With Violet still cradled to his chest, Alistair picked up the overturned wanted bill and slowly, decisively, crumpled the sun-brittled parchment into nothingness.
How could anyone have accused her of coldblooded murder? He’d believed in her innate goodness even as he’d ripped her likeness from a board outside the smithy’s on the way back to the abbey. He’d torn down every bill he’d passed in what he’d (rightfully) believed was rage... but he had been mistaken. At the time, he’d thought himself furious over Violet’s deception. But he’d suspected there was a greater evil at play. He just hadn’t suspectedhowevil. He wished he could rip the men who did this in two. Violet trembled in his arms.
“Percy Livingstone is a monster.” Her voice cracked. “Amonster.”
“Violet. Angel.” He tucked the offensive ball of parchment into a side pocket to keep it safe from prying eyes. “I believe you, love.”
Her face lifted and her gaze met his, but her eyes were empty, as if even now she were reliving that nightmarish moment instead of hearing him attempt to comfort her.
Of course she was innocent. Wasn’t her pure heart the one quality that most drew him to her? How she alone could find beauty in everything and goodness in everyone. It was her encouragement and understanding that converted Lily from the wild creature she had once been into a precocious little girl. And it was Violet’s selflessness that unmired Alistair himself from the past and opened his eyes to the possibility of the future.
“Come,” he said softly, tugging her to her feet. “I will have Cook prepare some bread and broth and send it to your room. For now, you need rest. Let me walk you to your chamber and see you settled.”
Violet allowed him to lead her. Sluggishly. Woodenly. As if she were a ragdoll imbued with limited powers of locomotion.
As soon as they’d cleared the dozen paces from the dining room to the main corridor, he swung her into his arms and continued apace.
She weighed nothing. She said nothing. She had closed her eyes, blocking his view of her terror, but nothing could erase the sorrow from her face or the pain from her heart. Her color was far too pale. Reliving the horror had drained her vitality. If he ever came across Percy Livingstone in the flesh, Alistair would snap his neck with his bare hands.
When he reached Violet’s bedchamber door, he gently returned her to her feet.
She made no comment, nor any move to unlock the door. Her face was still far too pale. If she didn’t lie down soon, he feared she would collapse right there in the hallway.
He fished his master key from his pocket. After opening the door, he hesitated only briefly before lifting her back into his arms and carrying her to her bed.
He should not be in her bedchamber. He knew that; of course he knew that. Station and circumstance and gentlemanliness aside, a man as outraged as he over another man’s ill behavior should not be flaunting propriety by turning down bed sheets and carefully settling an innocent young woman atop them.
But what was he to do? Even if he hadn’t canceled the supper orders, Violet would still not have been able to consume a single bite after seeing that Wanted bill and learning of her alleged victims’ continued existence. And their disturbing thirst for vengeance. For he could think of no other reason to exaggerate the charges, other than to ensure the Wanted bill caught public attention and the monetary reward led to Violet’s location.
Alistair closed the door to keep out prying eyes while he got her settled. Right now, she just needed safety. And peace. He perched at the edge of the mattress alongside her prone form and frowned. Was it wise to leave her alone? Violet had completely shut into herself and he could hardly take his leave of her without assuring himself of her wellbeing.
“Are you warm enough, or shall I cover you?” he asked quietly.
When she slowly shook her head in response, he realized how poorly he’d phrased his question. No, she was not warm? Or no, he should not cover her? He glanced over his shoulder. Embers still glowed from the fireplace, but a slight chill had always haunted every room in the abbey.
“I’ll stoke the fire before I go.” He straightened, lingering only to brush a loose curl from her shoulder.
Her fingers latched onto his wrist. “Don’t go.”
His breath caught as her dark eyes finally met his. “What?”
“Stay,” she whispered.
“Violet, love... You have had a violent shock, and it is scarcely appropriate that I—”
“Stay.”
He could not. He should not. But, oh, how he wished to. Just to hold her tight and know that for now,forever,she would be safe. “Perhaps I could pull up a chair and watch over you until you find slumber.”
“Lie next to me.” She tugged him closer. “Please.”
After the briefest of pauses, he lowered himself alongside her, consciously pushing away all thoughts of propriety or hesitation. Right now, Violet needed him. And, he admitted deep in his heart, he needed her, too. For far more than just this moment.
He pulled her into his arms until their legs entwined and her head lay atop his chest. He stroked the chestnut curls cascading down her back while whispering a steady stream of soft words meant to calm and reassure her. He didn’t even know what he said. Foolish words from his foolish heart. When at last her body finally relaxed atop his, he closed his eyes. And just held her.
He had no idea how long they lay thusly, their bodies perfectly intermeshed. She drifted into sleep, but he did not. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and breathed in the rosewater scent of her hair. She felt so... right. His arms were beginning to lock up from keeping their prolonged position for so long, but he could swear he’d never been so comfortable in his life.
He loved her, he realized suddenly, his cheek against her hair. Good God, helovedher.
