With a strange feeling in her stomach, she watched as St. John strode with heavy steps towards the front door, while the carriage drove off. Maybe the idea of spying on him was not such a bad scheme. If he did not talk to her voluntarily, then she would have to find out what was going on in this house, off her own bat. He not only seemed tired, but downright exhausted – and he looks lonely, Annabelle thought. Like someone who had been carrying a burden for far too long, and who no longer knew what it felt like to be without the weight of it on his shoulders.
She was so immersed in his appearance that she only noticed the attacker when it was almost too late. A person wearing a widely flared, dark coat broke loose from the house entrance across from them. In retrospect, Annabelle could not pinpoint what had aroused her suspicion – the determination of his footfalls or the tense posture – but as soon as she saw him, she knew that he had evil intentions.
His steps quickened the closer Marcus St. John got to the front door. When she watched the man’s right hand reaching into his coat, Annabelle’s heart was racing.
“Watch out! Behind you!” she yelled at Marcus, but of course, he could not hear her. She banged against the window, several times in a row, but apparently her bedroom on the second floor was too far away for him to notice her. Annabelle wasted valuable seconds, during which the darkly dressed figure had decreased the distance between them to only a few meters. Something shiny flashed in the man’s hand. Fear shot through Annabelle’s body like a lightning strike. She tasted copper on her tongue. Her eyes were fixed only on the hand holding the knife, while her thoughts tumbled. Frantically, she hammered with her flat hand against the glass, which splintered with an ugly sound. At the same moment as pain rushed from Annabelle’s wrist to her arm, she screamed another warning.
And finally, finally, St. John woke up.
In a distant corner of her mind, Annabelle knew that she had to attend to the ugly cut, but she was unable to move. It had been, she thought afterwards, similar to her experience in the middle of the night when she had been unable to avert her gaze from St. John. Watching him was akin to witnessing a coach accident on the open road. It was impossible to turn away one’s eyes, no matter how cruel the scene was.
St. John’s eyes flew up to her. His blue eyes bore into hers for the duration of a heartbeat, holding her there. Then he turned around with the agility of a wild animal sensing danger. He lifted his arm and ducked down in one swift motion, at the same time finding the arm of the attacker inside the fluttering fabric. Metal flashed. Both men froze. The attacker shrugged his shoulders, then he jerked away from St. John’s hard grip and ran back towards the street.
St. John took up the pursuit while dancing stars appeared in front of Annabelle’s eyes. She heard herself release a wiggy sound, half a call for help and half the echo of her warning. Funny, she thought, why was it suddenly getting so dark outside? She blinked, her eyes still fixed on St. John, who chose that moment to turn around and look up at her once more.
The jagged outlines of the opening she had created with her bare hand seemed to come closer. The last thing Annabelle saw were his blue eyes boring into hers. She even thought that she could not possibly see the colour at that distance; then feeling queasy, her knees trembled, and she slipped inelegantly, yet still conscious, to the floor.
Marcus hesitated only for a second, but his attacker was already beyond his reach. He ran up the last few stairs to his front door, which was opened in that moment by his butler, Wickham.
“Send Clarice upstairs with smelling salts,” he ordered his butler, and took the first steps before halting again. She had disappeared so abruptly from his sight, plus there was the broken window – it was possible that she was hurt. He quickly called out to Wickham to bring the wound care kit, and then he stormed into Annabelle’s room. He needed to find out if she was well.
After all, she was his wife, St. John told himself, as he saw her figure lying in front of the blasted window. She was awake but very pale. He personally did not care if she had come to harm, but if he wanted to go to dinner with her on Friday, he had better make sure that she did not look like he was abusing her. Liar, an inner voice whispered to him, which he rigorously pushed aside.
Instead, he focused on her injuries. Already upon entering, he had noticed that she had suffered a nasty cut on the palm of her hand, but the bleeding was slowly stopping. Where were Clarice and Wickham with the bandages? The cut had to be cleaned and bandaged, but most importantly, he needed to examine her to see if she had any other injuries. He clenched his teeth together. He would have to touch her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
An absurd thought shot through his head while he tried to collect himself. What if she was only pretending to be indisposed just so she could later accuse him of licentious advances? The moment he had the thought, Marcus realised just how preposterous it probably was.
Annabelle was his wife. Under the law. Before the church. In the eyes of society. Her father no longer had any power over her. She was his, Marcus St. John’s, damned property. Only in one respect, which really mattered, was she not his wife but a stranger. He looked at her pale face and carefully lifted her head. She was trembling all over, and her teeth chattered so much that she was unable to tell him if the movement was causing her pain. The posture in which she was lying in front of the window was certainly not comfortable, so without hesitation, he lifted her up into his arms and carried her over to the small sofa. Carefully, he rested her head on a pillow. He should make sure that she had not banged her head when she fell, he thought, running his fingertips over her scalp, thankful for her loose hair, which made his search for a bruise easier. It didn’t bear contemplating if he were to now have to work through a plethora of hairpins or embellishment in the form of flowers, flying creatures and other silly things that the ladies loved to stick into their hair these days.
He had never seen her hair over-lavishly styled. Carefully continuing to feel for bumps, and thereby inhaling the flowery scent of her hair, he realized that she favoured a much simpler style, which was, in turn, pleasing to him. Only the dresses that she had brought with her did not fit the picture. She was rather tall for a woman, even though still a good one head and a half shorter than him, and with her curvy feminine figure, those dresses seemed… well, somehow like costumes on her.
Someone like her, with the pale skin and the warm tone of her silky hair, needed strong colours. A royal dark blue, for example, and an austere, shady green that brought out the red glow of her hair, her statuesque beauty, and the stubborn, exquisite face...
Marcus jumped up when he heard Clarice’s tripping footsteps. His face felt hot. What the devil had come over him that he all of a sudden considered this woman, whom Greywood had so skilfully inveigled into his own house, as a human being?
Worse than this, he had seen in her a woman who was beautiful in her own right. He had slid his fingers through her hair, feeling a sensual delight that was completely inappropriate, and came dangerously close to his feelings for Matilda.
He must never forget who she really was. Yes, it was true – she had warned him. Who knew, after all, how the cowardly assault would have unfolded had she not called out to him? For a brief moment, he had considered that she had called her warning not to him but to the other, however, this was, yet again, absurd.
Everything about this accursed situation made no sense. Well, not everything, but most of it. The biggest mystery of all was the woman whom he had married. She was a walking contradiction and seemed to him like an encrypted message whose code he was unable to decipher.
In the meanwhile, Clarice had knelt beside her mistress and followed Wickham’s instructions in her own placid manner. St. John’s fingers were tingling to rip the wet cloth from her hands and deal with the cleansing of Annabelle’s wound himself. He took a step closer again and saw that a hint of colour had returned to her cheeks.
Marcus decided to allow her this moment of privacy. His face wa
s certainly the last she wanted to see. Besides, he and Finch needed to at least try to pick up the trail of the attacker, even if the odds were slim. Marcus still did not understand why he had almost mindlessly stormed upstairs into Annabelle’s room, instead of taking up pursuit of the wounded man.
It was only when he closed the door that he realized that an innocent bystander might have possibly come up with the idea that he had fled.
Chapter 7
Her hand hurt. Her head hurt. But what hurt Annabelle the most was the fact that St. John did not think it necessary to come see her, to ensure that she was doing well. Sure, he had sent her maid and his butler to look after her, but her own husband did not even think it was required to at least thank her! She did not expect a grand gesture like his falling on his knees before her, kissing her, and reassuring her of his eternal gratitude, certainly not, but one or two kind words would have been only fit, Annabelle thought. Gradually, the thought of getting a divorce did not seem so absurd, after all. Had it concerned just her alone, her own wellbeing, her reputation, and her future, she might have probably risked the scandal-ridden and embarrassing procedure.
Darned Felicity! Darned St. John!
And triple darned her heart, which was still fighting against her reasoning mind, whispering that behind St. John’s cold façade hid a man worth saving.
Wait a minute. No. Annabelle pulled back the blankets and got up. She had given in to the plea to “take a little rest”, as Wickham had called it before he had discreetly left her room. God forbid that Clarice said even one redundant word to her. She continued to do her work in silence, with her head down and with such an accentuated forbearance, that Annabelle’s patience with her was slowly running out. Breathe deeply, she bid herself, while slipping into a day dress, without the help of the silent Clarice. Her bodice was loosely tied and stood out underneath the thin, ghastly pale-yellow muslin, but that did not matter to Annabelle. She slipped into her slippers, made from purple silk, thinking that with her reddish-brown hair, the yellow dress and these shoes, she probably resembled an exotic bird.
Marcus St. John. When did she start to find him… interesting? Because he had to be, since she was reading something into his coldness that in all likelihood was not even there. If she was not careful, she would turn into one of those romanticising geese, the type Felicity liked to surround herself with. Annabelle shook her head as she imagined herself, staring at Marcus St. John’s lips with clouded eyes, blinded to the illusion of being able to heal the wounds of his past. What utter nonsense! Annabelle had always believed that one could not change a human but simply had to accept them for who they were. How better to serve one’s counterpart than to hold them dear for what they truly were and not for something an overly romantic imagination had turn them into? She, too, did not want to be changed just because a man fostered a very specific vision of how she should be.
St. John was a grouch. He barely spoke, he withheld numerous things from her, and he was the first man whom she could not figure out. St. John was beyond her. Not only was his mouth closed off, his body, too, was uninterpretable. He was restrained and angry, strong and hurt, arrogant, and yet, in those moments when he did not speak with her or her family, she had seen him amiable. Annabelle had observed the way he addressed the butler or other servants in his house. He was the master of the house, there was no doubt about that, but he approached his servants respectfully. What weighed much more was the way his servants – from the butler to the suspicious Finch to her own maid – looked at him. They trusted him.
She was improvising a hairdo with her unruly mane when she heard a knock on her door.
Her heart skipped a beat when no one entered. Well-trained personnel always knocked before entering a room, but never waited for an answer, since they were considered nothing more than a useful item. Waiting for her answer could only mean one thing – he was standing at the door. Silly me, Annabelle chided herself when she realised that she was standing motionless, her hands buried in her hair, staring at the door. She lowered her arms and called “Come in”.
The door opened. St. John entered her room.
Her treacherous heart hammered inside her chest like a relentless blacksmith as he approached.
“Good evening,” he said and stopped before her.
“Good evening,” Annabelle replied, searching feverishly for words. Again and again, she had pictured herself confronting him, and now that the opportunity presented itself, her mouth was dry, her tongue too thick, and her throat parched.
“How do you feel? How is your hand?” For the first time, she noticed how pleasant his voice sounded. Without its usual coldness or suppressed rage, his tone was deep, almost soothing. No wonder the women lay at his feet. One sentence from his mouth and…
“Apart from a slight throbbing, everything is fine. Clarice took good care of me. And so did Wickham. Thank you.” Blue eyes looked at her from underneath golden brows. His glance was different, too. It took a moment for Annabelle to pinpoint the difference. The mistrust that otherwise dominated his demeanour was missing. She was all too aware of her racing heartbeat as she took half a step towards him, just as St. John decided to do the same movement. Now there was less than a foot between them.
“Let me see for myself,” he said, holding out his hand. Annabelle hid her hand behind her back.
“It is nothing,” she countered.
“I shall make that decision myself,” St. John insisted and waited with his hand stretched out, indicating for her to oblige to his demand. Or was it a request? Annabelle did not have much time to ponder it, for his next words were so unusual that her knees buckled underneath her.
“I am indebted to you,” he said and gently pulled out her hand, which she slowly put into his. As he began to carefully remove the bandage, she looked spellbound at his hands. They were strong, masculine hands, with a surprising hint of sensitivity in his long, slender fingers. He was, unlike most gentlemen, lightly tanned – a testament to his spending a lot of time outdoors. The fingertips were slightly coarse, as if he was no stranger to physical activity. Or did it come from his fighting manoeuvres that she had watched in the middle of the night? Annabelle felt the heat rise under her light day dress.
He lifted his head. She had always believed that his eyes were of a purely blue tone, but now that he was so unfamiliarly close to her, she recognised hazelnut-coloured speckles in his irises.
“No,” she finally warded off his gratitude. Had she not just been in a rage a few minutes ago, for him not having said anything of the sort? Annabelle was surprised by herself. “There is no reason to thank me. What else should I have done? Watch while the attacker injured or even killed you?”
A slight contraction of his brows was the only sign of his irritation. “For instance.”
“That is absurd,” the words burst out of her. She looked down and saw that he had removed the bandage completely. The cut was neither too deep nor too long to be cause for worry. She had seen far worse injuries in her parent’s house, starting with burns from hot fat in the kitchen splashed across the arm of a scullery maid through to a stable boy’s broken leg. Somehow, Annabelle always managed to sojourn right where these things occurred, and which a normal young lady should better not have seen.
“Why would that be so absurd?” he asked in a husky voice, while turning her hand back and forth searchingly. “Should I die, you will inherit most of my fortune. The Grandover male lineage has been wiped out, and whatever doesn’t fall to the crown will pass into your possession.”
“But…” Annabelle stumbled. “That is impossible. Surely, there is a distant relative who will inherit the title, the money, and the land. Aside from that,” she straightened her posture and ignored the prickly sensation on her skin that his close physical proximity caused her, “the assumption that I married you for your wealth is cruel and entirely out of place.” For a moment, St. John looked into her eyes before he pulled a clean piece of mull from inside his bag and bega
n to wrap her hand in it.
There it was again, the coldness. What had triggered it? This time, she would not be satisfied with excuses! “I could just as well accuse you of only marrying me for my dowry. That would be equally preposterous.”
“We both know that I do not need your dowry to be able to afford a comfortable lifestyle,” he countered. “Nor the lands, which your honourable father was generous enough to consign over into my name.”
“What… what lands are you talking about? That is the first time I have heard about it.”
“Maybe he and Greywood wanted to make sure that I did not choose the less disreputable route of cancelling the wedding.” He let go of her hand. Where his warm fingers had just touched her, her skin now felt cold. “Tell me, Annabelle, what do you have to do with Greywood?”
“What is it always with you and Viscount Greywood? I realise that you detest him, but to assume that he and my father somehow orchestrated this wedding is laughable. My father doesn’t even know him particularly well. And why would the viscount be so interested in our marrying?” The shadows in his eyes grew, and before he could turn back into the distant, arrogant man he was most of the time, Annabelle quickly added: “Have you ever considered what this groundless suspicion says about you?” She took a deep breath. Suddenly, she was unsure whether to tell St. John what she was truly thinking, but she realised that it was already too late. His full attention was focused on her. He would not tolerate a lie or an attempt at evasion.
“Do you really think so little of yourself that a peacock such as the viscount and a weak woman like me could prompt you into doing something you do not want?”
She held her breath. There was a gushing sound in Annabelle’s ears. The breath escaped her when St. John, all of a sudden, loomed threateningly in front of her. How did he do that? In one moment, he had just stood there and looked at her – not friendly, but at least like a living, breathing, thinking being – and in the next one, he was the threat personified. Was it because of the combat training that made him change as fast as lightning?
The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy Page 7
