When Mattie left, Anne rehearsed her arguments. Perhaps argument wasn’t the best way to phrase what she wanted to say, but she would fight for what they had—what she wanted to have with Colin.
She waited.
And waited.
Reminiscent of their wedding night, she stared at the clock on the mantel. Joan had prepared her for bed, and she asked again if someone had relayed her message to Colin.
Joan fluffed her pillow. “Yes, my lady. Mattie said he would see you before retiring.”
Anne frowned at the way Joan said before notwhen.
Shortly before ten, Colin strode through the adjoining dressing rooms and gave a slight tap at the open door to her bedchamber. Instead of the lovely brocade banyan he wore every night before joining her, he remained dressed, although he’d removed his coat and waistcoat. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows exposed his muscled forearms, and his hair appeared mussed as if he’d run his hands through it.
Troubled by his grim expression, she forced a smile and flipped back the counterpane and linens on the other side of the bed. “Join me?”
When he shook his head, her hopes dissolved, delicate as mist, and vanished before she could grasp them.
He re-tucked the covers around her. “Are you in much pain? The doctor said you refused the laudanum.”
“I asked him for willow bark to make the tea Ashton prescribes. He called Harry a witch.”
A faint smile twitched at Colin’s lips, but he refused to meet her gaze. “Can you provide instructions to make the tea if I can get the bark?”
“Yes. It’s simple. White willow is best. Pulverize the bark.”
Henodded. “And the pain?”
“I don’t like to think about it, but it’s hard not to with my ankle throbbing.”
“Perhaps a little laudanum? To help you sleep.”
Tempted, she cast another glance at the bottle on the bedside table. “I’ll try first without it. It would help if you joined me in bed.”
“No.” The refusal was so stark and curt, she drew back as if he’d slapped her.
All her rehearsed words made a hasty retreat, and in her typical fashion, she simply blurted out what weighed on her mind. “Why are you so angry? I didn’twantto get hurt.”
“But youdid. And it could have been worse.”
Like a lash, his words stung. A physical blow would have hurt less.
“But it wasn’t.” She hated the pleading, defensive tone of her voice.
“I can’t discuss this with you. Get some rest, Anne. Take the laudanum.” He stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him.
Fresh pain burst forth, but not from her ankle. A dull, throbbing ache, impossible to ignore and untreatable with willow bark tea or even laudanum, radiated in her chest. She felt hollow, as if someone had reached inside and scooped out her heart.
Nothing would staunch the hurt his cold stare had delivered, and the only rest she found was fitful, brought on by crying herself to sleep.
The terrorof what could have happened to Anne hovered at the edge of Colin’s mind and begged to be acknowledged. But he kept it at bay, knowing it would undo him if he gave it voice.
He gave in to the anger instead. It was wrong to take out his fear on Anne. Logically, he knew that, but it was easier to be angry for not protecting her than to dwell on the idea that he might have lost her. He couldn’t go through that again. Especially now. Margery’s death had gutted him, but Anne’s? Anne’s would kill him.
Perhaps if he distanced himself, convinced himself whatever hethoughthe felt was an aberration, he’d dull the ache of watching someone he loved in pain and absorbing it as if it were his own.
He yanked the shirt over his head. By God, he was a grown man; he didn’t need a valet. He could undress himself. At least it gave him something to do, something to focus on besides the image of Anne, caught in that infernal passage. Hurt. Frightened. Calling for help.
And where hadhebeen? Off pursuing his own ambitions and collecting puppies. Puppies, for God’s sake. He yanked off a boot and threw it against the wall.
