by Laura Landon
“My lord?”
He said nothing. His mind rushed with emotions he couldn’t control or explain. She was safe. Not unharmed . . . but . . . alive.
He stepped into the room with his arm outstretched and his fingers reaching for the gauzy collar she wore. Material that didn’t belong there. Fabric she’d fashioned to hide whatever was beneath it.
With trembling fingers he pulled the material away, not caring if he ripped the gown to which it was attached. He got his first glimpse of what he’d done to her.
The bruises were faint yet. It had only been a matter of hours. But in time they would darken and turn ugly shades of purple and blue and black. The imprints of his fingers were stamped over her tender flesh, the pain he’d inflicted evident. Marks that showed him for the monster he was.
He couldn’t imagine the terror she’d felt. The fear she must feel for him even now.
He backed away from her until his back collided with the closed door. Then he dropped his head back until it struck the hard wood behind him.
He tried to look upward, toward the heavens, toward any hope of help, but there was no help for him. He closed his eyes to block out the torture.
“My lord—” she attempted.
He held up his hand to stop her. He couldn’t allow her to make excuses for him. Wouldn’t tolerate her making what he’d done less horrific.
“Go to your room, Mrs. Moore. You will have today off. And tomorrow. And . . .”
His words went unfinished.
Unable to meet her gaze, he turned and left the room.
He couldn’t face what he’d done to her. Couldn’t come to grips with the beast he’d become.
For the first time since he’d barely survived being held captive he doubted that he truly had . . .
. . . survived.
. . .
By the second day of her confinement, Isobel feared she might go insane. The staff refused to allow her to leave her room. They said they were on strict orders from Holmes. That after His Lordship had seen her yesterday morning, he’d informed Holmes that she was ill. She was not allowed to leave her room until he determined she was well enough to resume her duties.
This was absurd, of course. Isobel wasn’t ill. She was as hale and hearty as the rest of the staff . . . except for the ugly bruises on her neck, which she kept concealed.
Isobel paced her room, then stopped at the window to look out. Dusk had almost settled over the countryside. She didn’t know that two days could be so interminable. Didn’t know that it was possible to tire of looking at the same four walls in such a short amount of time. But here you had it. She was afraid she might scream in frustration.
When she feared she couldn’t take one more minute of being confined, a knock on the door caused her to turn. At her bidding, the door opened, and Nell stood with a tray in her hands.
“Mrs. Moore,” she said, entering the room. “Cook thought you might enjoy a cup of tea and a small sandwich before you retired for the night. She said you didn’t hardly touch your dinner.”
Isobel looked at the tray, and, although she wasn’t hungry, she didn’t want to hurt Nell’s feelings by sending it away. “Thank you, Nell. Please, place it on the desk. And tell Cook thank you.”
Nell smiled. “Yes, Mrs. Moore. Cook will appreciate that. She asked if there was anything else you needed.”
“No, Nell. Except perhaps your company for a moment.” Isobel pointed to an extra chair beside the desk.
Nell’s eyes brightened. “I’d be delighted. I imagine it gets lonely being in your room without anyone to talk to.”
“Yes, it does.” Isobel sat in the other empty chair. “So, tell me, what news is there from below?”
“Nothing much, Mrs. Moore. Cook had another row with the butcher. She claims he delivered the wrong cut of meat.”
“Did he?”
Nell smiled. “I reckon he did, Mrs. Moore. But all of us know he most likely wanted an excuse to come call on Cook, and he knows he’ll get a summons from Cook the minute she notices his mistake.”
Isobel smiled. “And what about the staff? Are they continuing with their duties?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Moore. Everything is running as smoothly as if you was there making sure we all did our jobs. Holmes said you’d no doubt sack any slacker the minute you were better.”
Isobel lowered her gaze. She hated to be thought of as a tyrant.
“You don’t need to worry, though, Mrs. Moore. No one really believes you’d do that. They know Holmes only said that to make sure the work got done.”
Isobel considered her next words. She needed to ask about the marquess. Needed to find out if he was all right. If there was anything she should know.
She’d seen how he’d reacted when he’d seen her neck. Seen how disturbed he’d been when he realized what he’d done. For the past two days she’d done nothing but worry about him and wonder how he was handling it.
“And . . .” She paused. “ . . . His Lordship? Has someone seen to his tea and pastry every morning?”
Nell met Isobel’s inquiry with silence.
A look of unease washed over the maid’s face. She was uncomfortable talking about His Lordship.
“Is His Lordship unwell?”
“I . . .” Nell clenched her hands in her lap and wrung her fingers. “I . . .” The maid released a painful sigh. “Oh, Mrs. Moore. We’re all so worried.”
“What is it, Nell? Has something happened?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t talk about it. I know I shouldn’t. But with you being the housekeeper and all. Well, I can’t see where it would hurt.”
“Of course not, Nell. If something’s wrong, I need to know.”
“Oh, it’s just that . . . oh, Mrs. Moore, His Lordship has locked himself in his study and hasn’t come out for two days.”
A painful weight settled inside Isobel’s chest and squeezed around her heart.
“Every bite of food Holmes takes to him comes back untouched. And Toby’s been sent to the cellar more times than we can count for more bottles of brandy.”
Isobel rose. Her legs threatened to give out from beneath her, and she reached out to steady herself when the room shifted.
“And he hasn’t slept. Two days, Mrs. Moore. And he refuses to close his eyes.” Nell’s eyes filled with tears. “Toby says if His Lordship will just fall asleep, mayhaps they can move him to his room, and Boswick can look after him. But His Lordship refuses to let anyone in the room.” Nell swiped at a tear that spilled over her lashes. “He even threw an empty bottle at Holmes when he suggested His Lordship try to get some rest.”
Isobel found herself at the window. The sky was dark now. All hint of light gone. Only the stars twinkled above, as if they had something to sparkle about. She didn’t know what that might be.
“Thank you for telling me, Nell,” Isobel said.
“Of course, Mrs. Moore. I wager you needed to know.”
Isobel watched the maid rise and go to the door. “Where is His Lordship now?” she asked before the maid left.
“Still there, Mrs. Moore. Still in his study.”
Isobel waited until the door closed behind the maid. Then she waited until she was sure the house had gone to sleep.
Then she did what she’d always known she’d have to do.
She went to him.
Chapter 16
When Isobel was certain she wouldn’t be seen, she left her room to go to the study. She should be nervous. She should be terrified. She should remain in her room where she’d be safe.
But she couldn’t.
From the first night when she’d gone to him, then after the day when they’d spent time alone together, then after he’d kissed her in the kitchen, she’d known separating herself from him wasn’t a possibility. They were connected. On some level far beyond the surface, deep inside her soul, they were connected to each other.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and walked with slow, steady steps toward him.
The door to the study was closed, but a light shone beneath the door. Holmes was keeping watch.
“Mrs. Moore?”
“Yes, Holmes. Is His Lordship inside?”
“Yes, Mrs. Moore, but I can’t allow you to enter.”
“Holmes,” she said in a soft, determined whisper. “You cannot stop me. For His Lordship’s sake, you mustn’t try.”
The butler’s eyes widened in . . . what? Surprise?
“You won’t be safe, Mrs. Moore. You know what His Lordship is like when . . . well, when. Boswick says you’ve seen what happens to him. That you’ve experienced his anger.”
“Yes, Holmes. I’ve experienced it, and I know that if we don’t do whatever is necessary now, the nightmares will destroy him.”
“But—”
She held up her hand. “Stay here. I’ll call if I need you.”
Isobel reached for the knob and opened the door.
The room appeared empty, and at first she didn’t think he was there. How humorous it would be if Holmes had been standing watch outside a vacant room. Then she saw him.
He stood in a darkened corner of the room with his back pressed against the walls on either side of him and a glass in his hands. He didn’t start when he heard her but slowly turned his head as if needing time to focus on her. She knew the second he realized she was there.
He laughed.
“Ah, Mrs. Moore. I wondered how long it would take you to come.”
His words slurred. His hands trembled. Liquid sloshed from his glass when he lifted it to take a drink.
That was as much as she noticed. The lighting wasn’t bright enough to see anything else, except to notice his disheveled state.
He wore no cravat or jacket. His white lawn shirt was no longer crisp but wrinkled beyond redemption. It hung loose from his pants and gaped open nearly to his waistband in the front.
His hair was wild and uncombed, and several golden strands fell across his forehead. A growth of stubble shadowed his face, making him appear rugged and unkempt. He was the most magnificently male human she’d ever seen. He was the most handsome man God had ever created. The sight of him tugged at her heart.
She took a step toward him.
“Get out, Mrs. Moore. Go to your room.”
His slurred words made his demands less effective, but the stony contempt was unmistakable.
He tried to push himself out of the corner but failed on the first attempt. The second try yielded no better results, and he gave up and remained where he was. He emptied his glass instead.
Isobel decided it wasn’t wise for her to go near him. Instead, she stepped to a cluster of furniture that included a small sofa and two chairs and quietly sat.
“I said go! Leave me alone!”
She ignored him and remained in her chair.
Her refusal to follow his order angered him. With a low growl, he pushed himself from the darkened corner and staggered toward her.
He stumbled against a side table but righted himself before he lost his balance. When he neared her, he reached out as if he intended to forcefully remove her.
Isobel held out her hand in warning. “Don’t touch me.”
Her words had the desired effect. He pulled back as if she’d struck him. As if her implication was that she thought he might attack her . . . again.
He staggered slightly, then swayed as he struggled to stay on his feet.
“Sit, my lord.” She pointed to the sofa across from her. “You’ve battled this calamity long enough.”
His bark of laughter surprised her as he slumped onto the sofa.
“What do you know of my battle?”
“I know that it is destroying you. I know that whatever happened to you, you cannot face the magnitude of it alone. I know that its power is gaining control over you with every episode.”
“And you think you can fight my battle for me?”
“No, my lord. Not for you. With you. You don’t need to fight this battle alone.”
He laughed again.
Although the sound contained little confidence, neither was it filled with as much disbelief as before.
“You think that if I share my ugly secret with you, my nightmares will disappear?”
“No, my lord. I am not asking you to reveal anything you do not wish to share. I am simply saying that you’ve been alone with your demons long enough. You need to rest.”
He swiped his hand over his face, which muffled his words. But she understood them.
“They return when I sleep. I need to stay awake.”
“Then allow me to stand guard for you. I will keep watch. At the first sign your demons have come, I’ll wake you. You can destroy them before they gain a hold on you.”
He dropped his head to his hands and breathed a heavy sigh. “I’m so weary of fighting these battles.”
“I know you are, my lord. You have every right to be. They’ve gone on far too long as it is.”
“I can’t tell you what happened . . . to me,” he slurred.
“No, my lord. You need to guard that secret until you’re ready to give it up.”
Isobel watched him struggle with the conflicting emotions raging inside him. He’d fought so long and hard he could barely keep his eyes open. He seemed about ready to collapse from exhaustion. And the amount of liquor he’d consumed.
“Close your eyes, my lord. Lean back against the cushions and rest.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You can.” She rose and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “Lay your head in my lap. I’ll stay awake and keep guard. The second the nightmares come, I’ll wake you.”
“You’re not safe.”
“I’ll be safe,” she assured him. “Lay your head down, just for a few minutes.”
He looked at her. The pain in his eyes tore at her heart. The raw emotion was nearly unbearable to watch.
His shoulders sagged. His entire body seemed to collapse into itself as he slowly allowed himself to give in to his exhaustion. He lowered his head to her lap and closed his eyes.
“You should leave me,” he whispered as he reached for her hand. His grip was secure.
“No, my lord. I am where I belong.”
She held his hand in hers and didn’t loosen her hold.
It took only moments before he was asleep, whether from fatigue or from the excessive amount of alcohol he’d consumed.
Isobel kept watch as she’d promised him she would. She brushed several golden strands from his forehead then allowed herself to smooth his mussed hair. She needed to touch him. Needed the contact to feel any indication that he was becoming restless.
Sometime later, perhaps an hour, perhaps longer, Holmes opened the door a crack to check on her. When he saw His Lordship was asleep, he placed a cover over him and another over her shoulders.
“Go to bed, Holmes,” she whispered. “His Lordship will sleep, now.”
“Someone will be outside if you need them,” he whispered. But she knew she wouldn’t need to call anyone. As long as the Marquess of Halverston held her hand, he would be all right.
. . .
Alex didn’t know how long he’d slept, or even what day it was. He felt like hell, but of course he would. He deserved to feel like hell. He deserved to ache as if he’d been trampled in the cow pen. He deserved his head to throb as if it were being cleaved in two. He deserved to have little recollection of what had transpired before he’d drunk himself into oblivion. Except, as if to prove to him how cruel life could be, he wasn’t blessed enough to recall nothing.
Unfortunately, he remembered nearly everything that had happened. Or at least enough to be consumed by humiliation.
He opened his eyes. Not enough to face the day. Not yet. That would be impossible. He slit them open just enough to take in his surroundings.
He was still in his study. He remembered coming here when he’d seen the marks he’d left on Lady Isobel’s neck. Marks that matched the imprint of his
fingers.
He remembered the first drink he’d taken afterward to forget. And the second . . . and third.
No matter how hard he’d tried, or how much liquor he’d poured into his body, his mind refused to block out the fact that he could have killed her. That he became violent enough during his nightmares that he was capable of the most horrendous crimes imaginable.
He tried not to move, even though what he wanted most was to bolt to his feet and run as far away from the truth as possible. Instead, he stiffened as if his body knew he had no place to go where the truth would not follow him.
He was stretched out on the sofa, where he’d undoubtedly spent the night. He stirred. Enough to shift his position. That’s when he realized he wasn’t alone. She was here. Lady Isobel. Which meant she’d stayed with him all night. Which meant she’d seen him in a drunken stupor and hiding out like some pathetic wretch. Which meant she knew how mortified he was that he couldn’t gain control over his night terrors.
Which meant she’d seen him at his weakest.
Every muscle in his body tightened as he fought the ravages of embarrassment.
“Are you waking?” she whispered ever so softly.
He lifted his head from her lap and rolled to a sitting position.
He was unable to sit upright. He slumped over and dropped his head to his hands. A painful moan was all the answer he could give.
She shifted, then miraculously handed him a cup filled with coffee. Somehow, he managed to get the cup to his mouth without spilling too much, and drank.
His next moan was one of appreciation rather than pain.
“How long . . . have I . . . slept?”
“Two days.”
“Have you been here . . . the entire . . . time?”
“You seemed to be more comfortable when I was.”
Alex finished the coffee in his cup, and she took it from his hands. She replaced it with a full cup.
Alex drank the second cup much slower than the first. He needed time to decide how to proceed. He needed time to come to grips with the fact that Lady Isobel—for that is how he thought of her now, not Mrs. Moore, never again as Mrs. Moore—was aware of his nightmares.
“You shouldn’t have stayed with me,” he rasped in a voice that croaked from lack of use. And abuse. “You put your life in danger.”
