“Charles!”
Images flashed before her mind—her husband’s dark gaze, the joy in his eyes as she placed his newborn son in his arms…
But what little hope she might have harbored was now gone forever.
Her husband was not there to save her. She was going to die.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Charles!”
A voice cried out, raw with terror. Charles reached toward the voice, then it was cut short with the dull snap of bone. Thick red bled into the blackness as a blurred shape took form—the shape of a woman, her body broken and twisted, her sightless eyes, as black as coal, staring out at him, the flicker of life fading until there was nothing but the dark shroud of death.
But the eyes were not those of his mother. They were the eyes of his wife.
Olivia!
He opened his eyes and sat up, his heart pounding against his chest, sharp pain stabbing behind his eyes.
He blinked, and his vision cleared. He was no longer a child trapped beneath his mother’s body. He was a man, sitting in a wingback chair in the morning room, clutching the arms, his fingers curled into claws, digging into the leather.
But the echo of Olivia’s voice still called to him.
He shook his head to dispel the echo then surveyed his surroundings. Someone sat in the chair opposite, silhouetted against the orange glow of the fireplace. He blinked, then swallowed his disappointment as the shape snapped into focus.
It wasn’t his wife.
Jacob leaned forward. “Anything the matter, brother?”
Charles gestured with his hands.How long have I been asleep?
Jacob glanced at the mantel clock, where the hour hand was approaching four.
“Two hours, maybe more,” he said. “I didn’t realize how loudly you snored. Perhaps you’re making up for being always silent, eh?”
Is my wife back?
“Not that I know of.”
Charles rose and crossed the floor to the window, staring out at the landscape bathed in the soft pink of the setting sun. Perhaps, if he stared long enough, Olivia would appear—after all, she’d called to him in his dreams. He thrust his hands into his pockets and waited, fingering the smooth surface of his signet ring. Silence filled the room, punctuated by the ticking of the mantel clock and the crackling of the fire.
Four o’clock.
She should have been back hours ago. Charles approached the bellpull, then, changing his mind, returned to the window.
“Pacing about won’t bring her back sooner. It’ll only wear out the carpet.” Charles made a gesture, and Jacob laughed. “I take it you’re thanking me for my advice. Or you’re telling me to fuck off. Why not take some tea? Ethel brought some in while you were sleeping, along with some of your wife’s shortbread.”
I don’t want tea. I want my wife. Something feels wrong.
“Say again?”
Charles let out a huff, then signed again, slowly.
Jacob stared at Charles’s hands. “You think something’s wrong? What sort of thing?”
I heard her cry out. In my sleep.
“That’s just your conscience plaguing you.”
