“I know,” he said, averting his eyes as if he realized abruptly that he had overstepped. “I apologize. I don’t expect you to say anything more. I suppose I just…thought that you deserved an explanation.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” She didn’twantone. She didn’t want his kindness, his concern. She didn’t want him taking her comfort into account, or carrying her through the house, or tucking her into his bed.
He linked his hands in front of him, his jaw tightening as if he’d clenched his teeth. “We need not be adversaries,” he said. “I know that I have not been particularly kind to you lately, and I mean to change that. I know also that I have not been the sort of man that you could trust to honor such a pledge. But you’re a kinder, more forgiving person than I am,” he said. “So I will have to have faith that you can find it in your heart to forgive me once again.”
The presumption pricked her ire, and she snapped. “You don’t know what sort of person I am. You don’t know me atall.”
“Claire,” he chided gently, “ofcourseI do. You’re the sort of woman who would sit at the bedside of a man who she believed had wronged her in the worst of ways. The sort of woman who would sacrifice everything to protect her child. You’re diligent and hardworking and honest—”
“I lied to you.” She hissed the words, wanting to strike out at him. “Have you forgotten that? I lied!”
“That doesn’t count,” he said. “It was a lie of omission, intended to protect yourself and Matthew. I was angry because in that moment I couldn’t see anything beyond what was right in front of me. When I gained a little perspective, I realized better.” He sighed heavily. “It’s been…a humbling experience. It took me longer than I’d care to admit to realize that we were both victims—but your situation was so much more precarious than mine. I was content to wallow in the lap of luxury bemoaning my circumstances, while you—you were alone and struggling to survive, with a child to care for.”
“I don’t want to speak of it!” Her voice had grown high and tinny; she resisted the urge to slam her hands over her ears like a child. She didn’t know if it was the laudanum making her woozy or just the thundering of her heart in her chest.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll send Matthew in for a time. He’s still worried, I think. He’ll feel better if he can stay with you for a while.” He stood and headed for the door. “Rest, if you can,” he added. “And if you cannot, I suspect the laudanum will make short work of that.”
And then he was gone, and Claire flopped back onto the pillows, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Like a mantra in her head, she thought, over and over,Eight days. Eight days. Eight days.
Chapter Thirty-Five
There was nothing but smoke and darkness, swirling around her like an unfriendly tide. She had been searching for so long, wading through it with such determination, but she was tired—so tired. And still she pressed on, knowing that there was nothing else she could do but thrust her hands out into the murky black air, desperately clawing through it.
She heard, distantly, the plaintive wail that split the air. “Mama? Where have you gone?”
She tried to call out to him, but all that emerged from her throat was a hoarse croak, better suited to a toad. She had been calling for him until her voice had deserted her. How would he hear her now? How would he know her voice?
“Mama! I need you!” It was farther now, miles and miles away from her, and fading with every moment, receding into the distance. “Mama? Where are you?”
“Matthew,” she rasped, and her throat was dry as a desert. And again, “Matthew!” as she floundered upward through thick layers of restless dreams and haunting nightmares, fighting back the darkness which just would not fall away from her.
Panic drew her muscles tight, and she clawed at the covers, struggling to toss them off until a warm hand curved over her arm, gently restraining her. “It was just a nightmare.” Gabriel’s voice, soothing in the clinging darkness. “Just a nightmare, Claire, and it’s over now. Matthew is in his bed, asleep. Would you like to see him?”
“Yes,” she gasped helplessly, unable to articulate the fear that had gripped her. “He—he was gone, and I couldn’t find him—I couldn’t see him—it was so dark.” Hot tears slid down her cheeks, slicing through the cold sweat that covered her, and she brushed them away with fingers that trembled.
“I promise you, he’s fine. But come see for yourself.” His arm slid beneath her back, bracing her as he lifted her into a sitting position.
She could not get her bearings in the darkness, could not orient herself, and her head swam—but she felt the heat of his shoulder near her head, and she pressed her cheek into it, using him as point of stability in a world that whirled around her.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
Her toes touched the floor, but her knees trembled and she clutched at his arm in desperation. There was a dull ache in her right arm, but the pain felt distant, like an echo. Blood rushed in her ears, a rhythmic pulse.
“Just a nightmare,” he crooned again as he swept her into his arms when it became apparent that her legs would not support her. “Sometimes, with laudanum—well, I’d hoped you wouldn’t have them.”
It wasn’t the laudanum. She’d had the same nightmare almost every night for a week. But she didn’t want to admit to that, so she tucked her head against his shoulder and murmured, “Dizzy.”
“That’s not unusual. Don’t fret.” He was moving through the darkness with a surety of step that astonished her. Her hip touched the door as he maneuvered her enough to grasp the knob and swing it open. “Does your shoulder ache?”
“Not much.” He smelled nice, clean, as if he’d just come from a bath. She wondered if he’d had one brought up to his room while she’d been asleep. “How long have I been asleep?”
“About eight hours,” he said. “You fell asleep reading to Matthew after lunch. He was not well pleased.” Amusement colored his voice, but she liked the warm rumble of it near her ear. It had been that reassuring voice that had quelled her instinctive panic when she’d woken. A stray thought crossed her mind.
“How long were you sitting at my bedside?” she asked.
He hesitated a moment. “About eight hours,” he admitted at last, as if it were a guilty secret. And then, “Here we are.” The door opened, and though the darkness was pervasive, a stream of moonlight slipped through the curtained windows and across the small bed in the corner.
Matthew. He was there, secure in his bed, and her heart settled into a normal rhythm once more. The rational part of her brain had always known he was safe, but in her heart, she had just needed to see him. All too soon that small luxury would be gone.
