple man.