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Anna drew the curtains a little closed so that the rays no longer shone directly on his face.
“Water,” he repeated.
With a shaking hand, spilling half of the contents, Anna poured him a glass of water and handed it to him. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed up and down as he drank thirstily with big gulps. After he emptied the glass, he extended it for more. Now with a firmer hand, Anna refilled it.
“I brought some soup.” Anna gestured to the tray with the soup bowl. “You haven’t eaten for three days. We were getting quite worried, sir. We thought that maybe you had—that maybe you had—” She swallowed.
“Died?” he asked, setting the glass down. A fleeting glint of humour passed through his eyes. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“How can you even say such a thing?” Anna burst out. “I would never wish that on anyone. Do you have any idea how worried we were, Phoebe and I? We had no idea what was going on, you locked the door to your room and so naturally we feared the worst. What if you had died? What then? What of Phoebe? Have you thought of that?”
He paused in lifting the glass to his mouth and gave her an odd look. “You were worried about me?”
“Naturally, we were.” Muttering to herself, she added, “What a strange thing to say.”
He stared at her, with those odd green eyes of his.
“You should eat the soup,” she said, unnerved. “You also need a bath. I have instructed the maid to prepare one for you.”
She drew herself up in all of Miss Hilversham’s proud glory. “Don’t even dare come out of the room before you’ve eaten and had a bath.” She sniffed and with her nose in the air, went to the door.
“Miss Hilversham.”
She stopped.
He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for worrying about me,” he said rather formally, taking the wind out of her sails.
* * *
It was somewhat of a challenge making Phoebe understand that going to Brighton wasn’t the best idea given his current state. She wept with disappointment, pouted and refused to speak to him. That he could deal with. What he couldn’t deal with was visiting the bustling seaside town with its fashionable people parading up and down the promenade, going shopping and visiting the tea salon.
He shuddered and pressed down his thumbs over his eyeballs. Not to mention bathing in the cold seawater; though in retrospect maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, given the restless heat that was burning up his body ever since he’d visited that blasted girls’ school and seen her. He’d never been so physically aware of any being he’d ever met as he was of that delicate slip of a girl. He was aware every moment of her, sitting across from him in the coach, turning her head, her glance casually brushing over him, when she looked away, through the window, with that dreamy look in her big, beautiful eyes. They had the same deep iridescent blue hue of the ocean at Cadiz—dash it all if he wasn’t waxing poetic over her eyes—but he felt like drowning in them each time her eyes fell on him. Maybe an ice bath was exactly what he needed.
Phoebe had shouted he’d grossly deceived her when he’d announced that morning that they were not going to Brighton after all, and she’d proclaimed she’d never forgive him, not for as long as he lived. There’d even been a slightly crestfallen look of disappointment on the woman’s face, as well; it was fleeting, but it had been there. For some obscure reason, that had punched him right in the gut.
But what could one do? He knew from experience that a bustling social life was poison to his current condition. The attack had been worse than ever before and there’d been moments when he’d feared he’d never recover. He was still exhausted, and all he wanted and needed now was to sleep.
Maybe he really was going mad.
He leaned his head tiredly against the side of the coach and closed his eyes.
* * *
The carriage slowed as it approached the gates of Hungersford Hall. Rain had begun to fall once more, and heavy clouds pressed low against the horizon, casting the landscape in a sombre grey. As the carriage rumbled across the ancient stone bridge spanning a swift-running brook, the hall emerged from behind a copse of trees, perched atop a hill like a sentinel.
Hungersford Hall was a formidable medieval manor house, its towering limestone walls crowned with crenellated battlements. A solid, square tower loomed over the main gate with an unyielding presence. Built for defence, the hall’s architecture spoke of a time when strength and fortification were the essence of survival. The structure with its brooding, grim atmosphere was intimidating and altogether uninviting.
It had become his sanctuary. He’d avoided his family residence for most of his restless life, preferring to live anywhere but there, but lately, he’d come to feel uncannily like he was home there.
“Oh my,” the woman murmured, her petal-pink lips parting in awe, her gaze fixed on the looming fortress ahead.
He noted with satisfaction that she was speechless.
Phoebe didn’t say anything at all but mulishly crossed her arms over her chest, pushing out her lower lip.
The carriage rolled through the main gate into a stone-paved courtyard, coming to a stop before a tall, crenellated tower with an arched portal. It was the entrance to the hall. Above the door, a small leaded glass window nestled in a Gothic-style frame was adorned with delicate stonework.
