And I’m responsible for that fear,Charles thought.
Devil’s breeches, he might have lost her today! Perhaps he’d overreacted seeing her at the top of the staircase last night, but today… Today, she had been running toward her death. Running away from him.
It was blind luck that had compelled him to search in the forest. Perhaps it was because it was where he’d sought sanctuary from his father’s loathing and the taunts of others. Trees and animals did not judge a man—they simplylived. They never troubled him for being flawed, for being unfit to bear the name Devereaux, unfit to live.
And unfit to marry.
Though they were as different as two people could be, Charles and his little wife were also the same in that they were both misfits, unable to conform to the rules of the world.
Perhaps, in the ashes of the world’s disapproval, they could forge their own world and make their own rules. Together.
Because, despite his attempts to keep her at a distance, she was never far from his thoughts. While he’d toured the estate, listening to his steward’s tales of woe regarding the state of the farms, their depleted livestock, and the worsening finances, he couldn’t banish from his mind the image of his wife’s stricken expression. When he’dentered the dining room for supper, ready to make amends, his disappointment when she hadn’t joined him turned into debilitating fear when that young maid tearfully told him that her mistress was nowhere to be found.
Then, when he’d spotted her in the forest, moving toward the ravine, oblivious of the danger…
Only then did the understanding hit him like a battering ram.
He couldn’t live without her.
“M-my lord?”
What sweet relief it had been to hold her in his arms—her delicate body, so sweet and softly rounded, her lips parted in offering of a kiss…
Curse Mrs. bloody Broughman for interrupting! He was now left with a cockstand he could do nothing with.
“Husband!”
He glanced up to see his wife staring at him.
“Are you well?”
He almost laughed at the absurdity. Here she was, injured having narrowly escaped death, asking afterhishealth!
Hurt flickered in her eyes. “Do I amuse you?” she said.
No, you intrigue me.
She stared at his hand movements, then shook her head. He rose and poured a brandy.
“Will I ever understand you?”
Her voice was almost inaudible, and when he turned to face her, her cheeks colored. He offered her the brandy glass, and his heart fluttered as her fingers brushed against his. Then he picked up Mrs. Brougham’s tray, placed it at the foot of the sofa, and kneeled beside it. The tray contained a bowl of water, wisps of steam rising from the surface, strips of linen, small pieces of cloth, and a squat jar of deep-blue glass, stoppered with a cork.
He motioned to Olivia’s hands, and she set the glass aside and heldthem out. The skin at the heel of her palm glowed red, jagged and broken in places and embedded with specks of dirt.
With his free hand he plucked a cloth from the tray, dipped it into the water, and squeezed it until droplets splashed into the bowl. Then he lifted his gaze to hers.
Forgive me, for I fear it will hurt.
She blinked, slowly, as if she understood, then lowered her gaze to her hand and nodded. An insignificant gesture, but it was an expression of trust for him to treasure.
He pressed the cloth against her palm and, though she stiffened, she showed no sign of pain. Emboldened, he continued, wiping her palm until all traces of dirt had gone, before repeating the process with her other hand. Then he placed her hands on her lap, palms upward. Tiny red droplets swelled on her skin, and he dabbed them with the cloth until the bleeding stopped.
He picked up the jar Mrs. Brougham had said was for her hands. Foolish old woman! Did she think he didn’t know? How many times had she administered that salve to him when, as a boy, he’d sustained scrapes and cuts—some from falling out of trees, others administered at the hands of bullies…
He closed his eyes to suppress the memory of his father’s beatings—the burn of the lash on his back, the screams he’d uttered, pleas for mercy, the last words he’d ever spoken as his mother had tried to defend him…
“Charles!”
