Then, that accursed bottle was back, being pressed to her lips. She’d shaken her head to avoid it, but once the laudanum flooded her mouth, she had latched onto it like a babe suckling at her mother’s breast. Her throat had convulsed as she’d swallowed it, its taste sweet and medicinal, familiar and poisonous all at once.
She had come and gone, the pain bringing her back, the laudanum putting her under. She could remember leaving Dunnottar, being in a carriage, then an inn, then the carriage once again. Maeve had always been present, armed with her bottle of laudanum.
And so, here she lay in a townhome in London—one she had never resided in, but felt safe in, nonetheless. Her Niall was here, which meant Adam must be, as well. It was all she needed to know. If they were here, she would be cared for. Together, they could always be relied upon to keep her out of the doldrums. They had left her, and she’d found her own way out this time. She doubted they would approve of her methods. What else was she to have done when the substance that had once been her succor was now becoming her destruction? A thing that had previously rescued her from the terrors of her mind now forced her to drown in it, holding her under like a rough hand upon the back of her neck.
A commotion from outside the chamber drew her attention, and she glanced toward the door. Was Niall returning to her bedside? Where had he gone, anyway? She felt certain he could not have left so long ago, not after having just declared he did not intend to let her out of his sight.
Olivia had her answer when footsteps on the stairs seemed to shake the entire house, the heavy tread bringing someone down the corridor. A moment later, the panel swung open to admit someone—not Niall, but another person who made her heart ache and her eyes well with tears at the sight of him.
To others, Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor, proved an imposing man, a downright frightening one. As massive as a great oak, with a wide chest, long legs, and arms that looked as if they could crush a body with a single squeeze, he was built to carry the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. No one knew better than Olivia just how considerable that burden could be at times, her own condition comprising most of the heaviness. The unrelenting hurts he’d suffered—since birth, it seemed—had carved his face into one like stone—a stubborn jaw, sharp ridge of a nose, a hard, cruel mouth. Despite all that rigidity and darkness, his eyes always spoke the truth, as open and clear a path into his mind and heart as one could find.
Just now, as he approached the bed and studied her, the dark mahogany had taken over the tongues of green and gold fire, smothering them almost completely. He was saddened to find her like this, to be confronted with the evidence of what had happened at Dunottar in his absence.
For a long while, neither of them spoke, and she simply studied Adam, whom she had given the nickname Hart to years ago. She wasn’t certain why she referred to him by the shortened version of his title, but it had stuck and fit him as much as the overlong strands of dark hair hanging down his back. Her Hart, as well as her heart … one of only two men she could trust with her entire self. The one who had taken the place of the father she had never really had. Her own sire had died not long after her birth, and her mother, widowed and destitute, had quickly remarried, joining with Adam’s father. Rowland had provided well and seen to her practical needs, but as a fatherly figure, he’d been lacking. And so, Adam had become her light, her firm, guiding hand, her confidante and protector. For so long, he had been her only true family.
As he came toward the bed, his iron façade began to crack, the despair she’d caused showing through. His gaze shifted from her face to the linen bandages wrapped around her arms as he sank onto the bed beside her.
“Ah, butterfly,” he murmured, his deep, guttural voice tinged with just the slightest hint of a Scottish burr. “What have you done to yourself?”
She could only stare up him, her eyes stinging as she allowed him to take her hand, gingerly lifting her arm to begin unwinding the bandages. Her throat constricted, the guilt of distressing the people she loved washing over her. She hated making them worry. But, how could she help them understand that she hadn’t wanted to die? That she’d only been trying to come back to life somehow?
They thought her mad … deranged. Perhaps she was. Her thoughts certainly did not seem like those of a normal young woman. However, they felt true to her; they felt real and visceral and such a part of herself.
She watched him open her bandages, finding the pink stains on the strips closest to her skin, his eyes welling with tears she knew he would not shed. Adam had not wept since the day her mother had died, when they’d both been so young. He had already lost his own mother years prior, and had developed a closeness with his stepmother, a woman Olivia barely remembered. She knew that Lady Edith Callahan had been kind, warm, accepting of a boy who had not been her own son. Olivia could remember holding tight to Adam’s hand as they’d stood at her bedside and watched her take her last breath.
“I am sorry, my son,” she had said to Adam, before turning to tell Olivia that she loved her.
That young boy had lowered his head and shed tears for the last time, deep, painful sobs shaking his body, which had already been so much larger than others his age. From then, he had been unwavering in his stoicism. Olivia often wondered if he’d felt he had to be this way in order to care for her, to stand between the dangers of the world and the little girl he had loved as if they’d been born of the same womb.
For all his efforts, here she lay … tarnished, ruined, destroyed.
The last of the linen fell away, revealing her wounds, still ugly and ringed in bright red bruising, the stitches pulling and itching. A rough sound emitted from him, like a sob or a tortured growl, the sort of sound she might expect out of a wounded lion.
“Why, Livvie?” he rasped, shoulders shaking as if he sobbed.
But, when he raised his head to look at her again, there were no tears, only the tortured visage of her beloved brother.
“Why?” he demanded again, leaning into her, resting his head upon her shoulder and gathering her close.
His familiar scent enveloped her, cedar and the spicy aroma of the cheroots he loved so much. She rested her head on top of his, breathing him in, taking comfort in his presence. He and Niall were here … her two knights in shining armor. She did not have to do this alone any longer. They would help her fight her way back.
“The laudanum,” she whispered, trying to find the words to explain to him as she’d tried with Niall. “It takes everything away … all the feelings.”
In the first days following her return from the asylum for unwed mothers, she’d been in such a state, the physicians had recommended she be committed to an institution for the insane. She had no memory of this, but Adam had told her often enough that he would not see her languishing in one of those godforsaken places. The first bottle of laudanum had been left with them by the doctor, who’d claimed it could help keep her calm, dull the edges of the sharp swords impaling her heart, mind, and soul.
For a time, it had worked. It had allowed her to rest, to find peace in oblivion and escape from the nightmares. Now, she wondered if it might have been better to face her demons as opposed to running from them. It felt as if every time she turned around, there they stood, the dragon, the demon, that tall, cold tower … tormenting her, reminding her that they were real, that they had taken so much from her already.
“Aye, butterfly, I know,” Adam said, the affection heavy in his voice at the utterance of his nickname for her.
She shook her head; he did not know, he did not understand. “I just wanted … I wanted to feel again, Hart. I couldn’t feel anything.”
He drew back to meet her gaze, searching, trying to understand. She looked back at him, willing him to grasp the reality of her situation. If she continued on the way she had for the past five years, she would die.
After a long moment of silence, he nodded, resolute. “No more laudanum. Not unless you truly want it.”
A sigh o
f relief welled up in her chest, and she released it as a tear streamed down her cheek. Freedom, at last. No more having that awful drug forced down her throat … even when she craved it, even when she begged for it. If Adam declared something would be so, he would not change his mind. He would be here to ensure another drop of the potent draught never touched her lips again.
“No more laudanum,” she agreed with a smile.
And for the first time in so long, she felt the stirrings of hope deep in her soul.
“This will not be easy,” he told her as he began bandaging her arm, re-covering the wounds. “Your body will crave the laudanum. It won’t be pleasant.”
No, it would not be. Already, her hands had begun to shake, her insides quivering, the sensation of need gnawing upon her gut. She hadn’t had a swallow of the stuff all day, and it was beginning to take its toll. By morning, she would be a writhing, panting mess, desperate for even a drop. Thinking of the vibrant sting of pain, she smiled at him.
“I know … I want that, too.”
Adam nodded in understanding, which brought her even more relief. He lived in the shadows, reveling in his own inner pain. Surely, he could see that she needed this, to let it all consume her—the pain, the fear, the darkness. And then, perhaps, she could finally move forward with her life. Maybe she would never be the same, but then, she did not want to be Lady Olivia Goodall the perfect, porcelain doll again. She wanted to be something better, something stronger. She could never become that if she went on like this.
He’d just opened his mouth as if to reply when Niall appeared in the doorway behind him, his expression clouded with annoyance. Such an expression made the scar running across his left cheek stand out, white and strained against his sun-kissed skin. His hands balled into fists at his sides, causing his shoulders to strain the seams of his coat.
“Master, there is someone here demanding an audience with you.”
Adam scowled. “Whoever it is can sod off, Niall. Now is not the time—”
“Where is he?” screeched a woman’s voice from outside the room, carrying down the hall and into the bedchamber. “I will not be put off! Tell the bloody coward to come and face me!”
Olivia furrowed her brow and peered behind Niall to catch sight of whoever had come here looking for her brother. By the sound of things, Hart had done something to upset this woman. Adam was on his feet in a blink, his long legs carrying him swiftly to the door.
He disappeared for a moment, and from where she lay, Olivia could hear more shouting and screaming, her brother’s low, rumbling tones mingling with the woman’s high-pitched ones. Despite her own current predicament, she could not help the curiosity welling up in her at what sounded like a lover’s quarrel.
The past few weeks and months had been such a haze, but she could faintly remember that he’d had a guest at Dunottar recently … a woman who’d had the household servants whispering bits of gossip when they thought she was not listening. Their liaison was supposed to have ended three months prior, but, apparently, this was far from over.
Niall peered out into the corridor just as Hart’s voice came thundering toward them, loud and clear.
“Stay with Olivia. No laudanum!”
CHAPTER THREE
iall frowned as the door of the bedchamber slammed shut, the sounds of Adam shouting with his lover fading away as another door banged down the corridor. The Fairchild chit had his friend’s balls in the palm of her hand, and the idiot did not even realize it. Adam had pursued the woman with one purpose in mind—repay the family who had ruined Olivia by ruining their only daughter. His aims had been achieved after a thirty-day affair in Scotland had seen Lady Daphne Fairchild ruined, not only privately, but publicly. Their arrival in London had only further bolstered the rumors Hart had purposely spread so that not one member of the London ton could be left with any doubt that Daphne was a fallen woman.
However, even after all had been said and done, Adam could not free himself from the snare of the woman. Instead of focusing his energies upon the man who had forced himself on Olivia, he continued to pursue Daphne as a means to an end. And while Niall knew enough about high society to understand that any public blow against Daphne also counted as a strike against her brother, it was not enough. Lord Bertram Fairchild deserved to die for what he had done to Olivia, and even though watching Adam systematically destroy the entire family was satisfying, it could never be enough.
Turning to gaze at Olivia, he was struck by just how true that thought was. For the things that had been done to her and the hellish existence she had lived through in the aftermath, Bertram Fairchild could not pay enough.
“No laudanum?” he asked, striding toward the bed. “Did you decide that, or did he?”
They both knew Adam’s propensity for making decisions for the people around him—a habit sprung from the knowledge that he’d been born to command and rule. It often left little room for the people under his protection to decide things for themselves.
Olivia’s answer shocked him, as did her smile before she spoke. “I did. It is time, Niall. I have been dependent upon it for so long, and I … I do not know myself any longer. It has only made matters worse, not better.”
Coming back to his chair at her bedside, he removed his coat, hanging it over the back before sinking onto the seat. After unbuttoning his cuffs, he began rolling the sleeves to his elbows, settling in for the long night ahead. If Olivia was determined to shun laudanum, then she was going to need him at her side, alert and prepared for anything. She had relied on the drug for so long, her mind seeking relief in it.
However, as time went on, its effectiveness had become outweighed by its detrimental effects. Hallucinations, night terrors, paranoia and confusion … all were as much a part of their everyday lives as afternoon tea. Yet, every time they’d attempted weaning her off the drug, she’d become violently ill and begged to have it again. And so, the cycle had continued, with Olivia reeling from a state of melancholy to one of manic torment, her cries and screams echoing through the cavernous corridors of Dunnottar.
“Are you certain?” he asked, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, never breaking eye contact with her.
He did not want to insult her by assuming she was not coherent enough to make such a decision, but he would not want her to suffer needlessly. If, after all she had been subjected to, she happened to need laudanum to simply survive, then by God, no one would tell her she could not have it.
Arranging herself more comfortably amongst her pillows, she sank deeper under the coverlet, until only her face peered out at him, as innocent as the first time he’d seen her. Womanhood hadn’t stolen any of that doll-like sweetness from her visage. In fact, it had only enhanced it, causing her to appear like a sensual siren and a pure maiden all at once.
“This time, I am sure,” she told him. “I will need your help, Niall. I need my knight to stay with me, to help me fight my way through this.”
His chest tightened at the reminder that he was supposed to be her knight, her sentinel, her protector. He had let her down in the past. Even so, she still believed in him, relied on him, looked at him with the entire world in her eyes.
“Aye, mo gradh,” he vowed. “I am here, always. Ye know that.”
Giving him a little smile, she nodded, but then shuddered, pulling the bedclothes tighter around her. A light sheen of sweat had begun to break out along her hairline, and each time she swallowed, her throat clenched convulsively as if her mouth had gone dry. Already, she had begun to display signs of withdrawal.
Edging his chair closer to the bed, he observed the various items stored on her side table. Reaching into a bowl of cool water, he retrieved the scrap of linen, wringing it out before using it against her face. She sighed, closing her large, dark eyes as he smoothed the cloth over her forehead, dabbing away the sweat, then cooling the rest of her face. That finished, he found a pitcher of water for consumption and poured her a cup, leaning over to brace an arm bene
ath her body and prop her up so she could drink.
When she’d had enough, he lay her back against the pillows. As he replaced the cup on the nightstand, he caught sight of a stack of books. He identified them as hers by the scrap of old lace used to mark her place in the one sitting on top—an endearing habit of hers. Olivia hated creased pages and had been known to wedge things such as flowers, fabric, and bits of paper inside of whatever she might be reading in order to mark her place.
Picking up the topmost book, he read its title upon the cover and smiled. “Cecilia … an old favorite of ours.”
She nodded. “Would you read a bit of it to me, until I fall asleep?”
“Of course,” he said, opening the book to where she had laid her bit of lace.
Staring down at the words brought back a flood of memories—sneaking off to sit beneath a tree or on a garden bench, where she could read to him—fantastic tales of knights and princesses and fairies.
Before he could settle more comfortably in his chair to begin, Olivia shifted, turning down the bedclothes and staring up at him in a way that sent all the blood rushing straight to this groin. It was the look she’d given him when coaxing him into kissing her for the first time, or convincing him to take her out riding beyond the bounds of her stepfather’s estate, wild and reckless. It was the sort of look that almost always landed him in the best sort of trouble with her.
“Livvie,” he grumbled, attempting to put a scolding edge on his voice.
“I can hear you better if you are close,” she urged. “Besides, once I fall asleep, I always feel safer with you near. Please, Niall.”
He sucked in a long, slow breath and let it out on a sigh. Even in a lucid state of mind, she could not know what a torment it was for him to lie so close to her, holding her tight when she wore nothing more than the thin slip of a nightgown. She had no notion how much a bastard it made him feel for his body to come alive with desire at the touch of a woman who had been broken by lust.
The Butterfly Formatted Page 4
