The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  "Andrew?" Celsie said again, her voice rising with dread.

  He was still staring across the street, totally oblivious to the fact that she had spoken, to the fact that Lady Brookhampton was staring at him, to the fact that a group of well-dressed gentlemen, their laughing, twittering ladies on their arms, had also paused and were now eyeing him most peculiarly. Around them, people were beginning to whisper.

  He didn't hear them. "Dear God . . . Indians. Do you see them, Celsie? Coming out of the shop there — look." He seized her arm and pulled her close to him. "Look!"

  Celsie looked. She saw only a very ordinary looking old lady, stooped and frail, leaving a pawnshop and clutching a canvas bag in one gnarled hand. The woman was not even in the line of Andrew's fixed gaze. A kind of sick panic seized her. Oh no. Not again. Not here —

  "Andrew," she said nervously, pulling at his arm as she tried to get him to move. "There is nobody there. You're only suffering from lack of sleep. Come, let's go home."

  But Andrew knew he was suffering from far more than just lack of sleep. Just as a sleeper may realize he's dreaming, but still be caught up in the reality of the dream, Andrew knew he was having one of his episodes . . . though what he saw was terrifyingly real to him.

  And what he saw were Indians. Mohawks, probably, from the New World, their heads shaved and leaving only a wedge of purple hair sticking straight up like the helmets of Roman soldiers, silver rings in their noses and eyebrows, their bare arms thrust through strange waistcoats of black leather bristling with little cones of steel.

  From far away he heard his own voice, felt Celsie tugging at his shoulder.

  "Andrew. Andrew, let's go —"

  "But don't you see them?" He stared at her. Stared through her. "Bloody hell, they've spotted us; get behind me, Celsie, they may be dangerous!"

  "Andrew, let's go home, now —"

  "Damn it, Celsie, don't just stand there, get behind me!"

  He grabbed his sword, yanked her behind him, and charged forward to protect her, but his foot slipped off the edge of the pavement and he went sprawling into the muddy street, the wheels of a passing carriage just missing his outflung arm. A lady screamed. The group of gentlemen came running. Alarmed shopkeepers came charging outside, Lady Brookhampton stood staring down at him in horror, and all around, people began to murmur in shocked, speculative whispers.

  Andrew raised himself up from the mud on one elbow, and blinking, looked dazedly, uncomprehendingly, around him.

  "Celsie?" he whispered.

  But Celsie was already there. Positioning herself so that her body shielded him from the gathered onlookers, she had knelt beside him and now pulled him up against her, uncaring that he was filthy with mud. He was trembling violently, his skin waxy and cold beneath a film of sweat. She held him close, talking gently to him as excited whispers darted back and forth above their heads.

  "Why, it's Lord Andrew de Montforte! I say, what ails him?"

  "Got an opium habit, I'd guess . . . what a waste. . . ."

  "Genius ain't without its price, eh, Smithson?"

  "Aye, he's done so much thinking he's melted his own brain."

  Celsie raised her head and glared fiercely up at them all. "I can assure you that my husband does not suffer from a drug habit, madness, or shortcomings of any kind, he is merely exhausted from three days without sleep! Had any of you gone three days without sleep, you'd be seeing strange things, too! Now go on, all of you, and give us some space and privacy!"

  One arm still around her fallen husband, she made an angry, shoving motion with the other.

  "I said, go!"

  Mumbling, the crowd began to disperse, guffawing loudly as someone made a lewd remark about just why the newly wed Lord Andrew de Montforte hadn't got any sleep in three days. Celsie's face flamed, but at least she had deflected attention away from the real question of what was wrong with her husband, and that was all that mattered.

  And then she looked up to see Lady Brookhampton still hovering above.

  Celsie opened her mouth to deliver a stinging command —

  "Shall I hail a cab or a sedan chair for him?" the older woman asked, with unexpected kindness.

  Celsie gave a weary sigh. "Yes." She rose to her feet, pulling Andrew up with her. "Yes, that would be ideal."

  Chapter 26

  Andrew wanted to crawl beneath the wheels of the cab and command the driver to run him over.

  He wanted to flee the reality of what had happened to him, what was happening to him, what would eventually happen to him.

  He wanted to bury his face against his hands in shame.

  Instead, he summoned every shred of his de Montforte pride, straightened to his full height, and like the gentleman he was, handed Celsie up into the cab before him.

  Moments later, they were moving.

  "So now you know," he muttered, gazing out the window and watching the traffic passing in the other direction. He swallowed hard, refusing to look at her. "We can get an annulment, you know. You have grounds. I would understand perfectly."

  She said nothing, but he could feel her gaze upon him. He gripped his hands together and clenched them between his knees, staring out the window as he waited for her to say something, to utter the damning words, to lash out at him with anger and hurt for withholding such a terrible secret. But she didn't say anything. She simply sat there, a presence whose silence said more than words.

  "Well?" he said flatly, turning his head to glare at her. "Are you going to get an annulment?"

  She gazed calmly back. "Most certainly not."

  "You're insane if you don't, you know. You managed to come up with a damned good excuse to satisfy the gawkers and gapers back there, but I can promise you that what happened to me then will only happen again, that sooner or later you won't find some convenient excuse to explain it. Then I'll leave you humiliated and pitied, and you'll wish to God you'd got rid of me when you had the chance."

  "I don't want to 'get rid of you'," she said firmly, her eyes beginning to glitter dangerously. "You are my husband. And I care about you very much."

  "You can't care for someone you don't know. You don't know me. Oh, God, you don't know me —"

  "That is because you won't let me know you."

  "Celsie, I implore you, don't throw away your life, your dreams, your pride, on me . . . I'm a worthless oddball, damaged goods . . . There are plenty of men out there who would make far better husbands, men whom you can bring out in public without fear of being humiliated."

  "Stop it, Andrew. I don't want to hear such rubbish."

  "It isn't rubbish, it is the truth."

  "You're pushing me away. I can't let you do that anymore." Her voice gentled, became pleading. "I'm your wife."

  He just raised a hand to his eyes, flung it away.

  "I'm your friend."

  He swallowed hard, fighting back the rising tide of emotion.

  "And I'm the woman who's falling in love with you."

  He turned to her in anguish. Celsie could see the faint glisten of what looked like tears in his eyes, a bleak, panicky desperation that beseeched her to leave him alone even as it begged her not to. She reached out and threaded her fingers through his. "Andrew," she said quietly. "I married you for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. We took vows, pledging ourselves to one another. We're in this for the rest of our lives, and if you think I'm going to abandon you to whatever it is that so affects and frightens you simply because I might otherwise find myself embarrassed about your behavior, then you don't know me very well, do you?"

  He put his head in his hands and bent his body over them, fighting a battle with his will.

  "You are ill, aren't you?"

  He just made an inarticulate little noise and nodded his head. A lump lodged in Celsie's throat, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids as her heart went out to him. How hard he tried to maintain his composure when it was obvious that he was coming apart at the seams. How hard h
e tried to push her away with anger, when it was all too apparent that he needed her with a desperation he could never admit. And how hard he had tried to pretend that whatever ailed him was no more than an embarrassing annoyance — when Celsie knew, deep in her heart, that it was something that filled him with dread.

  It was terrible to be alone with your own fears.

  Even more so when you were alone in so many other ways as well. As she had always been.

  As Andrew was now.

  She got up, moved to the other seat, and lowered herself down beside him. He didn't move, just sat there bent over his hands, suffering in his own private anguish. She put her arms around him and he leaned slightly into her, his shoulders lurching as hoarse sobs of fear finally claimed him.

  "You shouldn't have to go through this with me," he blurted, still curled over his hands. "Oh, Celsie, it will be a living hell for you . . . a nightmare . . . why do this to yourself?"

  She held him in her arms, comforting him, reassuring him that he was not alone and never would be. He would not uncurl himself and return her embrace, would not go that last step in trusting her. Oh, Andrew. . . . my heart aches so for you. She tried to find the right words. Tried to think of what she could say to comfort him. And then her heart found her own private dread, and her eyes filled with tears of their own.

  "We cannot always take away the suffering of those we love," she said quietly. "But we can make sure that they don't suffer alone." A beloved face was there in her mind's eye, dark eyes gone cloudy, once youthful face grey with age. Tears began to slip from her eyes, to trickle silently down her face. "Freckles has a lump beneath his ear," she continued, as Andrew shook with silent anguish. "One of these days he'll probably stop eating. One of these days he will lie down and refuse to get up. One of these days he will die . . . and a big piece of my heart will die right along with him." Hot tears scalded her cheeks, falling on his mud-stained coat, soaking his bent shoulder. "But do you think I'm going to go away when that time comes, that I'm going to abandon him simply because it would spare me the pain and grief of watching him die? Do you honestly think I'm that cowardly, Andrew? That selfish?"

  His shoulders jerked on a harsh sob. "I'm sorry, Celsie . . . I didn't know . . ."

  "I know you didn't. But you'll be there for me when that time comes. Just as I'm here for you now . . . as I will always be here for you."

  "I'm going m-mad, Celsie," he choked out. "My brain is dying and I'm scared, scared of losing my mind, losing my science, losing who I am and turning into a drooling idiot at Bedlam . . . "

  "You don't have to be scared all by yourself, Andrew. You aren't in this alone. You have me."

  "You must despise me . . . pity me . . . wish you'd never met me. Look at me, blubbering like a two-year-old . . ."

  "Despise and pity you? No, Andrew. Never. You are an incredible man, but I don't think you realize that, do you? I want to be near you, with you. I want to share your life, as I want you to share mine." She made her voice deliberately light. "And sometimes I even want to strangle you, because you're the stubbornest, most defiant individual I've ever met and you should have told me this long before now."

  "Yes, I should have — then you could have left me."

  "Only in your dreams," she chastised.

  Her attempt at humor found its mark. He gave a half sob, half laugh, and raised his head, drawing his hands down his face but still refusing to look at her. Celsie reached into her pocket and found her handkerchief. She passed it to him and he wordlessly wiped his eyes.

  She sat and waited, watching his fingers squeezing and unsqueezing the handkerchief as he looked down at his hands, trying to find the words that would release him from his own dark prison of pain.

  "It all started last Christmas," he finally murmured, still staring down at the crumpled muslin. "Do you remember hearing about the fire at Blackheath Castle?"

  "Yes — it was on everyone's tongue."

  "It would be, wouldn't it?" he said ruefully. "Give people something to talk about and they'll bloody well exhaust it to death." He finally stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and ran both hands down his face. Then he took a deep, steadying breath and leaned back against the seat, gazing up at the roof with weary resignation. "Well, for months prior to that, I'd been toying with the idea of building a flying machine, but I never quite got around to doing it because there was always another idea that was far more seductive, far more interesting." He reached out and took her hand, grasping it like a lifeline. "You already know I'm not the most organized of individuals . . . Well, Lucien, he used to taunt and ridicule me and tell everyone that I was incapable of constructing such a machine, until finally I got so angry with him that I determined to build the thing just to prove to him that I could."

  Celsie squeezed his hand. It was cold and clammy. She tucked it between her own, lightly chafing the chilled fingers.

  Andrew was still gazing up at the roof. "I built it, just as I said I would. I was so proud of it . . . so confident that it would put my name on the map of science, my footprints on the pages of posterity, and that all my peers would respect me as the great inventor I was determined to be." He gave a bitter laugh. "Well, they say pride goeth before a fall, and mine certainly did. Lucien was throwing a ball in honor of Charles's return from what we'd all believed was the dead. Everyone — including the king himself — was invited. And I, fool that I was, thought it would be the perfect opportunity to show off my creation, to launch myself off the roof of the castle and straight into the pages of the history books . . . and best of all, rub Lucien's nose in my success for having failed to believe in me all along."

  He took a deep, steadying breath. "Everything was going along splendidly," he continued, his eyes bleak as he gazed into his memories. "The king wanted to see the machine prior to its first flight, and so I took him up onto the roof where I had it ready and waiting to be launched. Whilst we were up there, a fire broke out in the ballroom. Within minutes that whole wing of the castle was on fire. We came back down to my laboratory only to find ourselves trapped by the flames and unable to escape."

  "Dear God," Celsie breathed, unconsciously clutching his hand and bringing it close to her heart.

  "It was Charles who fought his way up the burning stairway and managed to bring the king and his attendants out. My laboratory was nothing but smoke and fire. I couldn't see a thing, couldn't hear a thing . . . nothing but the roar of the flames, falling timbers, and explosions as my bottles of chemicals and solutions began to go. I started to follow Charles and the others out; then I recalled some drawings I was determined to save, and ran back into the laboratory. That's all I remember. When I came to my senses, I was lying on the floor, everything was on fire around me, and Charles — he'd come back for me, of course — was holding me in his arms, covering me with his own body, trying to shield me from the flames even though it was obvious that we were both going to die."

  Celsie put a hand over her mouth, her estimation of the worthy Charles soaring even as she shuddered to think how close Andrew had come to dying. "Your brother must love you very much."

  "My brother would have given his life for me. As I would for him." Andrew turned his head and leaned his cheek against the window, his eyes distant. "There was no way out. The stairway was on fire, cutting off escape; we were too high up to jump to safety, and I was so dizzy and sick from the burning chemicals, my lungs so damaged by the heat, that I couldn't draw breath enough to even walk. In the end we escaped because Charles carried me — and the flying machine was still up there on the roof. It did not fly quite the way I intended that it should, but it did save our lives . . . though in the months that have followed, not a day has gone by that I rather wished it hadn't." He swallowed hard. "Or wished it hadn't saved mine."

  Oh, Andrew . . . Her heart aching for him, she carried his cold, clenched hand to her lips.

  He was still gazing sightlessly out the window. "After the fire, I was bedridden for months. I couldn't b
reathe. Lucien summoned the finest doctors from London and the Continent, and they all said there was no hope for me. That I would waste away and die. Lucien wouldn't listen to them, though. He wouldn't give up, even though my lungs were so damaged that it was all I could do to draw breath." He blinked, absently watching the traffic passing outside. "I used to have terrible fits of gasping, and someone had to be with me at all times, day and night, to pound on my chest in case I stopped breathing. Several times, I did stop." He swallowed, his voice flat and dead, and closed his eyes. "They should have just let me go."

  He sounded so despairing, so defeated, that Celsie felt a new rush of hot tears flooding her own eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to show pity.

  "Eventually I showed signs of recovering, and Lucien forced me to start exercising in an attempt to rebuild my strength. He used to challenge me to short duels with rapiers, and on the days I felt too sick, or too weak, or too exhausted to exercise, he'd come out with some hurtful taunt or insult that would make me so damned angry that I'd soon be up and out of that bed just for the chance to run him through." He gave a little laugh. "Of course, he knew just how to irk me. He knew just what he was doing. He always did. And I suppose I owe my life to him just as much as I owe it to Charles — what life I have left, that is."

  At last he turned away from the window, looking down at their clasped hands. His face was very still. "That strange mix of burning chemicals and solutions I breathed in while I was lying there on the floor . . . it must have affected me in some bizarre, unfortunate way, because it was shortly afterwards that I started having these fits, or seizures, or whatever you want to call them."

  Celsie squeezed his hand. "Is that what happened to you today, then? And while you were fighting Gerald, and while we were at de Montforte House a fortnight ago?"

  "Yes, and also at your charity ball." He met her gaze then, his eyes darker than she'd ever seen them, full of pain and shame and sorrow. "Why do you think I fled the place as I did?"