Rowland nodded, his jaw working as he shifted the pipe about in his mouth. After taking another long pull on it, he took the pipe in hand and exhaled, a long stream of smoke billowing upward as if from a chimney.
“When I married Lady Edith, I did not much mind that she came with a daughter. I had my heir, and my wife would manage her own child … or so I thought. But then, the countess died.”
Niall looked away from the earl, gazing out at Dunvar House. He recalled Lady Edith’s death, mostly because of how it had devastated Adam and Olivia. He did not think they had recovered, even all these years later.
“I was left with the burden of raising her, which is quite a singular task for a widower of the ton. Raise her, provide for her, educate her, marry her off. It has been my goal from the beginning—making a good match for Olivia. It has not been easy. You know how willful she can be. I have spent years trying to train these defiant tendencies out of her. The school I sent her to is one of the strictest for young ladies in England, and still, I discover her sneaking off for trysts with a stable boy.”
Niall gritted his teeth and fought not to remind the earl that he had not been a boy in quite some time. It would not do to anger the man any more than he already had.
“In a little more than a fortnight, Olivia will leave for her first Season,” Rowland continued. “It will be made clear to her that she is not to return without having accepted an offer of marriage.”
He was surprised his teeth did not grind down to dust from how hard he clenched his jaw, the urge to strike this man overwhelming. It was one thing to send Olivia to London as if she were some sort of commodity to be sold upon the Marriage Mart. It was quite another for him to impose such a burden upon her.
The earl met his gaze, a hard gleam darkening his hazel eyes. “That cannot happen if you do not put a stop to this.”
Niall frowned, now baffled as well as annoyed. “Me, Master?”
“Yes, you. I am not daft. As much as it would please me to let you go, send you away, and make certain she knows I did it because of your little … affair … we both know it would never work. It would only cause her to love you more, and I will not send her off to London sulking and pining after you. I will not suffer her moods and anger toward me, shouldering the blame for tearing the two of you apart. Instead, you are going to do the tearing.”
The realization of what the earl was commanding him to do left a bitter taste in Niall’s mouth.
“I willnae hurt her.”
“You can hurt her and give her a chance to go on to make a good match,” Rowland ground out, turning to face him with a sneer. “Or, I can cut you loose and ensure you never find work in any fine home in Scotland or England ever again. Then, I will ship Olivia off to the most far-flung convent I can find, where she will take vows and remain out of your reach for good.”
For the first time during their conversation, the cold tentacles of dread overwhelmed the flames of anger simmering inside his body. They gripped his heart with icy fingers, spreading their chill to the far reaches of his soul. He could see this was no mere threat. The earl meant to make good on his word.
“Make certain she understands that things are over between the two of you,” Rowland added. “Make it convincing. If Olivia leaves for her Season without fuss or incident … then, you may keep your post providing I never catch you acting in an unseemly way again. Do we understand one another?”
Niall wanted to tell the man to sod off, that he loved Olivia and would run away with her to get married. He wanted to plant the man a facer, take him to the ground and pummel him for all the hurt and neglect he’d subjected Olivia and Adam to over the years.
But, as he stood there, an overwhelming numbness took hold of him, robbing him of anger, despair, sadness. He could only feel resignation now, the realization that this had been inevitable foremost in his mind.
Of course this was bound to happen. His father had told him as much, hadn’t he?
What do I always tell ye?
Fine things aren’t to be touched by the likes o’ me.
He had allowed himself to believe Olivia could be his, when they had truly never stood a chance. Here was a man who had the power to hurt his Livvie, to make her life a living hell, all because she dared to love him. Niall could not allow that to happen. He had always shielded her from harm. If ever he was given the chance to stand before her and accept the fall of the sword that would harm her, he would choose to do so every time. She had called him her perfect knight, and he would uphold the expectations of such a title. He would fall on the sword, and he would tear them apart and pray that she found some way to be happy in the end. It did not matter if it killed him; if she still stood any sort of chance for a future, he would do his part to ensure she had it.
“Aye, Master,” he said, placing his hand in the earl’s offered palm. “I understand.”
Shaking his hand, Rowland nodded. “Good. I expect it to be done soon. Do not force me to remind you of your promise.”
Niall only answered with a bow, then stood watching as the earl strode toward the house. Turning back to the stable, he released a heavy sigh, one hand coming up to rub the tense muscles of his neck.
He stood so far away from where he’d been just an hour ago. He had gone from planning a future with Olivia, to reconciling himself with destroying that very same future. Instead of running off with her, he’d send her running from him in tears. It was the only way. Somewhere deep down, he had always known it would end badly for them. At least, this way, Olivia might escape this unscathed. Or, if not unscathed, still intact, at least. She could find love again, forgetting all about him.
And Niall would go on to live life as he’d always been meant to live it—lonely, miserable, and suffering.
CHAPTER EIGHT
fter she had overcome the worst symptoms of withdrawal, Olivia began working tirelessly to regain her strength. It was as if, now that the fog of laudanum had lifted, she could see the world, the people in it, and herself far clearer.
Things were not perfect; she had not been cured of the malady of her mind as far as she could tell. Even so, she felt stronger now, more capable of fighting it, or living with it—whichever came easier at any given moment. Her dreams were still plagued by frightening tricks of her subconscious mingled with her memories. She could not close her eyes without being tormented by her demon, his clawed fingers smeared with her blood, dark malice glittering in his hard, cold eyes. She could not sleep without the voice of the dragon echoing through her head, calling her a whore, condemning her to Hell for having become pregnant out of wedlock.
Despite that, she rose each morning determined to find peace in her waking hours, making her way to some place where she could live without fear, or doubt, or pain. Her body had been weakened by her bout of withdrawal, requiring her to take her time leaving the sickbed. She sent Maeve to the kitchen each morning for a substantial breakfast, forcing herself to eat every bite so she would have a full belly to rely on for strength. Then, she insisted upon leaving the bed to bathe, dress, and walk. Clutching tight to the arm of whomever had been chosen to attend her, she attempted to make her way farther beyond her bedchamber each day.
The betrayal of her own body was frustrating, but she grew more and more determined not to let it stop her. She had been frail and helpless for so long, drowning in her own misery. Now, she wanted nothing more than to swim to the surface, pull herself up out of the mire, and stand upon her own two feet.
A physician had come to inspect the gouges in her arms, declaring he was happy with the rate at which they’d begun healing. The stitches still itched like the very devil, but the time had not come to remove them. Aside from that minor annoyance, the pain had grown far less noticeable, only pestering her when she dwelled on it overmuch—which actually proved to be a good thing, at times. The pain reminded her of what was real; that she was not only alive, but living.
Niall remained steadfastly at her side through it all—holding
her during the nights when her hellish nightmares awakened her so she felt safe, brightening her room with flowers brought from the garden, ensuring she got to spend as much time with Serena as possible. Seeing the two of them seated on the edge of her bed, smiling and laughing as they related the events of their day to her, made her heart pang with a bittersweet ache.
She had always imagined moments like this, with Niall and a child that was theirs, with laughter and love and happiness. Seeing the way Serena adored him, the way Niall treated her as if she were his own … it made her want to smile and weep all at once. Despite the heartwarming picture they made, the truth of their situation was never far from her mind. Too much had happened for her to ever forget that nothing had turned out the way she’d dreamed. Niall was not her husband, and Serena, who she loved so dearly, was not theirs. Not by blood, or by any sort of physical or familial bond, anyway. There would always be the startling show of red hair and freckled cheeks to remind them both exactly where Serena had come from.
It left her wondering if it might not be too late for her and Niall; if even after she’d begun to feel more like herself, they might still be doomed to remain apart. A younger, more whimsical Olivia might have said that nothing was impossible, and of course she and Niall still stood a chance. Perhaps a part of her still believed that, as the young, idyllic woman who’d fallen in love with a stable groom could never be completely snuffed out by all that had been done to her. However, now older and wiser, she could not help dwelling on all that had happened to keep them apart, their past deeds and the consequences of them stretching between them like a wide, deep ocean.
As she would lay abed, snuggling Serena close to her side while Niall read to them each night before bed, a part of her could not help clinging to the future they had planned together. The one in which they ran off to live their own life neatly tucked away from the world, where they could raise their children in peace, loomed so far out of her reach. Still, she wanted it, held out hope that it could someday cease being a dream and become real.
However, her hope was a fragile one—as tentative and weak as the newly tested legs of a baby deer. It had not become strong enough for her to rely upon it, to rest her faith in it … because experience had taught her that every time she’d thought she might finally have what she wanted with Niall, something would inevitably happen to destroy it, tearing them apart.
She was not certain if, this time, she would have the strength to survive it.
1814
Five years earlier…
Olivia glanced left and right as she entered the stable, her heart lifting as she realized no one else was about. It had been her hope to find Niall alone so she could discover whether he’d had time to plan their elopement. Days had passed since their last night in the hayloft, the night they had agreed to throw caution and propriety to the wind so that they could be together. She had awakened just before sunrise, finding that Niall still slept beside her. After pressing a kiss to his brow, she had risen to dress, hurrying from the stable so that she could sneak back into her own chambers before anyone was the wiser. She had been a bit more reckless than usual, spending most of the night with Niall instead of going back to her own bed after a few hours of passionate exploration. However, she hadn’t had it in her to feel fear or trepidation over it; not after the decision they had just come to. Nothing mattered any longer—not society’s expectations of her, or her stepfather’s plans for her life. None of it mattered because, soon, she was going to be Niall’s wife, and the only thing she would need concern herself with was his happiness.
A little laugh bubbled up in her throat as she entered the stable, the familiar scent of horse and hay wafting up her nostrils. She did not think she had ever been so happy, or felt so free. For so long, she had been aware that her life must happen a certain way, her course charted before she’d been old enough to have a say. She’d accepted this because she hadn’t known any better, hadn’t experienced what it was to wonder what could happen next, where her own choices could take her. Now, she would know. Life with Niall might be riddled with uncertainties and difficult decisions, but what mattered most was that they would navigate those things together. If she’d be forced to abandon her way of life, leaving behind everything she’d ever known, Niall was the only person she’d want to do that with.
The setting sun cast a muted orange glow into the dim interior of the stable. She found Niall coming from one of the stalls, a saddle held over one big shoulder, his long legs propelling him toward the set of sliding doors that opened the stable up to the carriage house. Even with his back turned to her, she could see the tension stiffening his shoulders and clenching his free hand into a tight ball at his side. Something troubled him.
“Niall,” she called out, hurrying toward him with skirts held in hand. “I’ve been trying to find you alone for days.”
He paused in the opening to the carriage house, and if she weren’t mistaken, he tensed even more, his entire body winding taut. She frowned as he stood with his back to her for a moment without speaking or turning around, his head lowering slightly and his clenched hand opening and closing in rhythmic spasms. Something was definitely wrong.
“Niall?”
He dropped the saddle to the ground, sending a small cloud of dust wafting up into the air. With a heavy sigh, he turned to face her, his face hard and expressionless as if carved from granite. For reasons she could not understand, her stomach lurched, her heartbeat quickening at the sight of him. Having known him all of her life, Olivia had seen Niall in just about every mood imaginable. She had been witness to his anger and rage, his sadness, his grief following the death of his mother. She’d seen him smiling and laughing; she had even seen him weep. But this … she had never seen him like this—his mouth a harsh line, eyes ringed with dark circles, forehead furrowed with deep lines. He appeared to have aged by years in a matter of days, the grave expression he wore reminding her too much of her stepfather.
“Ye shouldnae be in here,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and staring down at her in a way that made her blood run cold.
What the devil was the matter with him?
“Why not? I thought you might have come up with a plan for … well, you know.”
She did not want to say it aloud on the chance someone happened upon them. There was another reason she could not say it, though she still did not fully understand. This dread opening like a yawning, black pit in her middle warned her that something had gone terribly awry.
A muscle in his jaw clenched as he took a step toward her, his gaze cutting through her with all the sharpness of a dagger. “Ye cannae think I really meant any of that, could ye?”
A gasp burned in her throat, trapped there by the tightening of her airway. Something indescribable traveled through her, like ripples over the surface of a pond. It made her head spin and her mouth go dry, confusion swirling with hurt inside of her in a torrent.
“Wh-what do you mean?” she stammered. “You said …”
“I told ye we cannae do somethin’ so stupid,” he snapped. “Then, ye wouldnae leave well enough alone, so I said what I thought ye wanted to hear, Livvie. But we both know it was ridiculous. Us, get married? It’ll never happen.”
Her eyes stung with tears that would not come, a sudden coldness washing over her like the blast of a winter wind. A thousand icicles seemed to penetrate the surface of her skin, making it difficult to feel anything beyond the sick sensation of betrayal.
“I do not understand. I … you … I thought you loved me. You said—”
“God, yer a green one, aren’t ye? I’da said anything to get ye to spread yer legs for me.”
In the far reaches of her mind, a part of her railed and screamed, urging her to hit him, to lash out and hurt him the way he’d just hurt her. But, she could only stand there, dumbfounded, feeling as if she stared at some other person. This man saying such horrible things to her … he was not her Niall.
“Why are you doing
this?” she whispered as the first of her tears fell.
If at all possible, his expression hardened even more, his upper lip curling as he loomed over her. “Because it has to be done. We had fun, Livvie, but it was never meant to last. Ye know that. It’s over now, ye ken?”
She sniffled, shaking her head as another tear fell, and then another, the hot splash searing her face, her throat, wetting the neckline of her gown. “I do not believe you. You love me, Niall. I know you do. You’re just afraid. What we’re about to do … it is frightening. But, we will be all right. We have each other, we … we can do this.”
He took hold of her, his fingers biting into her arms as he drew her up until they were nearly nose to nose, her feet just barely touching the ground. “Ye just dinnae get it, ye little fool. I’m done with ye now. Go away!”
She gripped the front of his shirt and held fast, not caring now how ridiculous she might look or sound. He could not do this, not when they had been so close to finally being happy together. She was convinced this was fear talking; he did not truly mean the things he said. He was trying to push her away, the noble idiot. He thought hurting her would make it easier, that if he made her hate him, it would be over for good. Little did he know she could not have hated him if she’d tried with every fiber of her being.
“No. I will not go away. Not when I know you do not really mean any of it. You are afraid, and so am I. But, we cannot give in to it, Niall. We have to face it, overcome it together. And I know that we can do it, you and I. You are still my strong, fearless knight … I know you are. And I … I love you.”
He made a little shocked sound, his face shifting for just a moment before he schooled it into its hard mask again—as if he hadn’t meant to display his astonishment. She had never said the words to him aloud because, like Niall, she had been petrified. Why should she confess her love when she’d be forced to leave him in the end? Perhaps he had always known. She liked to believe he had. But, she needed him to understand, to hear what she’d never said but had always understood. She felt as if she’d been born to love him and belong to him.
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