Thereafter, the duke had sent him off to Harrow. Carrington House had been closed until he took possession of it as an adult. And now, he was here, his unwanted-turned-wanted American wife at his side. Perhaps he’d overlooked precisely how comforting it could be to know that another soul was his mate for life. He found he rather enjoyed marriage after all.
“Are you well, Will?” Her concerned voice cut through his troubled musings. “Your face is suddenly bereft of color.”
He realized he’d been gripping her arm with too much force, so lost had he become in his tumultuous thoughts. He took a deep, steadying breath, gazing down into his wife’s sweet, heart-shaped face. She was ineffably lovely, her hair artfully piled beneath a jaunty hat, her lips wide and lush, her eyes greener than the grass at his feet. His cock surged against his riding breeches. What the devil did she do to him?
And he’d thought this a game. Bloody hell, he’d thought it a game he’dwon.
“I’m not certain if I am well,” he startled himself by revealing. Apparently, she had turned him into a milksop.
“What is it?” She slid a bracing arm around him, leaning into his side as if he could somehow soak up some of her strength.
He didn’t know how she could be so open and kind to him after the beastly way he’d treated her. Even now, he lied to her still, while she remained unwavering in her belief there was good in him after all. There wasn’t good in him. If there was, he would have told her the truth right then and let her choose to leave him as she ought.
Instead, he was too selfish to let her go. He put an arm around her cinched waist, holding her to him as if he could forever keep her there, although he knew he hadn’t the right. “The river is beautiful, isn’t it?”
Wide yet shallow, the river cut through the eastern corner of the Carrington House lands. It was one of the rare treasures of the property, a place one needed to know existed in order to seek it out. As a lad, he’d come here often, never imagining one day he’d stand here with his wife.
“It’s lovely,” Victoria agreed. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
She was a persistent little woman, that much was certain. He sighed, wondering how much he should divulge. No one had ever cared enough to ask him about his past. “Carrington House is where my mother died,” he shared. “She’d lost another babe, her fourth or fifth, I think. It was too much the last time. She took fever and died.”
“I’m sorry, Will.” She turned to him then, taking him into her arms.
“She wasn’t a kind woman, but she was my mother. Watching her wither and suffer was not pleasant, regardless.” He held her tightly, burying his face in the soft, sweetly scented skin of her neck. Her embrace touched a part of him he hadn’t known existed, filling his chest with warmth and something indefinably odd. He felt deeply connected to her in that moment, in a way he’d never known with another person, and it scared the hell out of him. But damn if he didn’t savor it just the same.
“Does it hurt you to be here?” she asked quietly.
“No.” He pressed a kiss to her throat. “Not with you, my dear. You’ve transformed everything, it seems.” He paused, lifting his head to look down upon her. Their gazes clashed, hers filled with sincerity and caring. He tamped down the twinge of conscience that told him to confess everything to her then and there. “Even me.”
She reached up, cupping his cheek with her small hand, a smile brightening her face and rendering her even more beautiful. “Thank you for confiding in me. I hope I can help you to build new memories here.”
Not long ago, he would’ve told her he didn’t want to build new memories with her, neither at Carrington House nor elsewhere. Not long ago, he’d been content to live the selfish life of pleasure seeker, devoted only to enraging and embarrassing the duke. Not long ago, this was the very last place he’d imagined himself, and this ridiculous feeling of emotion swelling inside his chest would’ve been something he mocked and scoffed at.
Something shifted inside him then. The sun glowed overhead and birds chirped, and the river made the same steady rush he recalled from when he was a lad. It was as though time hadn’t passed, as though nothing had altered in all his life, neither man nor nature nor beast. This day, however, was different. Everything was different.
She had made it so. She, his American wife who had attacked him with a book on his first night back, who had begun transforming his dilapidated ancestral home with her keen wit and motivation even as he callously abandoned her. She, who possessed a giving heart and a determination he admired. Yes, she was beautiful, it was true, but she was far more than her freckles, long gilt curls, and luscious curves. She was good and compassionate and forgiving. She was gentle, vulnerable, kind. So easy to crush. He had almost crushed the goodness within her once. He vowed never to do so again.
It wasn’t escape he wanted. It was his wife, and not for any reason other than the way she made him feel. Jesus, the way she looked at him, as if he were a man worthy of her love. He was the least worthy man in all of England. But he wouldn’t think of that. Not yet. He wasn’t willing to relinquish his hold on their fragile bond.
He yanked her against him for a long, possessive kiss. “Let’s begin making new memories right here, Victoria. Right now.”
A sudden, loud crack pierced his awareness. Not thunder. Not a gunshot. A falling branch. He caught her arms and shoved her from him, looking up instinctively to find the source among the centuries’ old trees on the riverbank. It happened so fast, the huge dead branch dropping from the sky above them. No time to think. He shoved her, hoping she’d drop safely out of the way.
There was another crack as something hit the back of his head, then an ominous thud. His vision went black. He dropped to his knees, felled by the blow, arms groping for her.Victoria?Where was she? He couldn’t be sure if his lips moved, if he was capable of speech. Nothingness swirled up to meet him. He fell into the dark, gaping chasm, his last thought that he had to protect her.
er head throbbed with a violencethat sent answering pulses of nausea roiling through her gut. What had happened? Where was she? Her eyes fluttered open to a blinding light that felt like a hundred splinters embedded in her eyeballs. No light. Too much. Too much pain.
There had been a figure hovering at her bedside, perhaps seated. Head bowed. The image was seared into her mind. Who? How? Blindly, she held out her hand, seeking solace. Comfort. Anything. She dared not open her eyes again, for fear of that awful, beckoning light.
Where? A hand clasped hers. She clung. Eyes closed, a whimper from her mouth. She could almost see herself from above, a crumpled ragdoll trapped and broken. How had this happened? Why? Her lips were dry and cracked. She tested a tongue that felt thick and unused. Water. She needed water. Who could fetch it for her?
“Mama?” she asked, holding on to that hand. But no, it was not her mother’s hand, was it? This hand was large and strong, the fingers too long, the palm too broad. Her thumb traced a path. A strange hand. Not one she’d often held. Whose?
“Not your mother, darling.”
The voice was familiar. Warm and low. Clipped and precise. A man’s voice.
“Water.” She didn’t care whose voice it was. Not for the moment. Her throat was parched. She was going to be sick. Her thoughts were a hodgepodge, running amuck in her mind. She thought she heard the sound of a river. Rushing, gurgling, then…something else. A bang, a jarring. Where had she been at the moment of impact? Something had run her through. Her body had broken into pieces and now she would die.
