They’d loved one another, and she’d slept close, right at his side. The scent of lush roses had anointed her skin, and like now, he’d watched her breathe, thinking how perfect the moment had been. It had been the beginning of forever.
Oh, was he stupid, as Ruth had often called his actions when she’d teased him about being overcautious.
He should’ve known heaven and hell were separated by hours. They should’ve gone north and not returned to London to face her father. Then they wouldn’t have been attacked. Perhaps they’d be here at Blaren House now with arms and arms of children.
Happy-ever-after was rubbish.
Well. It had been until a few minutes ago, when he’d learned Ruth was alive.
Wycliff dropped to his knees and carefully traced the wide scar on her temple. How much pain had she endured for their love?
Mrs. Bexeley stood over him. “Here.”
He took the brandy-soaked cloth and mopped at Ruth’s nose.
Nothing.
No wrinkling of her nostrils.
No lines crinkling at her lips when she smiled.
Nothing.
He’d felt nothing for four years. Now she was here, and he felt too much.
How was he still enslaved to this love?
And how had she lived?
Was she still ticklish about her ribs? Did she miss him?
When she opened her eyes, would she love him still?
“It’s not working, Mr. Wycliff.”
“It’s Lord Wycliff. She took a hard fall.”
“Do something. Call for a physician.”
He seized the opportunity to put both hands to Ruth’s face. He massaged her neck, savoring the feel of her blood coursing, her pulse strong beneath his fingertips.
His stone heart became mush ladened with memories. If she didn’t awaken… He couldn’t lose her again.
That loss wrapped about him, heavy like iron chains, dragging him low, his horrible throat closing up as he drowned.
Mrs. Bexeley knelt beside him. “Are you a physician?”
A cough forced air into his chest. “Some training. Patched up a few men on my frigate.” He soured at how empty his raspy voice sounded. He tapped the brandy to Ruth’s nose again. “Awakenlabelle au bois dormant, my sleeping beauty.”
Ruth choked. Her eyes opened.
He held his breath and waited for hints of her wits returning. Hints of recognition.
She started flailing her arms. “Ester? Ester, are you here?
“Ruth.” Mrs. Bexeley pushed Wycliff out of the way. “I’m here. Focus. Let your eyes warm to the room. You took a hard fall.”
Her breathing remained uneven, as if Ruth had run up and down a long flight of stairs.
