Fall from Trace

by Rebecca Connolly

  Unless Poppy were to become his torment.

  He rather feared she already was.

  Knowing she was tending his wounds, knowing how he still burned for her in the most secret corners of his heart, and knowing that it was not possible for him to have her…

  Torment beyond torment, and nothing that he endured at the hands of Battier and his men could match it.

  He was laid back against the pillows, and the linens around him were tightened once more.

  “Shh, Alex,” Poppy soothed, her voice suddenly clear again, though he couldn’t recall crying out in any way or making any sound at all.

  Then, her hands were on his face, and a fresh, cool compress was pressed to his brow.

  “It’s all right,” Poppy’s voice came again. “I have you.”

  Alex felt his teeth grind, his jaw tense, and his mind swirl further still.

  She had him, she said.

  Couldn’t she see that she always had?

  Chapter Five

  “Surely, we are beyond indecency now.”

  “I don’t know, are you done trying to get out of bed?”

  “Well, I don’t know, because I am starting to feel better, and in feeling better, I wish to get out of my sickbed, and I cannot get out of my sickbed while being so completely indecent in front of you.”

  Poppy pretended to consider that. “Well, you could, but it doesn’t follow that you should.”

  Alex glared at that and tucked his bed sheet over his chest, folding his arms across it, no doubt trying to hide his wounds. However, in doing so, he happened to enhance his lean, muscular frame.

  Not that she was complaining, but it actually added to his argument.

  And for her own sake, she really ought to concede.

  She rolled her eyes and moved out into the kitchen where, only that morning, Stanton had brought clothing for Alex to wear. It would be far too large for him, but at least he would be covered.

  And if his wounds continued to improve, she would not need to bind them much longer.

  Which would be a great mercy. The more she looked at them, the more they pained her to see. Her revulsion and nausea had never fully abated when she saw them, but she had been able to set it aside to tend to him appropriately.

  Poppy picked up the clothes and turned back into the room, forcing yet another smile on her face.

  Lord, but she was so tired of smiling.

  “Here, Your Grace,” she said with a playful curtsey.

  Alex raised a thick, dubious brow. “What have I become duke of in the last five minutes?”

  Poppy tilted her head at him. “Why, the Duke of Surly, Your Grace. And the Earl of Bedridden.”

  “Don’t forget Viscount Indecent,” he muttered, holding out his unbandaged arm for the clothing.

  She shook her head firmly, keeping them close to her chest. “That title, I’m afraid, is being revoked and returned to the Crown. Perhaps you will settle for Baron Invalid?”

  He scowled and crooked his fingers for them. “The Crown has a sense of humor, I see.”

  Poppy propped the clothing on her hip. “Well, if you’re not feeling particularly grateful…”

  “It is most generous of the Crown to bestow such honors to one so humble and undeserving as I,” Alex immediately added, adopting a penitent expression.

  She didn’t have to work quite so hard to smile at that. She’d forgotten how playful Alex could be, how quick-witted and engaging. He had always been able to make her smile and laugh and knew just the way to say it to get the most of both.

  And he made it so easy to play along.

  Poppy handed over the clothing, shaking her head at him. “Fine, you stubborn fool. But don’t think for one moment that this frees you to do as you please. Your fever is gone, and your wounds no longer bleed, but you are weak.”

  “Am I?” Alex replied as he shook out the linen shirt. “Well, that’s good to know. I thought I was feeling quite hale.”

  “I’m sure you are mistaken there,” Poppy said with a sigh, turning her back. “You’re pale, not hale.”

  “Don’t be poetic.”

  “Don’t be pathetic.”

  “I’m confined to a bed by a most determined jailer, how much more pathetic do you think I could get?”

  Poppy smiled a little. “I am sure you would find a way.”

  She heard him groan and whirled to face him. “Alex? What is it? Are you in pain?”

  He looked up at her from where he sat on the bed, now decently covered, a little pale and giving her a tight smile. “Fine, Poppy. I’m fine.”

  She snorted once and came over to him. “Aside from the bandages that are covering what seem to be several lash marks on your front and back, among your other numerous injuries.”

  Alex’s face seemed to change shade and aspect together, his eyes turning to ice. There was no hint of the teasing man from before, and only a haunted look of one condemned. His jaw tensed and his throat worked on two swallows before he shuddered and looked away.

  “Yes,” he muttered. “Numerous. But at the moment, only one pains me.”

  Poppy stared at him without shame, though she wasn’t entirely certain she saw him at all. Alex should never have cause to look so hollow, so pained and vulnerable. Yes, she knew full well that he was weak and injured, that there was darkness in his recent past, but what she had just witnessed was beyond anything she could have anticipated.

  Alex wasn’t supposed to know horrors.

  “One?” she managed, hating how her voice shook, pushing past his injuries and choosing to ignore his reaction. After all, he was doing the same.

  And she could not press him in this.

  Alex nodded once, still keeping his eyes averted. “My ribs. On the right side. Broken, I think. Better than they were, but I haven’t moved in four days.”

  “Well,” Poppy said in a stronger voice. “Aren’t you glad that you were kept abed for that time?”

  He snorted softly. “Yes, rather. And even more grateful to be clothed once more. Odd, but it may be the best I have felt in days.”

  “What, being clothed?” she replied with a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “If you knew how long I have been without proper clothing, you would not think so.” He felt the material of the linen shirt, his expression blank. “Quite a luxury, this.”

  Poppy watched his fingers move gently over the linen, transfixed by the minute motions. Over and over, his fingers ran the fabric between them, an absent grazing of skin against linen. Poppy’s own fingers tingled as though she were doing the same, and she rubbed them together at her side to alleviate the sensation.

  “It doesn’t fit,” she whispered unnecessarily.

  Alex shook his head slowly. “Doesn’t have to. And once, it might have.”

  “Not now, though.”

  “No. Not now.”

  A long moment of silence stretched between them. The only sound was that of the birds outside, and even they seemed to be very faint for now.

  “There is no adequate way to repay your kindness, Poppy,” Alex finally told her, looking up at her, no hint of a smile or warmth in his features. It was a raw openness that unnerved her, sent a chill through her, and stiffened her knees.

  Poppy shook her head at Alex, giving him a warning look. “We’ll get a physician in here to examine you properly. If your ribs are broken, as you say, further tending may be necessary.”

  “You don’t have money for a physician,” he reminded her, his mouth curving just enough to be considered a smile. “And I have no need of one.”

  “That is not up to you,” she snapped. “While you are in my house and under my care, I will decide what is…”

  “You don’t have to,” he interrupted with that maddening gentleness. “I relieve you of responsibility for me.”

  Poppy turned and moved to the toweling on the floor from when they had cleaned Alex this morning. “It’s laundry day,” she said brusquely. “And we have a g
reat deal to do, so I’ve got to get to it.”

  “Poppy…”

  She gripped the fabric tightly, her nails biting into it. “Don’t do that, Alex.”

  “Do what?” he asked gently, an odd solemnity in his tone. “Thank you? I am indebted, and you have to accept that I will be grateful.”

  “Don’t!” Poppy forced out through grinding teeth. “Don’t you dare. If you start to be serious, I will have to be serious, and if I am serious, I will rage at you, and I cannot do that while you are lying in bed so weak and in need of care.”

  Alex’s eyes suddenly held an almost pitying look. “Rage at me, Poppy. You deserve it.”

  Poppy shook her head, balling up the toweling and linen more tightly. “You think I could forgive myself for doing so while you are unwell, and I am to tend you?”

  “Cast me out,” Alex urged, still gentle in his tone. “This is not your responsibility. I should never have come.”

  “But you did, Alex!” Poppy cried, turning to him and not bothering to hide the pain searing her as she stopped pretending at last. “You came to my home and collapsed on the doorstep. How could I not treat your wounds and see to your care? While you are unwell, I must tend you. For my sake if not for yours. I have no choice.”

  “I’m not that unwell, I promise you.” He smiled a little. “Go ahead.”

  Poppy swallowed and shook her head again. “Not while you’re in bed, Alex, I cannot yell at you like this.”

  He stared at her, blinking for a long moment, then swung his legs to the side of the bed. He kept his eyes on her as he pressed his one free hand down on the mattress, pushing himself up awkwardly to a standing position, his left arm tucked against him. It took a deal of effort for him to straighten up fully, but he kept his expression free of the pain it must have caused him to do so, and he stared at her still.

  He should have been a masterful sight, something stirring and speaking of strength and nobility, but he was shaking where he stood. Trembling like a leaf on the breeze. His face was devoid of any and all color, and a mist of perspiration dotted his brow.

  He looked weak and frail, and in need of tending, even standing as he was.

  Poppy folded her arms over the toweling in her hands and lifted her quivering chin.

  “Now,” she managed in a small, shaky voice, “if only you could manage to do so without going completely ashen and trembling where you stand.”

  His brow furrowed at that, and she turned from the room, unable to see him like this for one minute more. He was always so vibrant and virile in her mind and in her memories, so strong and impenetrable.

  Not this.

  Never this.

  Tears filled her eyes and she stormed out of the cottage entirely, out to see to the laundry, as she had claimed, though it had only been an excuse. Now it would be an excuse and a distraction, a task she needed to complete and something to occupy her as well.

  She needed Alex gone, but she couldn’t bear to have him do so.

  She wanted him here, but she wanted her life back as she had known it.

  She wished…

  “Damn you, Alex,” she hissed as more tears rose, and she dunked her hands and linen into the wash barrel with more force than she’d ever done in her life, desperate to scrub away everything for a while.

  Alex stared through the doorway of his borrowed bedchamber for a long moment after Poppy had stormed out of it.

  He’d sensed that she was putting on a cheerful front with him in tending to him, and that she had been kind during his care, which had only done him good. He knew that she had much that she would wish to say to him, if she were only given the chance. Her slapping him when he’d first arrived had proven that. He wished she would just say it, whatever it was, and stop treating him with a kindness that he did not deserve.

  But this?

  There was pain in her eyes, in her expression, in the way she looked at him. He’d expected pain, but the reality of it was far worse than anything he’d imagined.

  He thought she would be his torment?

  He feared now that he might have been hers.

  And that was unforgiveable.

  He sank down onto the bed, reaching for the bedpost with his good arm to steady himself. They no longer bound his left arm, but it still ached and grew stiff often, and it was weaker than the rest of him.

  And he really was very weak.

  Alex exhaled slowly, grateful that his head was no longer swimming when he held still and that his fever was gone, but he could not be laid up in this bed or this room for much longer.

  He heard loud footsteps coming towards this room and turned towards the sound, letting his features and manner relax into his usual manner. “Stanton.”

  The large, hulking man appeared in the doorway and leaned against the frame. “Trace.”

  Alex sighed, turning back to face the window. “I haven’t been Trace in a long time.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  That made him chuckle. “Perhaps you’re right. Are we ever free of it?”

  “Free, sir?”

  “Don’t call me sir,” he scolded roughly.

  Stanton pushed into the room and came over to stand beside him. “You outrank me, sir. I know my place.”

  Alex shook his head slowly. “I outrank no one. Not anymore.”

  Stanton didn’t say anything, which was probably for the best, as Alex would only have refuted or argued.

  Alex looked down at his feet, his toes curling against the rug beneath them. “You’ve written them, haven’t you?”

  “I did, Trace,” Stanton replied with a nod. “And I told them you were here.”

  He sighed slowly, nodding in thought. “Then they’ll be here any day.”

  “I expect so, sir.”

  Of course, they would. Having believed him dead, most likely, word of his arrival in Moulton would spur them to come quickly.

  For some reason, that did not satisfy him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see them. They would expect the man he once was, and the man he was now was far, far less than that. They would want him back in London, seeing to the details of the London League, renewing his former position among them.

  The idea of going back into the horrors he had just fled was something he was not prepared to contemplate.

  Not yet.

  Perhaps not ever.

  “Stanton,” Alex said slowly, his fingers drumming against the wood bedpost.

  “Trace?”

  Alex looked over at the large man that he had known for far longer than Poppy would ever know. “I need your help.”

  Stanton smiled at him in an almost devious way. “I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve said that to me. I’m afraid to ask.”

  That made Alex laugh, and he struggled to rise once more. Stanton reached out an arm and steadied him, and Alex couldn’t manage pride enough to care that he required assistance.

  “Help me dress,” he gasped as his ribs ached again. “I’m sure it was the sight of these scrawny legs that sent Poppy running from the room.”

  “More than likely,” Stanton agreed. He let Alex go for a moment, then moved to the bed to pick up the rest of the clothing. “And your feet look like something scraped out of a barn.”

  “Smell like it, too, I’d wager.” Alex gripped the bedpost again as Stanton helped him with clothing, lifting his leg like a child and unable to do anything for himself.

  “I can vouch for that, Trace, as I washed and tended them.”

  Alex winced playfully. “I don’t envy you that. And I dare say you’ve had the sight of me burned into your mind more than you’d like.”

  Stanton coughed a laugh and rose, putting his hands on his hips. “Well, I won’t pretend that I didn’t wish to be blind a time or two. And I won’t say it was a pleasure to tend you, especially given what I found.”

  The man trailed off with clear opening for Alex to elaborate on the subject.

  “I can imagine not,” Alex mur
mured, looking out of the window again, where Poppy could now be seen hanging toweling and linen on a line. “You haven’t told her, have you? About the extent of it?”

  “Of course not, Trace,” Stanton said at once. “Though I couldn’t keep her from seeing your feet, your chest, and your back.”

  “You explained what she was seeing?” Alex pressed. “Satisfactorily?”

  Stanton hesitated, making a face. “I answered her questions, as best as I could. She asks a fair few, you know.”

  Alex smiled at that. “Yes, I know. She always did.”

  “But I did divert her from further questions, if that’s what you’re asking. She does not know… everything.” Stanton shrugged his wide shoulders.

  Alex nodded at that. “Thank you, Stanton. It’s bad enough to see the wounds herself. Having her fully comprehend the cause of them would be worse.”

  Infinitely worse, but there was no need to elaborate on that point.

  Poppy had always had a very clear and thorough imagination, so he doubted that she was as ignorant as he would like.

  Still, there was no way for her to know the full extent.

  “I've never seen the amount of marks and scars on an abdomen and thighs like yours, Trace,” Stanton murmured in a low tone. “Every other mark on you, I could almost make sense of. But those…”

  Alex shuddered, dark memories rolling out in his head. “Yes?”

  Stanton moved closer, folding his arms. “I don’t understand. What good would such havoc there do them?”

  “It was a game,” Alex muttered as though through an icy fog. “Nothing to understand. They’d make it clear what they could do, taunt me, run a cold blade along my skin, or even a red hot blade. Then, instead of doing what I most feared, they’d cut elsewhere, as the scars tell you. Always when I was my most terrified. Eventually, I understood the game, didn’t fear it as much, so they moved to other areas.”

  “Why leave you able to still sire children, though?”

  Alex glanced at him without emotion. “That’s a nonissue for a broken shell of a man, even if it is possible. Perhaps that was a crueler outcome of the game than the scars themselves."