The smooth, cool porcelain of a cup was at her lips now. A gentle hand cajoled her, lifted her, helped to angle her so that she wouldn’t choke. For a breath, she forgot what to do and then, it came to her. The cup tipped, water sluicing into her ready mouth. Yes. So good. She drank greedily. Too fast.
The nausea was back, gurgling. Too much water. Not enough. She tried to open her eyes again. Her mouth worked. No sound. Too much light, she wanted to say. Draw the curtains. And then, who are you? Where am I?
No answers, it would seem. The cup returned, so too the steady hand at her nape.
“Keep your eyes closed, my love,” he said. “The darkness is easier at first. Drink slowly. Rushing will only make you sick.”
Yes, and she felt sick. Sick with pain. Sick with confusion. Who was he? Who, for that matter, was she? Nothing made sense. Victoria. Yes, that was her name. Had he said it or had she? Another sip of water. She couldn’t be certain. Someone had said it.
“You’ll survive this, my brave American girl.”
Surely she knew the owner of that voice? So familiar. So haunting. Her eyes fluttered again. The cup was gone. The hand was gone. She felt the absence of that touch like a blow. Where? Who? How? Breathing hurt. The in, the out. Her ribs. Had they cracked? It felt as if she were under water now. Her head pounded as though a blacksmith from the depths of hell pounded upon her skull.
“You must survive this, damn you. Do you hear me?” Desperation tinged the voice now. “You will survive this.”
She didn’t know if she’d survive. Her body felt as if it would break in two at the slightest provocation. A whisper. A breath. Her mouth moved. She wanted to tell him. Whoever he was. Was he someone she loved? Nothing made sense except for the bitter liquid that slipped into her mouth next. Yes, delirium made sense.
“I need you too much to lose you now. Fight, my darling. You must fight.”
Who’d spoken those words? Had it been she? Had it been the elusive figure holding vigil? A ghost, perhaps? Worse, a demon? The liquid was doing its work. Her mind was a cacophony of images and thoughts. Odds and ends. Bits and pieces. A man’s face, handsome and earnest. Her husband. Dear heavens, he’d been there with her. Something had crashed down upon them. Hadn’t he? Hadn’t it?
“Please.” Her voice now, thready and weak. Who was the shadowy figure? She had to know.
Dark swirls, a languorous slide through her veins. And then, nothing.
Will woke with a jolt, his back aching to beat the insistent throbbing of his head. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the chamber and recall where he was and why. He’d fallen asleep keeping vigil at Victoria’s bedside, her fingers tangled in his. The awful sound of the cracking branch returned to him, and then came the panic he’d felt when he’d come to and found her trapped beneath the heavy, fallen arm of the tree. Her skin had been ashen, her hair red with blood. For a terrifying moment, he’d thought her dead.
He’d fought to free her with a strength borne of desperation, had taken her in his arms, profound relief pouring through him to find her breathing and warm. Alive, thank God. He’d found his spooked mount, hauled her limp form across the saddle, and galloped home, his only thoughts for her. He’d been frantic, frenzied. Scared witless.
He still was, for she had remained virtually insensate since suffering the blow yesterday. How humbled he felt. How bloody foolish. He cared for Victoria, the wife he’d thought to bed and abandon. Perhaps it was the heavens’ idea of revenge for his sins that he only realized how very much she’d come to mean to him mere seconds before she’d nearly been killed.
He squeezed her fingers, leaning over her to brush some of her unbound hair free of her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered, lashes stirring against her pale cheeks. And then he was caught in her vivid gaze.
She blinked. “Will?”
Thank Christ. Her gaze appeared sleepy but lucid, no doubt the combined aftereffects of the laudanum and her blow to the head. He jerked forward in his chair, needing to be closer to her. To reassure himself she was real and well. He touched her cheek gently. “You remember me, darling?”
“Of course.” Her hand rose slowly to touch her head. “I remember everything. Why would I not?”
“You were not yourself, after the blow,” he said hoarsely.
There had been a brief period yesterday, before the laudanum, when she’d been confused and in deep pain. She hadn’t recognized him or her chamber, and she’d been thrashing so fitfully that the doctor had feared she’d injure herself. Will hadn’t wanted to resort to the laudanum, but it had seemed the only way to calm her and give her the rest she needed after taking such a hard fall.
He was ashamed to admit that for a greedy, stupid moment after she’d calmed into a deep sleep, he’d thought of how much easier things would be between them if she’d forgotten all that had transpired. Head injuries were known to cause memory lapse, after all. One blow to erase all the wrongs he’d done—wouldn’t it have been rather tidy then? But just as quickly as the thought had come, it had been vanquished by self-disgust. What kind of a monster would rather have his wife gravely ill than own his sins?
Perhaps the man he’d been before he’d returned to Carrington House was just such a monster. But he was not that man any longer, and the time would come when he needed to unburden himself to her. Strip himself bare. Then she’d see all the ugliness hidden in his rotten soul, and she’d either turn away in revulsion or she’d forgive him. Either way the chance was his to take, and she was more than worthy of it.
“My head feels as though I placed it beneath a carriage wheel,” she said, wincing.
“I’ve no doubt.” His hands still tremored to think of how close she’d come to death. If the branch had been mere inches in either direction, it would have killed her. “You’re very fortunate to have only suffered a concussion of the brain and some other bruising. It’s a miracle the branch didn’t do far worse damage.”
Her full lips, still pale, quirked into a semblance of a smile. “If it had, you would’ve been rid of one unwanted wife.”
“Jesus, Victoria. That was a poor jest.”
She gave a small shrug. “Perhaps a blow to the head disturbs the mind.”
He caressed her jaw lightly. “The doctor assured me that if you regained your senses today, you’d be fine.” He turned to the side table and its vast array of accoutrements. Poultices, tea, water, laudanum, bandages. He hadn’t allowed anyone else to attend to her. The servants had brought him supplies and left. She was his wife, by God, and it was his fault that she’d been standing in the trees by the river. If he hadn’t been so caught up in the past, in his own memories and fears, he would’ve taken note of his surroundings, and he could’ve saved them both a great deal of pain. “Damn it, the tea’s grown cold. Shall I have your woman fetch you another pot? You must be thirsty, darling.”
