er head throbbed with a violence that sent answering pulses of nausea roiling through her gut. What had happened? Where was she? Her eyes fluttered open to a blinding light that felt like a hundred splinters embedded in her eyeballs. No light. Too much. Too much pain.
There had been a figure hovering at her bedside, perhaps seated. Head bowed. The image was seared into her mind. Who? How? Blindly, she held out her hand, seeking solace. Comfort. Anything. She dared not open her eyes again, for fear of that awful, beckoning light.
Where? A hand clasped hers. She clung. Eyes closed, a whimper from her mouth. She could almost see herself from above, a crumpled ragdoll trapped and broken. How had this happened? Why? Her lips were dry and cracked. She tested a tongue that felt thick and unused. Water. She needed water. Who could fetch it for her?
“Mama?” she asked, holding on to that hand. But no, it was not her mother’s hand, was it? This hand was large and strong, the fingers too long, the palm too broad. Her thumb traced a path. A strange hand. Not one she’d often held. Whose?
“Not your mother, darling.”
The voice was familiar. Warm and low. Clipped and precise. A man’s voice.
“Water.” She didn’t care whose voice it was. Not for the moment. Her throat was parched. She was going to be sick. Her thoughts were a hodgepodge, running amuck in her mind. She thought she heard the sound of a river. Rushing, gurgling, then…something else. A bang, a jarring. Where had she been at the moment of impact? Something had run her through. Her body had broken into pieces and now she would die.
The smooth, cool porcelain of a cup was at her lips now. A gentle hand cajoled her, lifted her, helped to angle her so that she wouldn’t choke. For a breath, she forgot what to do and then, it came to her. The cup tipped, water sluicing into her ready mouth. Yes. So good. She drank greedily. Too fast.
The nausea was back, gurgling. Too much water. Not enough. She tried to open her eyes again. Her mouth worked. No sound. Too much light, she wanted to say. Draw the curtains. And then, who are you? Where am I?
No answers, it would seem. The cup returned, so too the steady hand at her nape.
“Keep your eyes closed, my love,” he said. “The darkness is easier at first. Drink slowly. Rushing will only make you sick.”
Yes, and she felt sick. Sick with pain. Sick with confusion. Who was he? Who, for that matter, was she? Nothing made sense. Victoria. Yes, that was her name. Had he said it or had she? Another sip of water. She couldn’t be certain. Someone had said it.
“You’ll survive this, my brave American girl.”
Surely she knew the owner of that voice? So familiar. So haunting. Her eyes fluttered again. The cup was gone. The hand was gone. She felt the absence of that touch like a blow. Where? Who? How? Breathing hurt. The in, the out. Her ribs. Had they cracked? It felt as if she were under water now. Her head pounded as though a blacksmith from the depths of hell pounded upon her skull.
“You must survive this, damn you. Do you hear me?” Desperation tinged the voice now. “You will survive this.”
She didn’t know if she’d survive. Her body felt as if it would break in two at the slightest provocation. A whisper. A breath. Her mouth moved. She wanted to tell him. Whoever he was. Was he someone she loved? Nothing made sense except for the bitter liquid that slipped into her mouth next. Yes, delirium made sense.
“I need you too much to lose you now. Fight, my darling. You must fight.”
Who’d spoken those words? Had it been she? Had it been the elusive figure holding vigil? A ghost, perhaps? Worse, a demon? The liquid was doing its work. Her mind was a cacophony of images and thoughts. Odds and ends. Bits and pieces. A man’s face, handsome and earnest. Her husband. Dear heavens, he’d been there with her. Something had crashed down upon them. Hadn’t he? Hadn’t it?
“Please.” Her voice now, thready and weak. Who was the shadowy figure? She had to know.
Dark swirls, a languorous slide through her veins. And then, nothing.
Will woke with a jolt, his back aching to beat the insistent throbbing of his head. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the chamber and recall where he was and why. He’d fallen asleep keeping vigil at Victoria’s bedside, her fingers tangled in his. The awful sound of the cracking branch returned to him, and then came the panic he’d felt when he’d come to and found her trapped beneath the heavy, fallen arm of the tree. Her skin had been ashen, her hair red with blood. For a terrifying moment, he’d thought her dead.
He’d fought to free her with a strength borne of desperation, had taken her in his arms, profound relief pouring through him to find her breathing and warm. Alive, thank God. He’d found his spooked mount, hauled her limp form across the saddle, and galloped home, his only thoughts for her. He’d been frantic, frenzied. Scared witless.
He still was, for she had remained virtually insensate since suffering the blow yesterday. How humbled he felt. How bloody foolish. He cared for Victoria, the wife he’d thought to bed and abandon. Perhaps it was the heavens’ idea of revenge for his sins that he only realized how very much she’d come to mean to him mere seconds before she’d nearly been killed.
He squeezed her fingers, leaning over her to brush some of her unbound hair free of her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered, lashes stirring against her pale cheeks. And then he was caught in her vivid gaze.
She blinked. “Will?”
Thank Christ. Her gaze appeared sleepy but lucid, no doubt the combined aftereffects of the laudanum and her blow to the head. He jerked forward in his chair, needing to be closer to her. To reassure himself she was real and well. He touched her cheek gently. “You remember me, darling?”
“Of course.” Her hand rose slowly to touch her head. “I remember everything. Why would I not?”
“You were not yourself, after the blow,” he said hoarsely.
There had been a brief period yesterday, before the laudanum, when she’d been confused and in deep pain. She hadn’t recognized him or her chamber, and she’d been thrashing so fitfully that the doctor had feared she’d injure herself. Will hadn’t wanted to resort to the laudanum, but it had seemed the only way to calm her and give her the rest she needed after taking such a hard fall.
He was ashamed to admit that for a greedy, stupid moment after she’d calmed into a deep sleep, he’d thought of how much easier things would be between them if she’d forgotten all that had transpired. Head injuries were known to cause memory lapse, after all. One blow to erase all the wrongs he’d done—wouldn’t it have been rather tidy then? But just as quickly as the thought had come, it had been vanquished by self-disgust. What kind of a monster would rather have his wife gravely ill than own his sins?
Perhaps the man he’d been before he’d returned to Carrington House was just such a monster. But he was not that man any longer, and the time would come when he needed to unburden himself to her. Strip himself bare. Then she’d see all the ugliness hidden in his rotten soul, and she’d either turn away in revulsion or she’d forgive him. Either way the chance was his to take, and she was more than worthy of it.
“My head feels as though I placed it beneath a carriage wheel,” she said, wincing.
“I’ve no doubt.” His hands still tremored to think of how close she’d come to death. If the branch had been mere inches in either direction, it would have killed her. “You’re very fortunate to have only suffered a concussion of the brain and some other bruising. It’s a miracle the branch didn’t do far worse damage.”
Her full lips, still pale, quirked into a semblance of a smile. “If it had, you would’ve been rid of one unwanted wife.”
“Jesus, Victoria. That was a poor jest.”
She gave a small shrug. “Perhaps a blow to the head disturbs the mind.”
He caressed her jaw lightly. “The doctor assured me that if you regained your senses today, you’d be fine.” He turned to the side table and its vast array of accoutrements. Poultices, tea, water, laudanum, bandages. He hadn’t allowed anyone else to attend to her. The servants had brought him supplies and left. She was his wife, by God, and it was his fault that she’d been standing in the trees by the river. If he hadn’t been so caught up in the past, in his own memories and fears, he would’ve taken note of his surroundings, and he could’ve saved them both a great deal of pain. “Damn it, the tea’s grown cold. Shall I have your woman fetch you another pot? You must be thirsty, darling.”
But his stubborn wife frowned at him. Even in her weakened, pain-racked state, she could fashion disapproval as no one else. “You needn’t wait on me, Will. Keats can sit with me. You look in need of rest yourself.”
“No. It will be me or no one.” He owed her that much. Indeed, he owed her far, far more than merely dancing attendance at her bedside. But for now, this would do.
“Will—”
“Hush,” he interrupted. “I’m your husband. It’s my duty. Would you care for a fresh pot of tea or some water?”
She stared at him, her expression indecipherable. “Water if you please.”
Would that he could read her better. Whether it was the darkness of the chamber or the jumble of his emotions, he couldn’t be sure, but something had shaken him from his ability to read her. He poured some water into a cup and handed it to her with care. “Are you hungry? I’ll send for a bowl of porridge from Mrs. Rufton.”
She took several long, lusty gulps of water before answering him. “No porridge, if you please. I dislike it intensely.”
He raised a brow. “Porridge and eggs both?”
“I cannot help what I don’t like.” Her expression softened. “I’ve forgotten to ask after your wellbeing. Were you not hit by the branch?”
“I was and I’ve the devil of a headache.” He rubbed the knot on his head ruefully. “But it was nothing compared to you. When I came to, I thought…” He hesitated, aware that he was about to reveal more than he wished.
She took another deep pull of her water. “What did you think, my lord?”
“Will.” He took the cup from her. “You’re drinking too much, love. You won’t want to be ill.”
“What did you think?” she persisted, her tone quiet yet demanding.
He met her gaze. “I thought I’d lost you, damn it.” To his great mortification, his voice shook on the statement. Devil take it. The Earl of Pembroke did not cry. At least, he hadn’t shed a tear in all the years since he’d found his puppy dead at the foot of his bed. Ferdinand. Odd how he could still recall how the mutt felt in his arms, all wiggly and warm. “There.” He replaced her cup on the side table with too much force. The sound echoed in the silence of the chamber, water sloshing over the rim onto his hand. “Are you pleased now?”
“No.”
He looked at her sharply. “Madam, in the last two days, I’ve been to hell and back worrying over you. I suggest you give me quarter.”
“Quarter perhaps.” She patted the bed at her side. “Won’t you hold me, Will? I’m so very tired, and I won’t be pleased until I have you nearer to me.”
Hell. He’d do anything she asked. Anything. His mind was still reeling with emotion, with all that had happened. But this, her in his arms, he could make sense of. Gently, taking care not to jostle her, he slipped beneath the counterpane and pressed the length of his body to hers. She nuzzled into him with complete trust and a sigh.
“Thank you, Will,” she murmured against his chest. “Thank you for saving me, and thank you for staying by my side. You needn’t have.”
He drew an arm around her waist, and if he clutched her to him more tightly than he intended, it couldn’t be helped. She thought he’d saved her. Sweet Christ. Little did she know that it was the other way around. He found her cheek with his lips, bussing it softly. “Of course I needed to, my sweet. How could you ever think otherwise?”
But she had already fallen asleep.
Victoria didn’t know how much time had passed, but when next she woke, Will had gone. She turned her aching head with ginger care and pressed her nose into the pillow to catch his scent. Spice and musk—the only sign he’d been there. That, and the pang in her heart.
He’d been concerned for her. His handsome face had not reflected his customary effortless charm when she’d first opened her eyes to find him at her bedside. She’d caught a glimpse of him without the mask he ordinarily wore, and he’d appeared haunted, his mouth set in a grim line of worry, his dark hair rumpled, purple half moons beneath his startling eyes. She hadn’t mistaken the hitch in his voice when he’d spoken of finding her trapped beneath the fallen branch, either.
“My lady, you’re awake,” Keats said warmly, bustling to her side and cutting through her heavy musings.
She’d been so quiet that Victoria had thought herself alone. She gave her dear lady’s maid what she hoped was a chipper smile. “Keats, would you mind terribly telling me what time of day it is?”
“It’s late afternoon, Lady Pembroke, and if I may say, you’re looking a sight better than you’ve been since your accident. You must be famished. Would you care for a tray to be brought up?”
“That would be lovely.” Her stomach growled as if on cue, and she was pleasantly surprised to find that the incessant throbbing of her head had abated somewhat. “No porridge, however, if you please.”
Keats frowned, worry grooves bracketing the older woman’s eyes. “My lady, Lord Pembroke has us on strict orders to follow the doctor’s advice. I’m afraid ‘tis only porridge and tea for you until he says otherwise. Perhaps I can fetch you a warm glass of milk. He didn’t say anything of milk, now that I think on it.”
Just the thought of warm milk made her stomach roil. “No warm milk, if you please. Keats, where is his lordship?”
“He’s returned to his chamber for a bath and a shave. The stubborn goat wouldn’t go until I promised I wouldn’t leave your side. All bloodied and stinking of mud from the excitement, he was, and refusing to do anything about it. He spent the entire first night watching over you. Didn’t even sleep a wink, I daresay.”
Victoria had to suppress a smile at Keats referring to Pembroke as a stubborn goat. It was true, of course, but it really was the sort of thing one ought not to call one’s employer. Fortunately, Victoria was possessed of what some would consider rather odd sensibilities. She admired free thinking and candor.
Keats seemed to think better of her words, for her cheeks flushed. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I should not have called his lordship a stubborn goat. I wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t acted the part.”
She couldn’t stifle the small laugh that escaped her at Keats’ grudging apology. Heavens, her entire body still seemed to ache with the force of the fall she’d taken. She wondered if she was one plum-colored bruise from head to toe.
“He does possess a rare tenacity, does he not, Keats?” she asked, mirth creeping into her tone.
“That he does, my lady,” Keats agreed, fussing over the bedclothes, straightening them to her satisfaction. “There now. But if I may be so forthright, I have to say that I’m happy to see his particular tenacity being directed toward a good cause at last.”
A good cause at last.
Yes, so too was she. “Did he truly stay by my side for—oh dear, how many days have passed now?”
“Three whole days, my lady,” Keats surprised her by revealing. “Aye, that he did.”
Three days. She recalled Will telling her she’d been unconscious for two days, so that meant she’d slept away yet another day. He hadn’t even remained in her presence for more than three hours after their wedding vows had been spoken, and yet he had remained with her, the comforting warmth at her side, the hand holding the cup to her lips, the beloved voice urging her to survive.
Fight, my darling. You must fight.
It came back to her now in fragments. Will had been there at her side all along, the shadowy figure on the edges of her subconscious when she’d been in such devastating pain. He’d pushed her out of the way of the falling branch that day. One moment, she’d been in his arms, and the next, she heard a loud crack and there she stood, too foolish to move. He’d shoved her out of the branch’s most direct path, even suffering a blow to the head himself in the process.
None of these actions belonged to a selfish man or a cruel man or a man incapable of emotion. He’d told her that she’d changed everything, even him. But that wasn’t true, for he had changed himself. Something had brought him back to her, and she still didn’t know precisely what that was, but she was grateful for it. Grateful for him.
Her stomach grumbled loudly yet again. “I must insist on no porridge if you please, Keats. Just a muffin, perhaps, and some jam? Yes, that would do nicely.”
Keats grinned. “Yes, my lady. I’ll be back in a trice.”
Victoria scarcely waited for the door to close on Keats to throw back the bedclothes. She felt most unlike herself but good enough to have grown weary of lying about like an invalid. With a wince and considerably more effort than she’d thought the act would require, she hauled herself to the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the soft carpet. Food would help to replenish her strength, she knew, but she wasn’t about to lie abed waiting. With another heave, she stood on the wobbly legs of a newborn foal. She shook out her nightdress and remained still, willing the abrupt thumping in her head to subside enough that she didn’t fear she’d cast up her accounts.
So much for being strong, she thought grimly as she forced one foot in front of the other. Ah, yes. Walking now. She could do this. The nausea relented like an ocean wave being drawn back out to sea. She took a deep inhalation. Another step. Then another.
The door joining her chamber to Will’s opened, and there he stood, more handsome than she’d ever seen him. He wore plain trousers and a white shirt without the formality of a waistcoat, and his feet were bare, his dark hair falling wetly to his collar. Their gazes collided. For a heady moment, it was as if the entire outside world was suspended. Only the two of them existed, their hearts beating in unison, their bodies attuned. He was her husband, her lover. He was the man she loved, and it was a deep love, strong and abiding. She’d thought she’d loved him before, but her old feelings were paltry compared to this new, all-encompassing rush.
“Victoria, what the devil do you think you’re doing?” The irritation in his voice dashed away her maudlin thoughts. “Where the hell is your lady’s maid? I told her not to leave you, damn it.”
“I’m walking.” She held out her arms and beamed, knowing she must look a sight with her stale nightgown, hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, and a wan face, but she didn’t care. A ridiculous surge of joy coursed through her as she stood there before him. “I don’t believe I’ve ever felt better, Will.”
“Jesus.” He frowned as he closed the distance between them and placed steadying, possessive hands on her waist. “She didn’t give you more laudanum, did she? I expressly forbid you getting another drop of that poison.”
“No laudanum, I can assure you. My head is aching ferociously.”
“Of course it is.” He began shepherding her back to the bed she’d just freed herself from. “You’ve suffered a serious injury, Victoria. You need rest. Bloody hell, I’m sacking your maid when she returns from wherever it is she’s gone.”
“You cannot sack Keats.” She mustered the flagging strength she had remaining and put up resistance. “Will, stop. I don’t wish to be abed. I want to stretch my legs for a moment. She’s fetching me some muffins and jam at my behest.”
“You’re to have porridge until the doctor deems otherwise.” His fingers tightened on her waist, and even in her diminished state, the heat of him through the fine linen of her nightgown was enough to affect her. “You must return to bed whether you wish it or not.”
“I don’t wish it.” Her tone was mulish but she didn’t care. She’d been bursting with emotion, her love for him beating within her with the force of a heart, and he was doing his best to undermine it. “You’re being a bully.”
“A bully?” He looked genuinely taken aback. “Good Christ, woman. If I must bully you to keep you from injuring yourself more by gadding about your bloody chamber like you’re on a promenade in Hyde Park, then I will. Have you any idea what these last three days have been like? I leave your side for half an hour, and here you are, ordering muffins and about to swoon.”
Her head continued to pound, but the brightness of her spirits remained undiminished. She grinned. “Muffins shall always be preferable to porridge, and I wasn’t about to swoon.”
“You’re deuced unsteady on your feet for a woman who wasn’t about to swoon. You need to gather up your strength. I won’t have you injuring yourself worse than you already are,” he growled.
But she was undeterred. “Truly, I’ve never felt better. Your concern is misplaced.”
With a long-suffering sigh, he bent and scooped her up into his arms in one swift motion. “You’ll be the death of me, woman.”
She looped her arms around his neck. Well, if he must be an overbearing barbarian, at least let him be one who cared enough to stay by her sickbed for three whole days. “I don’t see any trees about, do you?” she asked, tongue in cheek.
“All I see is one lovely, frustrating woman who is about to settle down with a nice, warm bowl of porridge before she gets some more rest.” He laid her gently on the bed and made a great show of arranging the covers over her.
Heavens, he was more of a mother hen than Keats. She caught his hand. “Will.”
He stilled, raising his head to look at her with those blue eyes that seemed to see too much. “Victoria?”
“I would very much like to begin again with you,” she said simply. “Starting today. I want the past to remain where it belongs.”
A beautiful smile transformed his features then, softening the harsh lines of worry that had hardened his jaw and mouth. He touched her cheek with his free hand, then rubbed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip as though he were committing it to memory. “I’d like that, sweet. I’d like that very much.”
She kissed the pad of his thumb. “As would I.”
Keats bustled back into the chamber before either of them could say more.