My belly churns. I glance toward the corner where that skeleton sits in its rocking chair, its yellowed bones visible through gaps in the rotted fabric. Of course the key’s with that corpse. Even in death, she’s still Rochester’s housekeeper.
“Are you sure?” I rasp.
He shudders. “Last thing I saw before I blacked out was Edward rifling through her dress. Leaving the key there is the kind of twisted game he’d play.”
Bile rises in my throat, but I force my legs to carry me across the attic. Each step feels like walking through quicksand. Up close, the skeleton is gruesome. What’s left of her face clings to the bone like jerky. What I thought were wisps of gray hair are actually thick cobwebs.
I reach toward the yellowed apron with trembling fingers. The fabric is stiff but intact enough to hold its shape. I feel around where pockets would be, trying not to think about what I’m touching. There’s nothing on the first side apart from a bone jutting through the cloth, and I have to swallow back a surge of vomit to continue.
Suppressing a shiver, I search the other side. My fingers close around something small and metal.
“Got it,” I yank my hand back like I’ve touched fire.
By the time I turn around, Rowland’s head is bowed, as if he’s lost consciousness. I rush back to him and fumble with the shackles until I find the lock mechanism. I free his wrists, and he collapses forward with a groan, his weight nearly sending us both to the floor.
“Annalisa,” he groans, pulling me into a hug. He’s damp with blood and sweat, but all the tension that’s squeezed my chest since finding that blood in the kitchen fades.
“I thought you were dead,” I whisper into his neck, breathing in his masculine scent. “I searched everywhere. Every building on the grounds, terrified I’d never see you again.”
His arms tighten around me until I can feel his heartbeat. “I heard you calling my name. That was the only thing keeping me conscious. Knowing you were out there, still alive.”
I pull back to look at his battered face, and cup hischeek with my palm. Fresh cuts mark his forehead, and his left eye is swollen nearly shut. But at least he’s alive.
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks.
“What for?”
He dips his head, his gaze dropping to his lap. “I promised to protect you, and I failed?—”
“Don’t say that. You survived. That’s how we win.” I lift his chin, forcing our eyes to meet. “What happened to us isn’t anyone’s fault but his.”
We gaze at each other in silence, our breaths synchronizing, taking this moment to reconnect. Seeing Rowland safe and well is everything. I never realized how deeply I cared for him until he was gone.
Having him here fills my heart to bursting, and I can see myself spending the rest of my days basking in his love. But I don’t linger, not if Rochester is out there, waiting for the right moment to strike.
I run my thumb over a cut on Rowland’s lip. “Can you walk? How badly are you hurt?”
He flexes his hands, testing his wrists where the shackles left angry red marks. “A few burns, some cuts. Nothing permanent. He didn’t have time to do any real damage. His dark eyes search my features, taking in every detail like he’s memorizing my face. “Did he touch you?”
“No,” I say. “That bastard never got the chance. I smashed him over the head before he even tried.”
“My brave girl,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re safe.”
“Come on. We need to find out if your brother is actually dead.”
Jaw tightening, Rowland’s eyes harden. “Let’s make sure Edward doesn’t survive the night.”
We both groan as I help him off the cot. His weight settles on my shoulder, making my knees sag. Whatever Rochester did to Rowland has him disoriented and swaying on his feet.
After securing the cleaver, we make our way down the narrow stairs, Rowland’s hand gripping my shoulder for balance. He’s heavy against my side, but his weight is reassuring proof that he’s alive. I squeeze back through the splintered hole in the panel first, then help pull him through. His shirt catches on the jagged wood, tearing fresh holes in the fabric.
We continue through the hallways and down the stairs in silence. Rowland breathes hard at my side, dripping blood on the floor. My heart aches. There isn’t a single thing I can do to help him until we find a first-aid kit.
When we reach the kitchen, he pulls open the drawer to select a carving blade with a wicked edge, then lowers himself into the chair with a groan.
I fetch the first aid kit and tend to his wounds. There are bruises, shallow cuts, and burns. Rowland looks like he barely survived Rochester’s frenzied attack.
“What the hell did he do to you?” I ask.
