“Drake, I am not letting you go. Come back to me. Now!”
His eyes flew open and he stared at her with a blank gaze.
Emmaline swallowed. He was still gone to her.
Drake shouted over and over, the piteous sound reverberated off the walls.
She registered the frantic footsteps outside their chamber. The door opened and then closed with a loud slam.
Emmaline looked to the entryway just as Drake roared. He threw his forearm out and elbowed her in the chin. The force of the blow knocked her over and tangled as she was in the sheets, Emmaline went reeling into the side of the nightstand. She fell from the bed; her hip struck the floor.
A blast of stars danced behind her eyes. Emmaline blinked back oblivion.
Sir Faithful whimpered and lapped her cheek with his coarse, pink tongue. It dragged Emmaline back from the edge of blackness.
“My lady? Are you all right?” Drake’s valet’s question came as if he spoke down a long hallway.
She couldn’t muster the appropriate humility over the impropriety of James viewing her en dishabille. Instead, she motioned to Drake. “Help me.” The words came out garbled.
When the valet, rushed to her side, his gaze averted from the sheet draped around her form, Emmaline shook her head. No, not me. Help me, help him. “Help him.” She forced the words out deliberate, one at a time.
Seeming torn, James hesitated, and then directed his attention to Drake.
Drake’s body stilled. Emmaline didn’t know whether the nightmare had run its course or whether her husband responded to the familiarity of James’ presence but his ragged breaths settled into a smooth, even pattern.
James pulled the coverlet over Drake. “May I be of assistance, my lady?” He very deliberately fixed his gaze on her husband.
“That is all,” she assured him. Her head continued to ache, but the dull throb had lessened. “Thank you, James.”
He nodded and made to take his leave and then, paused at the doorway, his back to her. “My lady, he is a good man.”
“I don’t need convincing of Lord Drake’s character,” she said, gently. She knew more about Drake than anyone suspected. She knew about Valiant and the men he’d saved. “I know he is a good man.”
James hesitated, as though there was something more he wished to say, but then bowed. “My lady.” He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.
James’ exit appeared to have a greater impact than all of Emmaline’s pleading.
Drake bolted upright. “Emmaline?”
***
Drake had to tell his mind that he was safely ensconced in his bedroom and not fighting for his life on the battlefields of the Peninsula.
He looked around the room and frowned. He’d acquiesced to Emmaline’s wishes and agreed to sleep with her. Where had she gone?
As if she’d heard his unspoken question, her voice called up to him. “Here.”
He peered about and then blinked back a fog of confusion. Why in hell was she on the…A surge of bile climbed up his throat and choked him. Knowing intuitively what he’d find, he leaned over. His fingers gripped the edge of the mattress and he clung to the material object, certain it was all that kept him from tumbling off into madness. Nausea roiled in his gut, nearly overwhelming him with its intensity. What have I done?
Drake clenched his eyes tight. He wanted to wail like the beast he was. His greatest fear, a fear now realized, stared up at him.
“Christ,” he hissed.
“I’m fine, Drake,” she whispered. A faint quaver underlined her words.
His gaze did a sweep of her form and settled on the large knot at her temple. The delicate skin had already begun to turn a purpling-black. It matched the bruise that had begun to form on her cheek.
Drake came off the bed in one fluid motion and dropped to his knees. “What have I done?”
With hands that shook, he inspected the damage he’d caused. He gently probed the lump near her temple. She flinched under his touch and his hands fell to his side. He was a monster. Oh, he’d allowed himself to believe in the weeks since they’d married that he’d begun to improve. He’d assured himself that the episodes were coming less frequently, his sleep less interrupted. He’d attributed it to her, she was his beacon. She gave him strength.
Drake now realized he’d deluded himself. What was worse than his self-delusion was that he’d put Emmaline in danger. Good God, he could have killed her. He abruptly fell onto his haunches, putting distance between him and Emmaline—physical and emotional. Wearily, he dropped his head to his hands.
“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me,” she repeated when he still didn’t acknowledge her.
Forcing himself to look at her, his stomach turned at the sight of her bruised face. “Forgive me?” he pleaded.
Emmaline’s lower lip quivered. She reached out a hand and he stared down at her unsteady fingers. “There is nothing to forgive, Drake.”
A hollow, mirthless laugh rang from his chest. “There is everything to forgive. I hurt you. I should have never married you.”
She flinched. “I love you.”
Drake gritted his teeth. “Love is not enough, Emmaline.”
Emmaline gasped and it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. He erected an emotionless wall of indifference.
Drake stood and helped her up. He guided her to the edge of the bed. Her full, red lips that would haunt him for the rest of his days parted, as if she intended to speak. “Not another word. We will finish this tomorrow. I am ringing for supplies to tend your—your…” He couldn’t finish.
“Drake…”
Drake spun on his heels and rang for a servant. Within moments, knuckles brushed the wood panel of the door and Drake yanked the door open. “I need strips of cloth and water.”
The servant bowed and beat a hasty retreat.
Drake took a slow, steadying breath and turned around to face his wife. His body recoiled the same way it had when he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder.
If Mallen could see her, Drake would be a dead man. A black laugh erupted from his lips, the sound eerie to his own ears.
“What are you thinking?” Emmaline whispered.
Drake ignored her. Mayhap that was what he should do. Call for the Duke of Mallen, let the man see his sister, then…his turbulent thoughts were interrupted by a perfunctory knock. In three strides, Drake crossed the room and pulled open the door.
Accepting the items from James without so much as a word of thanks, he shut the door with a quiet click.
Drake closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them, he trained his gaze on the wood panel of the door. The time of cowardice was at an end. In order to see to her injuries, he had to face her.
Taking a deep breath, he turned around.
With a soft tread, he crossed to the bed and eased the basin of water onto the nightstand. Then, gently, so as to hardly compress the mattress, he sat beside her.
With fingers that shook, he brought the compress to her cheek. He saw her effortful attempts not to flinch and his guilt swelled. “I am so sorry.”
Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I am fine.”
A mirthless laugh escaped him. “Yes, that lump and black bruise on your cheek are just fine.” He dipped a cloth into the basin. His jerky movements sent water over the sides of the white porcelain, and sprayed the floor.
“You don’t need to be so cavalier.”
He flung the cloth against the opposite wall and Emmaline flinched. The sopping fabric left a watery trail along the pale blue plaster. “Cavalier? You call me cavalier?” Beset by the hopelessness of it all, he leapt to his feet and began to pace. “This has all been a terrible mistake,” he said.
A flash of fury sparked in her brown eyes. “I understand you feel guilty. It is however, unpardonable for you to say such a thing.” Fury made her chest rise and fall swiftly, it reddened her cheeks. She stormed across the room and planted herself in
front of him. “How dare you say that?” She jabbed a finger at his chest.
Drake dragged a hand through his hair and fixed his stare at a point beyond her shoulder, unable to meet her accusing gaze. Fire fairly leapt in her eyes. Emmaline should be furious…but only with the fact that he’d subjected her to a life of dangerous uncertainty.
“We are not discussing this tonight,” he growled. He stepped around her and made his way toward the door. She followed close at his heels.
“You are not to walk away from this discussion,” Emmaline said.
He stopped so abruptly she careened into his back.
His spun around and his arms came up instinctively to right her. He steadied her and then dropped his arms by his side. He wasn’t fit to touch her. Drake swallowed back a wave of despair. “Good night, my lady.”
Drake beat a low, formal bow, and left.
Chapter 40
The next morning, Emmaline sat on the deep blue velvet sofa in Drake’s office. She’d read and re-read the same sentence of the volume in her hands. With a sigh, she set aside his copy of The Castle of Wolfenbach.
A bright stream of sunlight angled through the narrow opening in the curtains. Emmaline rubbed a hand over her eyes. She’d not been able to think of anything other than the moment Drake had walked out on her last evening. She had longed to go after him but had not wanted to push Drake when he’d been so clearly vulnerable. Instead, she had lain in bed, counting down the evening minutes until she’d eventually fallen into a restless slumber.
For surely the hundredth time since she’d entered his office that morning, Emmaline consulted the grating clock as it tick-tocked away on the fireplace mantle. Ten o’clock.
Where in blazes was he? He could be at Hyde Park? Why hadn’t she thought of the possibility sooner? She should have searched him out. And what, wander over all of London for her new husband? Oh, how the gossips would love that story.
On the heel of that thought came the realization that any hint of scandal where she and Drake were concerned would result in an appearance from her far too-overprotective brother. Therefore it was in her best interest to glean his whereabouts before the speculative ton did. She pressed her fingers along her temple line and then winced at the painful reminder of last evening.
He’d promised her they would speak in the morning. And instead, he’d left her. She battled down the hurt that tugged at her heart and fed the healthy anger that enlivened her. How dare he lie to her? She was not a child. She was his wife. Drake owed her a conversation.
Emmaline jumped to her feet, and rang for a servant. She paced back and forth until a servant arrived.
“My lady?”
“Will you ask Mrs. Brown to come here?”
The maid dipped a curtsy. “Of course, my lady.”
Emmaline rang her hands and walked over to the window. She pulled back the curtain and stared unseeing down into the bustling street below. A fashionably dressed couple caught her notice. With their arms linked, they strolled leisurely down the pavement and seemed unaware of the hurried movements of the strangers around them. The couple wore matching expressions of simple, uncomplicated adoration. An awful niggling of jealousy crept into Emmaline’s mind. How she longed for that. Not just for herself, but for her and Drake.
“My lady!” Mrs. Brown’s booming voice interrupted her musings.
Emmaline startled and turned to face the housekeeper. “Mrs. Brown, good morning to you. I was wondering if you had happened to see His Lordship today?”
Mrs. Brown’s eyes went wide and her big mouth quivered. “I certainly have, my lady.” Tears smarted behind the lady’s eyes and she dashed a hand across her cheeks.
A panicky fear clawed at Emmaline. Her fingers curled into tight balls at her sides, and she dug her nails into the pad of her palm so hard, she nearly drew blood. “What is it, Mrs. Brown? Is he unwell?”
The normally garrulous housekeeper remained silent, only serving to raise Emmaline’s sense of dread. With a determined step, she crossed over to Mrs. Brown and gripped the woman’s arm gently, but firmly.
The servant made a choked sound in her throat which added to Emmaline’s terror. “He is in your chambers, my lady.”
Emmaline dropped Mrs. Brown’s arm and blinked. “My chambers?” Drake had in fact been within the townhouse the entire time? Could she have been so foolish as to have missed his presence all morning?
Before Mrs. Brown could reply, Emmaline set out at a near run and flew abovestairs toward her chambers. She entered the room, nearly out of breath from her exertions and stumbled to a halt at the sight of her trunks out.Drake stood in the center of the bedroom with his hands clasped behind his back, directing the packing of her belongings.
“Where are we going?” she blurted.
Drake didn’t as much as glance at Emmaline. He murmured something to her maid, Grace who dipped a curtsy and left. It didn’t escape Emmaline’s notice how Grace pointedly avoided making eye contact with her. A frisson of unease worked a path down her spine.
As soon as the door closed behind Grace, Emmaline turned her attention to Drake. His intense emerald gaze was trained on her bruised cheek. “Look at me, Drake.”
“I am,” he said so quietly, she had to strain to hear him.
“I asked, where are we going?” An impenetrable fear kept her frozen, afraid to move from the spot she stood.
“We are not going anywhere. You are going.”
His words cut into her like the sting of salt water as it is tossed upon an open wound. Thoughts of the happy couple she’d witnessed mere moments ago flitted through her mind. How very joyous they’d been; their happiness a stark contrast to Drake’s own detached demeanor.
God, how she hated those young lovers—even more now. How come they were able to know such happiness when her own life was crumbling down around her like an ancient ruin?
She stuck her chin out. “I’m not going anywhere, Drake.” Emmaline hated the quivering timbre of her voice. Damn him for being so indifferent when she read as transparent as a page in a Gothic novel. “How dare you stand before me seeming to be singularly unaffected? You think to send me away like the crumbs on a dinner plate.”
The only indication given that he was affected by their exchange was an imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “This isn’t a discussion. I’ll not have you hurt. As I said last evening, this was a mistake. I have compromised your safety—”
“And as I’ve said…you are a bloody coward, husband.” She spat the curse at him, reveling in the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the way he flinched at the word. Good, let him be at least somewhat unbalanced.
In the end, he retained his calm. “Either way, you cannot remain here.”
Emmaline shook her head sadly, her eyes sliding closed. Poor Drake. She thought of all the stories she had learned about him at London Hospital. Thought of all the men he’d considered friends, who he’d left behind. His dog, Valiant.
She took a deep breath. “No.”
Unused to having his wishes countermanded, his brow furrowed. “No?
With a cheeky tilt of her chin, she tossed her head. “That’s correct. No, as in I’m not—”
He slammed his fist against the wall, the ferocity of his movement caused reverberations that sent the collection of crystal perfume bottles on the delicate vanity clattering.
“Christ, Emmaline. Why are you doing this?” he rasped. “This is the hardest thing I’ve done—”
“Then don’t do it.”
***
Emmaline’s words were not a challenge, an entreaty, or demand. Had that utterance been emotional and enraged, it might have fueled his determination to send her packing.
This calm reasoning, however, he was altogether unprepared for. The soft carpet masked her movements and he was unaware of her bridging the distance between them, until he felt her tender touch on the sleeve of his jacket. He couldn’t look at her bruised, delicate visage. Could not stare at the damage he’d
inflicted with his monstrous hands.
“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve turned away from me. Please, stop turning away from me.” There was a gentle plea underlying her words, a soft appeal.
Drake pressed the heel of his palms against his forehead. How could he allow her to remain? Pure selfishness made him want to move forward with her in his life. Calm reason and logic, however, urged him to send her away.
She, however, was more tempting than a devil among man. “You are not alone, Drake. You do not have to be. I am here. Let me in. I will help you.”
How desperately he longed for the presence of someone else alongside him, battling the demons that possessed him. Nay, not just anyone. He longed for her. His brave warrior, who didn’t hesitate to put herself in harm’s way to help others. First she’d saved the peddler. Now she was attempting to save him. Yet, if he turned to her, what kind of bastard would that make him?
Staring unseeing out at her armoire, he willed himself to confront the demons that tormented his waking and sleeping moments. The specters visited so frequently, he’d begun to lose sense of his own self. He’d been trying so desperately to push the ghosts to a deep, dark corner, and they refused to stay banished. This time, he didn’t hold back the memories. Vivid reflections of specific men, and then the other nameless men who visited him each night, paraded through his mind.
Then he knew.
It was guilt he carried. A great sense of blameworthiness that he’d lived when so many others had died. A sense of malfeasance that men had been killed and forever maimed because he’d led them to their death. The confrontation of his own culpability robbed him of the ability to stand. The muscle in his legs turned to nothing and he slid down to the floor, borrowing support from the wall.
And in the light of day, in front of his Emmaline, he did what he’d longed to do for seven long years.
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Page 27
