“Oh, Olivia.” He made to reach for her, but she avoided his arms. He could not blame her. “I have no right to offer you comfort.”
Olivia stood and moved quickly to the window. Turning away from her brother, she hugged herself. A shiver went through her in spite of it. Her bones felt brittle, aching with cold. Splinters of ice embedded themselves in her chest, crystalized around her heart. If she exhaled deeply she thought she might see frost on her breath. The whole of her was frozen with fear. She could not think, could not act, could not move.
Aloneness crushed her.
Olivia did not know how long she stood there staring blindly, dry-eyed, onto Putnam Lane. She was unaware of any movement behind her, never heard any exchange of words. Insensible to her surroundings, made numb by the cold that gripped her, she did not startle when arms slipped around her from behind. She remained perfectly rigid as a pair of hands were clasped and pressed to her midriff. There was a disturbance against the crown of her hair, but she took no notice of it, and when something nudged her heels she stayed her ground.
Griffin held her, though not as he imagined he might. She stood leaning slightly toward the window, as exquisitely lovely in her still, proud pose as a ship’s figurehead. And like that masterfully carved piece, she was impossible to cradle, impossible to mold.
He whispered her name, touched his chin to her hair. She did not pull away but neither did she turn her head. He tried to imagine what she was thinking and could not. She seemed wholly unaware of his presence.
“Come with me, Olivia,” he said against her ear. “Come away.”
When she didn’t move, Griffin twisted his head and regarded her in profile. Her eyes remained open but unblinking. There was no indication that she’d heard him, so deeply had she drawn into herself.
Abandoning caution, Griffin released Olivia only in order to lift her. She did not settle easily in his arms, and when he urged her to put her arms around his neck her fingertips fluttered once, then were still. He moved swiftly to take her away, crossing the study easily with his long-legged stride. He had to wrestle with the door handle to exit and narrowly missed stumbling into Foster carrying the tea service. Directing the footman to follow him, he took Olivia to her room and laid her on the bed.
“Set the tray down,” he ordered. “Then send someone immediately for Dr. Pettibone.”
“Of course. And Mr. Cole? Shall I have him—”
“If he cares about his life in any measure, he is already gone.”
Nodding once, Foster quit the room.
Griffin tugged at the bedcovers, pulling them out from under Olivia so that they might be drawn up. She curled like a babe as he tucked the blankets around her. He brushed back curling strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek and felt the unnatural coolness of her skin. He left her side long enough to pour a few fingers of tea into a cup.
“Here,” he said, sitting beside her. “Drink.” Griffin realized he was perhaps too optimistic that she would respond to this order when she hadn’t to any that had come before. He carefully slid one arm under her back and lifted, then pressed the teacup against her lower lip and tilted it ever so slightly. He watched her mouth purse and recognized the suckling response of an infant. She sipped each time he tipped the cup, and it wasn’t long before she’d taken all of it.
Griffin set the cup aside and lowered her once again to the mattress. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed. Her damp lips parted a fraction; her breathing eased. He arranged the covers again, smoothing them across her turned shoulder.
It occurred to him that he could easily be moved to thrash her brother within an inch of his life. He would take a certain pleasure in it, too, landing the blows with forethought, aiming for those places that would cause pain but not immediately lay him out. The kidneys. The ballocks. The soft spot below the heart and between the ribs. And when Alastair Cole was weaving on his feet, Griffin imagined delivering the final blow to the younger man’s other soft spot, driving his nose sharply between his eyes and into his brain.
Yes, that would be satisfying.
In contrast to his violent thoughts, the fingers that touched Olivia’s cheek were infinitely gentle. There was a hint of warmth where there’d been none before, a bit of rosy color where she’d been almost as white as the pillow beneath her.
He recalled his first glimpse of her standing at the foot of the staircase. The black velvet bonnet had shielded her glorious hair and shaded her eyes until she lifted her face in his direction. There hadn’t been the least fear in them. He remembered that, remembered thinking that she was unnaturally composed. She should have run, and now he supposed he understood more completely why she hadn’t.
Even then there’d been some part of her that suspected she had nowhere to go.
All of her protests to the contrary had been for form’s sake. She had been too proud then to admit, even to herself, that she truly had no place to return to. When she climbed the stairs to his study, it was because she believed she owed it to her brother. If she’d known with certainty that Alastair would abandon her, she still would have made the climb.
Duty prompted her first steps. Desperation kept her going.
Griffin eased himself off the bed, careful not to jostle her. He removed himself to the wing chair by the fireplace and waited for Pettibone’s arrival.
Olivia came to wakefulness slowly and much against her will. It was no gentle thaw that she experienced, no gradual melting of her frozen self. What she felt was an ice pick driving deeply, relentlessly, chipping away at her thoughts, then her feelings, and finally her senses, until she lay bare and a bit bloody.
She winced, whimpered, tried to shield herself from the hammering point of the pick, and still it found her.
“Olivia.” Her name came to her as though carried over a great distance. A weight settled on her shoulder. There was warmth there also. She shook a little with it. “Olivia.”
She looked through the veil of her eyelashes first and recognized it was Griffin at her side. It was his voice then, his hand on her shoulder. When he shook her again, she cast off the last dregs of sleep and opened her eyes.
“Go away.”
It was relief that provoked Griffin’s smile. “Not just yet,” he said, humoring her. “Dr. Pettibone is here.”
