Ren rode away with a crazy recklessness. Twigs and branches snapped his face as he cut through the fields and down twisted roadways. He felt and heard the wild thunder of his horse’s hooves as he hunched over, fusing himself to the animal’s body. He should have known he was not good enough. He should have known she couldn’t love him. He remembered the way his mother had looked at him, and then away, as though his presence caused her physical discomfort. He remembered the sting of Lord Graham’s whip and the laughter of the boys as they’d chanted painter’s bastard, painter’s bastard over and over.
As though to match his mood, the cotton-batting clouds had turned grey, lowering so that their misty tentacles tangled through the trees and sat heavy upon the low hills. It started to rain, a dampening drizzle. He slowed, for Tallon’s sake. He did not want him to slip on the wet grass. He would not cripple the animal.
He saw that he had come to a village, a small place with a cluster of cottages and an inn with a stone façade. It might be picturesque in summer, but now appeared drab, its hedgerows wet and the eaves of its thatched cottages brown and dripping. Still, he supposed it was as good a place to stop as any.
He entered a courtyard scented with straw and manure and swung off his horse. A stable boy was filling a water trough, pumping rhythmically. Two dogs circled, barking. Tallon whickered nervously. He was still young.
Tossing a coin to the boy, Ren told him to tie up the dogs and feed and water his horse. He went to the inn to order food and half-wondered if he should stay the night. Tomorrow he could head back to London. He need not return to Graham Hill. After all, he could initiate the paperwork and the transfer of title to the tenants through his solicitor in the City, likely with greater efficiency than if he were to use Mr Tyrell, a country solicitor with pedantic speech and a nose vastly too large for his face.
Ren sat in the taproom. The air was thick with pipe smoke, mixed not unpleasantly with the smell of ale and steak. Yes, London might be best. He didn’t want to go into the ancestral home that wasn’t his own. He didn’t want to feel its emptiness without Edmund, or Mirabelle, or Beth.
The landlord came with beef stew, piping hot, its steam fragrant with beef and onions. He placed it before him. It tasted delicious, reminding him of Mrs Bridges’s meals when his mother and Lord Graham had been away in London. Simple, honest country fare.
The room was not yet full as it was only mid-afternoon. An old fellow sat in a corner, smoking a pipe, wisps of blue haze wreathing his bald head. Every now and then he nodded and smiled, showing toothless gums.
Ren ate slowly and sipped his ale without haste. There was no need for speed. Tallon needed the rest and he had sufficient time whether he went to London or Graham Hill. Besides, the weather seemed changeable as was typical in an English spring. He noted through the tavern’s steamy windows that the sky had cleared and a shaft of late-afternoon sun lit the dark wood tables, glinting off the pewter tankards.
He did not recognise many of his fellow punters, but he had been away so long that they might well be from Graham Hill, Allington or, more likely, a closer property. He watched as they bought their drinks, sitting down to swap yarns. There was a strength, a resiliency about these folks. They belonged, not through land, title or politics, but simply because they had been born here.
With his ale emptied, Ren stood, paying the innkeeper. He walked out, signalling for the boy to bring around his horse.
He would not go to London. He would return to Graham Hill tonight. Last night he had felt something akin to purpose. This morning he had felt optimism. He’d wanted to talk to the tenants, to determine crops and drain ditches.
He’d been himself again.
Signing documents in a solicitor’s office in London was not the same as working with the tenants to ensure that each farm gained independence and prosperity in the best way possible.
He could not make Beth love him. Nor could he change the circumstances of his birth. But he could choose to ensure that this transfer of property was done in the right way.
He could behave in a way that was deserving of a woman’s respect.
Or perhaps more importantly, his own.
* * *
Riding Tallon again, he set off at a sensible pace. The sun now hung low on the horizon. The clearing skies had brought with them a chill wind and cool temperatures as afternoon warmth gave way to dusk.
By now the surroundings were familiar, the pasture land and fields of boyhood jaunts. As the sun disappeared, the faint outline of a crescent moon appeared visible against the dusky violet of the twilight sky and surrounded by stars, shimmering like diamonds.
Flicking the reins to the left, he took the shortcut through the woods. It would skirt close to Allington and he could then cross the fields to Graham Hill. Above him the branches rustled and a night owl hooted. Occasionally, he heard Tallon swish his tail against the midges. The animal’s gait was good, solid and regular, although he still required training.
Every now and then, a mosquito whined close to his ear or their passage would spark an angry chattering of squirrels. The air smelled cool and earthy with a touch of damp. He could hear the tinkling of the stream running beside the path. Above him, peeking through the canopy of branches, he could see the silver sliver of moon and the stars’ sparkle.
Would he have been aware of these sights and the myriad tiny noises and scents a week ago? It seemed that he had been oblivious. In this last week, he had seen and heard and felt more than he had for a decade.
He passed the halfway mark, the solid oak they used to hide behind as children. It was then that he felt that first prickle of apprehension. The sensation was a nebulous queasiness, that uneasy, illogical impression of being watched. Foolishness, he told himself. Perhaps he had had one too many ales. Or it was naught but a fox or other woodland animals whose glistening eyes he sometimes saw, luminous in the dark bushes lining the trail.
Still, he tensed, urging Tallon into a quicker trot.
For a second, he didn’t see them, hearing only the branches and twigs. Even when he saw their looming shadows, he thought briefly that his eyes deceived him. Three tall, darkly clad figures approached on foot. One held a torch which illuminated their tall, cloaked figures by its flickering yellow light.
As they disengaged themselves from the forest, moving with sudden stealth, he instinctively pushed Tallon to move faster, hoping to skirt by them. Then he saw the dark shape of an arm raised, outlined within the flickering torchlight. Metal glinted.
A pistol fired, a single blast of sound. Tallon reared and bucked. Ren swore, controlling his animal, and again urging him forward with greater speed and urgency.
A second blast rang out. Pain shot through his shoulder. A red haze obscured his vision. The pain, combined with the horse’s crazed movement, unseated him.
He fell.
The air was pushed from his lungs. He’d fallen on his other arm and he felt another flare of pain. Tallon’s dark form bolted, galloping through the undergrowth in a wild, chaotic fury of jangling reins and breaking branches.
For a moment, after the crashing thunder of the horses’ hooves, it seemed that they all briefly waited in sudden, eerie silence.
Ren pulled himself to a seated position. His whip had fallen. He grabbed it. The pain invoked by the movement made his senses swim into that red haze so that he feared he would swoon.
A man ran forward, laughing. ‘What yer gonna do with that?’ He slurred his words together, aiming his foot at Ren and kicking so that he fell forward again.
More desperate now, Ren struggled up. This time, he swung the whip, catching the man with a glancing blow. It nipped his face, a dark line of blood slicing across his cheek.
The man swore. Ren swung again, hitting him more squarely. This time the man staggered. Then the third figure emerged. The light flickered, making the men and trees tall undulating shadows. They wore masks so that he could not see their faces.
‘You want money? Here!’ Ren pulled out his purse with the hand not clutching at the whip, throwing it to the men.
One of the figures bent down. He opened it, pulling out the coins. He rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger. The gold shone dully.
‘We still gotta kill him,’ one said.
‘Just take his gold and run. Why stick our necks out?’
‘We’ll get more. He said. A lot more.’
‘Or the hangman’s noose. Gold’s not much good to a dead man.’
Taking advantage of their abstraction, Ren again swung the whip. The lash struck the lantern. It rocked, its beam making a yellow arch. He swung again. The whip snapped. The lantern clattered. Briefly, light flared before flickering out in the damp soil.
After that flash of light, the woods seemed all the darker. Ren heard their curses. Another shot rang out. It struck a tree with a splintering of wood.
He heard the movement of the pistol being reloaded, the click of metal.
It was now or never. Doubled over in pain, Ren scrambled in a half-run, half-crawl. He pushed through bushes and undergrowth, determined only to put as much distance between himself and these men as possible. Twigs and leaves scratched at his face. He heard another shot. It came close. He heard the whistle of air as it passed his ear.
Mindless of the pain, he made a final effort before tumbling into the low ditch. He flattened himself to the ground. He smelled dirt. He felt its grit. He heard the wood’s silence and the hard, rhythmic thump of his heart. Even with his eyes closed he saw the sparkle of a thousand lights.
When he next lifted his head, the silence remained profound and absolute as though even the woodland creatures were themselves hushed. Had the men given up the chase? Had they gone away, satisfied with their fistful of gold?
He felt his eyelids stretch as he looked about, as though by making his eyes wider he could see better. His gaze darted across the shadowy woodland shapes. A branch moved. He startled. His hand tightened reflexively on the whip. He dared not breathe.
He wondered if they were even yet moving stealthily, stepping quietly, encircling him. He lay very still and it seemed that this absence of movement was not a choice but a necessity. His limbs felt solidified, numb and heavy as rocks. His heart slowed, his eyes lids closed and the chill grew, deadening the pain.
He didn’t know how long he lay semi-conscious, but suddenly, almost as if told by an external source, he knew he must move.
He must move or die.
With gritted teeth, he forced himself on to his hands and knees. He put his hand on to a tree stump. Strangely, his palm slid off it as though wet. He sat back on his heels, staring at the dark liquid dripping down his palm and forearm with disbelieving surprise. He touched his shoulder. He felt a warm wetness. His jacket was sodden.
Blood.
The bullet must have struck his shoulder. Odd that it hurt less than his other arm. He thought this in an almost detached manner, as though with academic curiosity. His thoughts seemed slow and pedestrian like the treacle Mrs Bridges used to give them.
He shivered. He felt very cold, but was also aware of the beads of perspiration on his forehead and under his armpits. Gripping on to the stump, he struggled to stand. The trees, the silver crescent moon and stars swayed.
He whistled for Tallon, but he was long gone. The woods remained heavily quiet.
As the shock lessened, the pain increased. It winded him, but also seemed to bring with it new clarity and determination. He’d walk to Allington. It was closer than Graham Hill—two miles at most. He could walk two miles.
Except walking was not easy. His wound bled. He tried to stem the flow, but this made the other arm hurt, an excruciating pain worse than the bullet.
Every movement jarred. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to move forward, focusing on each step, left, right, left, right, as a soldier might march. The beads of sweat became huge, rolling down his forehead, stinging his eyes.
At last he exited the woods. Stepping into the clearing, he felt a peculiar mix of fear and relief. Help was more accessible here. He was on the road. Someone might pass, a farmer or late-night reveller. Yet he also felt vulnerable and exposed. Again, he felt his gaze dart from side to side, what ifs circling in his mind.
A few trees lined the road. They cast dim, eerie shadows in the faint light of the crescent moon. It seemed odd that the crescent moon remained so unchanged. But then the moon never changed. It had seen war and death and didn’t change.
On occasion, he heard the rustling scurry of a woodland creature. He remembered how he had liked to paint foxes and squirrels.
It seemed, he thought, that if he died here tonight, he might regret not painting. He would also regret that he had not told Beth that he loved her. She might not love him, but he loved her. He would have liked her to know that.
His arm was bleeding less now. It was just a scratch—the merest trifle. The searing pain from the other arm was worse. It made him long to lie down on the road, to close his eyes, to sleep. The sweat made his hair stick in clammy strands to his forehead and neck. But still so cold. So cold he was shaking. Odd to be sweating while his teeth chattered. Their movement made the road, the trees, the bushes, the bright eyes of the animals, the crescent moon and the stars blur. It was as though he walked in a dream. Sometimes he remembered the dark figures of his attackers. At other times, he wondered how he had got hurt. Once, he decided that he had fought with Edmund and that Nanny would be cross. Nanny did not approve of fisticuffs.
Perhaps he should rest. He was so very tired—except he had something important to do. He frowned, trying to remember what he needed to do and where he was going. The chattering of his own teeth was so loud. Surely the whole world should hear it.
Allington.
Yes, that was it. He needed to get to Allington. He needed to get to Allington because he needed to see Beth. He needed to tell Beth that he loved her. He needed her to know that and also that he hadn’t meant any of those harsh things. Suddenly he saw her clearly, almost as clearly as the trees and shrubs and the moon.
At last, the dim outline of the stable at Allington loomed from the shadows. For a moment he wondered if it was real. Then he found the rail that Beth’s father had constructed. He held it, glad of the firm wood under his hand.
Turning, he saw the house. It looked huge and dark, with lights visible only in the two uppermost windows. The thought of traversing the courtyard seemed suddenly impossible. Perhaps Jamie would be in the stable. Jamie was always in the small office, reading or recording measurements or some such.
Ren stepped forward, meaning to go to the stable, but his legs buckled. Instinctively, he extended his arms to break his fall, but collapsed as pain twisted through his arm, searing and excruciating.
He lay quite still, squeezing his eyes shut. The pain eased a little. His body felt limp, spent. The grass and moss was damp but not unpleasant. He could stay here and rest—just for a little while. The air smelled of spring. He liked spring.
To one side, just over the stable’s shadowy shape, he saw the crescent moon. And then his eyes closed and blackness descended.
* * *
Beth and Allie did not speak as the carriage took the rutted country road to Allington. The journey was short but unpleasant. Beth still hated the rolling movement as they were pulled through space she could not see or feel. She hated the uneasiness in her stomach and the aching bruised feeling in her spine and bottom.
Allie did not talk or attempt to distract her as she had done on the trip to London. Instead, the silence felt heavy with disapproval.
Her maid was equally annoyed that there had been no happy reconciliation at Rosefield Cottage, nor had Beth determined to chase Ren to London, but instead had ordered their immediate departure for Allington.
‘It is entirely possible that he might return to talk this out some more and he can hardly do that if you keep on haring off like a frightened rabbit,’ Allie said.
‘I think we will only hurt each other more if we talk. Besides, the decision is made. It is the right decision. Love is about wanting what is best for the other person and not the pursuit of one’s own needs.’
Allie had merely sniffed, again making the packing of Beth’s few items a noisy affair.
At last the carriage slowed, and took a sharp turn. Beth straightened, recognising the twist and pressing her fingers against the cool glass pane. ‘Are we there?’
‘Indeed, although it’s dark as coal dust. They have no lanterns lit. They must not have got our message about arriving earlier than was scheduled.’
The carriage rattled to a stop.
‘I hope someone hears us,’ Allie added. ‘Mr Munson is deaf as a post and Mr Jamie is like as not conducting some experiment.’
‘Then he might be in the stable,’ Beth said.
‘That’s dark, too. Not to worry. I am certain if Arnold hammers hard enough on the back door, someone will hear us eventually. This is what happens when one is unpredictable in one’s travel plans.’
Allie finished this last sentence with another sniff of disapproval and Beth heard the rustle of her clothes as she leaned forward to open the door so that the cool night air spilled inwards.
‘You stay there, my lady. We don’t want you walking about in the dark. Arnold and I will get things lit and the house woke up.’
‘Thank you,’ Beth said with a wry grin. Light or lack thereof made little difference to her and her legs and arms were numb with travel.
Therefore, within moments of Allie’s departure she clambered out, determined to stretch her legs and roll her shoulders to work out the kinks which knotted her back and made her head ache.
It was the smell that caught her attention. She gasped as memory hit her, quick and painful. The smell had an earthiness, a sharp mineral tang, half-sweet and half-pungent. She remembered that smell. It had been everywhere, heavy and sickening, the day they’d brought her mother home.
Blood.
‘My lady, I’ve sent Arnold to hammer on the back.’
‘Shhh,’ Beth replied as though silence would help her better follow the scent. ‘Do you see anything? Anyone?’
‘What? No, it is still very dark. You should wait—’
‘Get a lantern and look. Someone is hurt. And where is my cane?’
‘Here, my lady,’ Allie said, getting it from the interior of the carriage.
‘Go for a lantern and get Arnold as well.’
As Allie departed, Beth stepped forward. Fear clutched her heart. What if Jamie had been injured?
‘Hallo?’ she called. ‘Jamie?’
She heard a groan. She stepped towards the sound. Her cane struck something or someone. She heard a second muffled cry. Letting her cane fall, she dropped to the ground. Kneeling, she felt a man’s jacket. It was a fine cloth, not the fabric of a labourer.
‘Jamie?’
Her hands urgently explored. She felt a face. She recognised the contours, the firm chin and cheeks.
It was not Jamie.
Fear, pain and panicked bewilderment squeezed her gut as her hands frantically roamed over the cloth of his shirt to find his injury.
‘Allie! Arnold! Help!’ she shouted.
Her hands touched his chest, his face, and then his shoulders where she felt the warm, wet stickiness of blood.
‘Here, my lady. What is it?’ Allie’s quick footsteps came up behind her, accompanied by the clank of the lantern.
‘It’s Ren. We need to get him indoors and get a doctor. Now!’
‘I’ll—I’ll tell Arnold.’
‘Beth.’ Ren’s voice was weak and husky.
She leaned over him. ‘Ren, we will look after you. We’ll get you inside. You’re going to be fine, I promise.’
‘You’re real?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
‘I... Tell...’ He started to speak, but his words dwindled into a rasp of breath, followed by a gasping, whistling exhalation.
* * *
The next few days were a blur. The doctor came. He smelled of medicine and tinctures. He removed the bullet and stitched up the wound while Allie held up a light. Then, when Allie left to retch, Beth took over the job. She stood, as directed, her arm raised as she listened to Ren’s muted groans and the rasp of needle through skin.
The arm was not broken, but rather the shoulder socket and blade were out of alignment and not moving properly. The doctor was able to shift both back into place. The wound would heal, provided Ren was able to fight the infection.
‘It appears,’ he explained, in his low, guttural tones, ‘that an infection entered the wound with the bullet. For this reason, he has a temperature and there is considerable inflammation. We will need to keep him cool and the wound cleansed. He has also lost considerable blood. The next few days are critical.’
Critical. The word sounded like a death warrant. Beth wrapped her arms tightly about herself, feeling as though she might split into a thousand shards.
* * *
Morning brought Jamie’s return. He had been conducting a science experiment which apparently could only be done at night. He came into the sick room. He smelled slightly of manure which mixed unpleasantly with the mustard plaster that the doctor had ordered.
‘But what happened?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. He was attacked. He hasn’t been conscious,’ Beth said.
‘But we’ve never had anyone attacked at Allington.’
Beth almost smiled. Jamie sounded so personally offended, she thought, with the tiny part of her brain which still functioned. Odd the way this minute portion of her mind still assimilated unimportant details while the rest of her was paralysed in awful, soul-destroying agony.
‘His purse had been taken,’ she said.
‘That is evidence.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A random robbery, I suppose.’
Jamie grunted, but she had the sense that he disagreed. She could ask, she supposed, but it seemed too hard to structure her sentences.
‘Let me know if he wakes up.’
She nodded.
‘Can I do anything?’ he added more gently.
‘No.’
‘Look after yourself.’
* * *
For long hours, Beth sat beside Ren. She heard his agitated movement, punctuated by groans as his pain and restlessness increased. His temperature rose. Even before she touched his forehead she could feel the heat from it, radiating like a brick hot from the fire.
Sometimes he would toss. At moments he shouted, addressing someone or something not in the room. Allie or Mrs Ross, the housekeeper, would come in. They would change his linens, give him water or feed him small portions of soup.
Unable to help with this, Beth cooled him with wet cloths. She’d touch his forehead with the flannel. It seemed that this soothed him and, for a moment, secured him some peace.
At times Beth rested fitfully, falling asleep in the chair only to jerk awake. Often those first moments of consciousness brought with them panicked fear when she thought she could not hear his breathing and reached desperately for his arm, needing to feel concrete evidence of life.
When the doctor or Allie sent her to bed, she lay, unable to sleep, in the small antechamber connected to the bedchamber. It seemed that everything and everyone waited. Even the tick of the clock sounded as though it were merely ticking down long seconds, waiting.
Now that she knew that she might lose him, Ren’s existence felt as vital to her as her own beating heart. He needed to be in the world. She needed him to be in the world. Even if they could not be husband and wife, she needed him to be in the world.
At times, Jamie would come in. He would stand, tall and shuffling behind her, uncomfortable in a sick room.
‘Has he said anything?’ he’d usually ask.
‘Nothing sensible,’ she’d say.
* * *
The doctor came daily and changed the dressing. Beth wanted to ask him if Ren would be fine, but couldn’t find the words. Besides, she knew the answer: maybe.
Maybe. She hated maybe. It kept her suspended in this no-man’s land between despair and hope. It filled her mind with what ifs. What if he died...? What if...? What if...? What if...?
Sometime during the third night, she woke with a start, aware of a peculiar stillness. She could not hear Ren’s harsh breathing, or the thrashing of feet and arms. She stumbled forward, an urgent, uncoordinated movement of limbs. Something crashed, shattering.
‘Allie!’ she shouted. ‘Mrs Ross!’
She found his wrist. It felt cool to her touch, but she could not find his pulse. Instead, she heard only the thumping of her own heart.
‘For goodness sake, stop crashing into things. You’ve already spilled the water,’ Allie said, bustling into the room.
‘Allie. How is he? He—seems different. Allie...is he...? I couldn’t bear it—’
Allie pushed passed her. Time stopped, suspended.
‘Don’t fret yourself, my lady. His fever has broke, as my sainted mother would say. I think he is sleeping soundly.’
Beth breathed again, huge gulping breaths. She felt the tears spill, tracking down her cheeks.
‘I’ll get the doctor to make certain of it. But my mother took me to enough sick beds that I know when the fever’s broke and that you may tie to,’ Allie said.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll come back and clear away the glass. You sit down before you hurt yourself. There’s glass and water everywhere.’
Relief filled her. Beth sank on the bed. She had no choice, her legs were wobbly as a newborn calf. Tears tracked unchecked down her face. Her throat was clogged, sore as though swollen.
Reaching forward, she rested her hand against his forehead. Yes, it felt good. It was no longer burning hot or sticky with sweat, but instead felt smooth and dry.
* * *
When the doctor arrived, bringing with him that scent of ointment and tinctures, he confirmed Allie’s diagnosis.
‘He’s out of the woods,’ he intoned like a wise man with a prophesy. ‘A lucky man. Lucky you came along when you did. Plus he has a strong constitution. It was touch and go for a while there, I’d say. Touch and go.’
‘Thank you,’ Beth said.
Again, she felt tears, hot burning tears, brimming over and trickling down her cheeks. Good Lord, she was becoming a regular fountain.
‘There, there,’ he said, patting her shoulders in a paternal manner. ‘He’ll be fine. The power of love does miracles. The power of love does miracles.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
Because she loved him. She could no longer pretend or hide from this truth. Nor did she want to pretend or hide from it. Love, however impossible, was love.
She loved him with her heart and with her soul and with her body.
* * *
Ren woke. His head hurt like some mammoth creature had jumped on it, was still jumping on it. He squinted. The blinds were drawn, but even the narrow cracks of light running each side of the cloth were too bright. His shoulder hurt. Both shoulders hurt. His back hurt. Everything hurt.
Still half-squinting, he looked to the chair at the left of the bed. It was empty. The pillow, likely embroidered by some long-dead seamstress, was indented as though occupied not quite recently.
But whoever had been there had gone.
Was it Beth? Or had he imagined her? He’d felt sure she had leaned over him, stroking his forehead. Her fingers had felt cool and her touch gentle. Sometimes her hair had brushed against his cheek. She’d smelled of lemon.
‘Good, you’re coming round,’ Mrs Ross said, stepping up to the bed from some part of the room out of his line of sight. She was the housekeeper, a sturdy woman somewhat resembling a ship in full sail.
She did not smell of lemons.
‘Mothballs,’ he muttered.
‘Pardon, my lord?’
He shook his head. He had not realised he had spoken out loud. The movement hurt his head.
‘Now, you rest and I’ll bring up some chicken broth. And would you be liking a sip of water?’
The water was cool. It dribbled down his chin. He tried to wipe it away, but winced.
‘There, there, my lord,’ she said, dabbing at his chin with a cloth.
Good God, he was not a child. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.
‘Allington, my lord.’ She was still fussing around with the damned napkin. ‘You were attacked, but you’re on the mend now.’
‘Beth? She was here?’
‘Yes. Her ladyship was here.’
He smiled. He had not imagined her presence.
‘In fact, she found you. Very lucky you were, too. Goodness knows what happened, but likely the constabulary will want to talk to you.’
‘She found me?’
‘You had collapsed. You don’t remember?’
He shook his head, again wincing. He remembered the report of the gun and pain and the bolting of his horse. And walking. And the moon.
‘It’s lucky that she did. And you’ve had us that worried, I can tell you. The doctor came several times and he wasn’t looking none too happy, although he doesn’t seem a particularly sanguine gentleman at the best of times. Anyway, you’re out of the woods now.’
‘And... Beth? Where is she?’ he managed to say, his voice hoarse.
‘I think she was going to come in later.’
‘Now!’ He pulled himself upright. The movement made his shoulder and arm hurt, a jabbing, searing pain. Pinpoints of light danced before his eyes so that he feared he’d faint.
‘Your lordship—stay still, for goodness sake. The doctor did not say you should be moving around. In fact, he said quite the opposite. He said you are to lie still. He’s had to put a stitch or two into that there shoulder and doesn’t want you to do further harm.’
‘I don’t care if I broke every bone,’ he muttered, gritting his teeth as he struggled to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘I need to see Beth.’
‘Good gracious, I cannot see anything that is so urgent that you would need to jeopardise your health. The doctor—’
‘Is a bloody quack. Are you going to help me or must I do this myself?’
‘I will get her ladyship, if you are so determined,’ Mrs Ross said. ‘I certainly will not allow you to reopen your wound.’
‘Fine,’ he said, any desire to argue squashed by the searing pain in his shoulder and a peculiar lightheaded feeling.
He leaned back against the pillows and allowed Mrs Ross to bolster them. ‘But if she won’t come, tell her I’m out of this bed and I will find her.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
* * *
Beth entered his room. It had the stuffiness of a sick room, warm but with the lingering scents of mustard, arnica and other tinctures.
She stepped to the bed, carefully finding the chair and reaching to touch his hand. His skin felt cool, no longer sweaty.
He grasped her fingers. His grip was wonderfully firm. ‘Beth, thank you. They said you found me?’
‘Yes. What do you remember?’
‘Not much,’ he said. ‘They took my money and my horse bolted. Badly trained beast.’ His voice was husky, but had surprising strength.
‘We have him. He is fine.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘You made it to Allington. Goodness knows how. When we arrived back Allie and Arnold went to rouse the household. I got out from the carriage and I smelled blood.’
‘Smelled?’
‘Yes, it has a distinctive odour.’
‘So it really was you who found me? Not Arnold or Allie.’
‘It was me.’
‘Thank you.’ His grip tightened. She felt that sizzling, scorching tingle at his touch. It moved through her, igniting something at her core.
‘I feel you shiver. You do care,’ he whispered.
She shifted, shaking her head and pulling her hand away. ‘I care? Of course, I care. I want to be your wife and...and share your life, but I can’t.’
‘Why? After this, you’re still saying no? I love you.’
‘You do?’ Joy grew, burgeoning, blossoming.
‘Yes, unequivocally, yes. After I was shot, I knew I had to tell you. I love you. And you care for me, too, I know you do.’
‘Yes, I love you,’ she said quite simply. ‘But love isn’t enough.’
She remembered her mother’s words. ‘If you love someone you want what is best for them.’
‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘It is enough. It is everything.’
She shook her heard.
‘Beth, what is it? What do you fear? That you will be a burden to me? Like your mother?’
‘In part,’ she admitted.
‘But no one needs to look after you. You are not an invalid. You may lack your sight, but you are independent. You are self-sufficient. Good Lord, you’re a life saver. You saved my life.’
‘And if I fall? If I miscount my steps? If I do not see a carriage approaching, like in London?’
‘You may get injured. Just like I got injured. Just like anyone can get injured. Would you not want to be with me if I were hurt?’
Her eyes stung. She would want to look after him while she still had breath in her body. She would look after him to her very last breath—to the grave and beyond. She heard his movement and felt the graze of his fingers as he reached up to catch a tear as it brimmed over, trickling down her cheek.
‘I have my answer,’ he said gently. ‘I do not fear looking after you. We will look after each other.’
‘Ren, it is not just that. I cannot—I will not have children,’ she said, the words bursting from her as though too long contained.
‘What?’
‘You need an heir. I want you to have an heir. I don’t want the house or the title to fall to the Duke. And you want, you need a family, your own family. You’ve sought all your life to belong.’
‘But why can’t you have children? How do you know?’
She stood, and paced the seven steps to the window. ‘My great-aunt was blind. And my aunt. I am blind.’
‘So?’
‘Years ago, Jamie made Father get this fine bull that he thought would make the herd stronger. He did this because he believed that the bull could transmit his strength to the calves. I fear that I may transmit my blindness to any children and I can’t—I won’t do that.’
‘Beth—’
‘No.’ She turned. ‘My mind is made up. I love you. I love you so much, but I cannot be enough for you. You need children. You need a family and I cannot give you children. Eventually you will resent me. I am sorry, but I will seek an annulment. I must.’