She pushed him away, growling like a wild animal. “Get away from me! Don’t you dare touch me.”
Malcolm let go of her with a ragged sigh and slumped to the edge of her bed. He looked awful—unshaven and drawn, the lines around his eyes deeper, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
A sharp, antiseptic smell wafted through the room and she suddenly realized she wasn’t at the hotel. She looked around, blinking in confusion. Sterile white walls gleamed with harsh morning light. Too bright. They were in a hospital ward. Or an asylum. Eliza slid her hands free from the blanket and examined her wrists. There were no marks, her skin flawless apart from the etching of her old scars. “What happened?”
“The chambermaid at your hotel found you. It seems you fainted getting out of the bath and hit your head. She called for an ambulance and the attending physician happened to be a friend of Dr.Fawcett’s. He recognized you and sent for me.”
The last thing she recalled was opening the razor and holding it to her wrist. But my God, her head pounded like a drum, didn’t it? It had to be the truth. “Oh. I don’t remember falling at all. I thought I’d died in the bath. I was sure of it.”
He gave a dry laugh. As if such a thing could ever be funny. “You’ve only got a mild concussion, and you were severely dehydrated.” Malcolm took her hand, the hint of a tired smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. “And there’s something else.”
“What?”
“You’re going to be a mother, mo chridhe.”
The room went into a spin. “What?”
“You’re with child.”
Eliza rode beside Malcolm in the landau, her aching head leaning on her hand as the country scenery flashed by. The snow had melted during her brief stay in the hospital, leaving muddy, splashing puddles all along the roadway. The trees expanded and contracted like a dizzying forest made of matchsticks, their wet branches dripping onto the top of the carriage with the steadiness of a metronome. She bit the inside of her cheek to stifle her tears and leaned her head against the window.
She couldn’t believe her misfortune. The timing couldn’t be worse for this baby, but what could she do? Her condition now grievously limited her choices. It seemed a lifetime ago that England had meant freedom and a fresh start. She’d traded the happy, independent years of a spinster for the fetter of false love, and it had cost her everything. She had the feeling if she ever tried to leave Havenwood Manor again, thehouse would rise up against her, like a cursed castle from a fairy tale, imprisoning her behind a wall of thornlike daggers.
Malcolm stirred next to her, clearing his throat. “Darling, I was thinking, before your confinement is too far gone, we should go to Scotland. Perhaps we can leave this weekend.”
“Don’t you have to return to London?”
Malcolm stroked his scraggly beard, his hand trembling. “No. I’m not going back. At least for now.”
“Why not?”
“They’ve a majority in the Lords. My vote isn’t necessary. I rather think a holiday is in our best interest—some time alone together to mend our disagreement. I want to show you where my mother grew up. Take you to Loch Lomond and Ben Nevis—the mountain from our fairy story.”
“Oh.” Eliza fiddled with the loop of her reticule. Her fingers were frightfully thin. Malcolm grasped her frantic hand in his own, stilling her nervous movements with his warmth.
“Won’t you ever be able to forgive me, Eliza?”
“I suppose I’ll need to find a way, given this new ... revelation. I nearly went back to New Orleans, but because of the war, there were no steamers available.”
Malcolm put his hand over his eyes and leaned forward. “God. I don’t think I would have survived it if you’d truly left me—I’ve been wretched.”
Eliza ignored his self-pitying comment. “Before I can feel safe enough to live with you again, you must look me in the eye and tell me you did not intentionally kill anyone in your family. Or Beatrice.”
Malcolm fixed her with a steady gaze. “I swear before heaven and all of its angels that I did not.”
If he was still lying to her, he was doing an excellent job of it. But she wasn’t finished. Eliza pulled in a resolute breath. “I saw Lord Eastleigh.At the theatre. He told me something else about your past.” She studied Malcolm’s face—marked the sudden twitching of his eyebrow over his red-rimmed eyes and the set of his jaw. “There’s another thing that needs clearing before I can ever hope to forgive you, husband.”
Malcolm sighed. “Is it Annie?”
“It’s true, then?” Eliza bit the inside of her lip so hard her eyes smarted.
“What did he say about her?”
“That she was your first. And now she has syphilis and she’s dying.”
Malcolm closed his eyes. “All of it is true.”
“A whore, Malcolm? Really?” Eliza pulled her hand from his, scowling. “Did you lodge with her in London, then? Is that why I received no letter from you?”
