Sliding her hand further along his back to move it around his waist, Rebecca felt him cede, resting his arm around her shoulders. The man was all heavy muscle, but she did not demur, nor falter, simply gritted her teeth and bore it. She let his other hand drop and urged him towards the door, grabbing the candle as they left, before slowly beginning their ascent.
When they reached his chambers Rebecca led him over to the bed, then slid out from under him. He did not move, only stood limply where she had left him. Quickly, she pulled back the covers, then guided him over. Liam let himself be tucked in, his eyes fixed on a point just beyond her head. After she’d settled him she went over to the fire, stoked it and added some logs. She poured him a glass of water, then gazed down at him for a moment.
He looked so...hollow, tortured—the shadows on his face emphasised by the growing flames. He had not moved from where she’d left him, lying there pitifully, staring into a void of his own design. Rebecca felt a pang again, and wished there was more she could do to soothe him.
‘Rest, my lord,’ she whispered, turning to leave. ‘All will be well in the morning.’
‘Stay,’ he pleaded, his voice barely audible.
Not in a thousand years was that a sensible, proper, acceptable idea. And yet Rebecca’s feet would carry her no further.
‘Please.’
She sighed, her heart twisting in her chest, and her mind reeling. Then, quieting them both, she took a chair, and carried it to his bedside. She set the candle down beside her, blew it out, and placed her hand on his. He gripped it tightly—so tightly it felt as though his life depended on it.
Perhaps it does.
‘I shall stay, my lord. Now rest.’
Finally, his eyes fluttered shut. Rebecca sighed again, her heart heavy as she felt his grip slacken. She knew the moment he fell asleep, his breathing slowing and peace finally unknitting his brows.
How on earth had she managed to get herself into such a dreadful mess? She should have gone to fetch the men the moment she’d known the screams were not born of her imagination. Or walked away. Left the master to his nightmares. Not rushed in there—and all for what? What shame had she brought on herself—on him—with her reckless actions?
And yet all that notwithstanding, she couldn’t convince herself that she’d done wrong. Yes, it had been reckless, and she had nearly lost her life attempting to wrench him back from his demons. But even when he had lain upon her, his hand around her neck, she had not been afraid. Not truly.
Why?
He could have broken her neck with a twist of his wrist. Why had she not been afraid? Why had she not kicked and screamed and clawed?
Because... Because what?
She thought she could bring him back? She, his housekeeper, who barely knew him? What kind of foolish nincompoop lay there whilst being throttled and somehow still trusted the man whose hands were wrapped around her throat?
The besotted kind.
The stupid, fairy-tale-believing, googly-eyed, foolish girls who thought love could conquer all and that honourable, dashing creatures such as His Lordship could never hurt them, even when they were not themselves. Girls among whom Rebecca could never count herself again. It had once cost her everything.
What was wrong with her?
Well, so what if she liked the master. It meant nothing. Only that she admired him. There was...
Something. Beneath the gruffness, and temper, and darkness...
That she was instinctively drawn to. That made her trust him. There was no harm in that. It was good to like and admire and trust the masters. And that was why she’d felt the need to comfort, to soothe, to ease his pain.
She wasn’t...besotted. Only someone who had never been able to endure others’ suffering without taking it upon herself.Empathy.She could no sooner have left a bird with a broken wing to die alone in the wilderness than she could have left him to writhe in agony.
Drat, Rebecca thought, exhaustion finally creeping up on her. Trying to sort out the Gordian knots in her mind would not fix anything. Laying her head down on the bed, she resolved to stay a little longer by his side, just in case.
Oh, what trouble you’ve made for yourself indeed Rebecca Merrickson.
Liam awoke as Rebecca let herself out of his room. He lay still, eyes firmly closed, until he heard the sound of her footsteps fade down the corridor, and was certain she would not return. Then, and only then, did he let them flutter open, and for a long while he simply lay there, staring blankly at the door, as though willing her to pass back through it.
Sighing, he finally pulled himself up, and sat against the headboard. Everything hurt. His body, his mind, his heart. He glanced down at his hands. Visions of what he’d done the night before were conjured in his mind at the sight of his bloodied knuckles and cut fingers. He had destroyed the library. And, God help him, he had attacked Mrs Hardwicke.
It had been a long while since the nightmares had so fully taken possession, since such an episode had occurred. But even then, no one had got hurt. Not that he could ever remember much. Only flashes, snippets of memory. Snippets of dreams. But last night... Last night had been the very worst he could recall. Even in the first days after...
God help me...
