CHAPTER TWO
he was cold … colder than she’d ever been. The biting chill seemed to sink past her skin and flesh, down to her bones and deeper still. It flowed through her veins, turning her blood to ice and penetrating all the way to her soul.
Curling into herself, she shivered and squeezed her eyes shut. It seemed her skin was perpetually riddled by gooseflesh, the fine hairs on the backs of her arms forever standing on end, the chattering of her teeth as constant as the beating of her heart.
She could not keep her eyes closed for long, as against the blackness of the insides of her eyelids, an image suddenly appeared. A demon with massive horns looming over her, a forked tongue snaking out from between jagged teeth. The tongue undulated toward her, wet and rough as it rasped her cheek, burning hot. One of its hands clamped down over her mouth, making it difficult to breathe, her body pinned so that she could not move.
She cried out, forcing her eyes back open. Confronting her surroundings was preferable to facing the monster awaiting her in her dreams, every night without fail. At least here, in this cramped space comprised of stone walls, stone floors, and a thin cot, she was alone.
That did not last long, the rough, wooden door on the other side of the room swinging open to reveal a dragon clothed in a nun’s habit, its scaly tail swinging about as it stomped into the room and flung something at her. It was a bucket, she realized, and it was full of water … frigid water, some of which sloshed out to splash her, intensifying her coldness until it felt as if she were being stabbed by dozens of needles. A rough scrub brush came next, the hard wood striking her shoulder, the bristles scratching her through her thin, wool shift.
“Time to rise,” the dragon growled, flames spewing from her mouth. “Step lightly! If you want your breakfast, you’ll scrub every stair in this tower within an hour.”
Despite the fire lighting up the room with an orange glow, she could not seem to get warm, the sharp, stabbing sensation created by the water persisting as she struggled to her feet, her bones feeling far too weak to support the heavy weight in her middle. It grew by the day even as the rest of her seemed to shrink, her skin stretched taut over sharply protruding bones.
A hand came against her face, the sharp slap spurring her into action. There was no time to think of how chilled she was, or how hungry. She moved by rote now, her arms and legs propelling her, pushing past the fatigue and the pain. Each day, it was the same … work her fingers to the bone between meager meals and try to avoid angering the dragon who constantly stood over her, snorting smoke and ash, her scathing words bathing Olivia in fire.
“Idle hands are the instruments of the devil!” she roared as Olivia scrubbed the steps, swept the floors, shoveled coal. “Idleness is why you are in this predicament to begin with. Unwed, used, and discarded, heavy with bastard spawn!”
The little life inside of her kicked and squirmed, as if to protest such words, but she worked on, even when her knuckles began to bleed and her knees were rubbed raw from so much time crawling over stone floors.
“Only through service to God can your sins be washed clean!”
Yet, she did not think she could ever be purged of the venom that had been poured into her. Not when it increased by the day, filling her, overflowing, until it poured through the corners of her eyes, from her ears, the crack between her lips. Could no one see it, smell it? She was drowning in it, suffocating in the depths of its dark heaviness.
She collapsed onto the stone steps, struggling to breathe, to swim free. Fighting it became futile, as the dragon’s foot connected with her ribs in a swift kick and a sharp pain tore through her middle, the gush of warm liquid running down her thighs. Her mouth opened on a silent scream that echoed only in her mind, and she curled into herself, unable to escape the pain, the darkness, the streaks of red running down her legs as she was dragged to her tower room, the gnawing hunger and thirst mingling with the sensation of her body being torn apart from the inside.
Falling onto her cot, she blinked, tears running down her cheeks, black and thick and smelling of blood, of death. The dragon hunched over her, rosary held in hand, flames spewing from her nostrils as she prayed that God would have mercy on the soul of a degenerate whore. Olivia turned her head away from the dragon, only to look back and find the demon had replaced her, his sharp horns jutting toward her, lips peeled back to reveal those jagged teeth. He ran his fingers through one of the rivers of blood on her thighs.
“Just a taste, love,” he growled, chuckling as he lifted his bloodstained finger to his lips, groaning at the taste of her, shuddering as if it delighted him to no end.
She was screaming again, but only in her mind. No one could hear her, as the dragon went on praying and the demon’s demented laughter echoed from the walls of her tiny chamber.
And all the while, the pain tore through her, ripping its way through her middle, bowing her back, clenching deep into her inner thighs. As blood flowed from her womb like an ocean, she closed her eyes and surrendered, no longer able to swim free. She was dragged under, deeper, and deeper, until there was only darkness.
Olivia came awake with a jolt, her entire body convulsing as her mind snatched her from the depths of a hellish nightmare. Her heart pounded, and sweat had broken out over her skin, dampening her hair and making her nightgown cling to her.
Her vision was blurry at first, the entire world out of focus as she found herself standing on the line between reality and dream, past and present. Her chest burned, and she soon realized that it was because she held her breath. Her body had wound so taut that her fingers and toes ached from the tension, her scalp tight with it. Squeezing her eyes closed, she exhaled, the clench of her belly easing, her spine unwinding. Darkness encroached upon her vision, fatigue threatening to pull her back down into sleep, into Hell.
She fought it and reached for the light. For so long, she had wallowed in darkness, that thick, suffocating blanket. Now, it took every ounce of her strength and will to pull free of it, to tip herself over the line between the real world and the wasteland her mind had made of her dreams, the very opposite of true reality. As she deepened her breaths and fought to maintain consciousness, she reminded herself of what was real.
My name is Olivia Goodall. I am three-and-twenty. My daughter is Serena Grace Goodall, and she is four years of age. She is here with me, always, safe. I no longer live in that wretched asylum … the dragon was not a dragon at all, but a shriveled up old nun who can no longer touch me. The demon … the demon …
She choked down a sob, shaking her head with a force that still was not strong enough to knock the memories loose. The demon was real, and the things he’d done to her … no, she would not dwell on that. Opening her eyes, she gazed at the ceiling, a vaulted affair with elegant woodwork adorning its edges. The space she occupied was unfamiliar, and it took her a moment to remember where she was.
Maeve, the maid responsible for her care, had brought her to London. Staring down at her own body, she caught sight of the bandages covering her forearms, which throbbed and ached like the devil. She grinned at the sensation, remembering what had caused it.
Everything had happened so fast, yet, somehow, she recalled it all with stunning clarity. The days before the incident had passed her by in a blur of numbness, the world around her dull and lifeless, without color. This was not the first time she’d felt this way. In truth, she had gone through life feeling this way more often than not since giving birth. This time had been different. It had all been darker, heavier, as if she might never find her way back out.
She had been seated at her vanity table while Maeve brushed her hair, staring listlessly across the room. By then, she’d even ceased registering the beat of her own heart, the flow of air in and out of her lungs. Was she even alive? Had she died in her sleep and awakened in this purgatory—this place where voices came at her as if through water, where stepping into the garden offered not even the relief of a breeze against her face?
Olivia had glanced down at the table before her, finding several items arranged there—vials of cosmetics she never used anymore, a silver comb and hairbrush set, a porcelain jar filled with hairpins, a few other odds and ends. A half-empty bottle of laudanum beside a silver hand mirror matching the comb and brush. Blinking listlessly, she had reached toward the bottle, then paused, remembering that she’d just had a measure not an hour ago. Maeve would not let her have more so soon, even though her fingers itched for the bottle, her mouth watering at the sight of it. She’d come to need it as she did water and air, its effects weakening so much over time that she required more and more of the sickly sweet-smelling liquid to survive, to escape the Hell that awaited her every time she closed her eyes.
Her gaze had flitted to the hand mirror next, and for reasons she did not understand, something in her had been drawn to it. Its silver and glass had gleamed like a star in her muted surroundings, a beacon in the gray drabness cloaking her eyesight. She’d taken it up and gazed into it, frowning at what she had found. An almost gaunt face, pale as the moon: dark eyes that were too large looming over prominent cheekbones; a straight nose cutting through the middle; a sad, pouting mouth turned down at the corners, blushing pink; a tiny point of a chin, and the gentle slope of a soft jawline.
Familiar, but foreign, this face. Olivia Goodall, the broken little doll.
Unable to bear her reflection, she had focused instead upon the mirror itself, the feel of its raised, filigree etchings against her fingertips, the coolness of the glass when she’d placed her opposite hand over it. The first thing she’d touched in days that touched back, that created sensation. She’d become enthralled by that mirror, unable to stop staring at it and wondering what would happen if she smashed the glass to bits.
The impulse could not be denied for long. Once Maeve had finished plaiting her hair for bed, she had gone to dispose of the clothing Olivia had just shed, murmuring that she would be right back in her cheery voice.
Waiting until the maid was out of sight, she had then turned the mirror and slammed it against the side of the table. The glass had splintered, then shattered with the most musical sound, bringing a smile to her face. The tinkle had reminded her of cymbals, or raindrops, the first sound that had penetrated the haze in so long, ringing out clear as a bell.
Those glittering fragments had called to her, offering sweet relief. Putting aside the silver frame, she had sunk to her knees upon the floor, unable to tear her gaze away from them … sharp, clear, gleaming in the candlelight. No force on Earth could have stopped her from reaching for one—the largest one, a knife-shaped shard that stood apart from the rest. Its edges had bitten into her thumb and forefinger when she’d picked it up, sending a little jolt of something through the delicate bones of her hand, into her wrist, stabbing up her arm. This sensation … she had felt it before, but it had dissipated too fast for her to remember what it was.
But it had been something, and something was better than the nothing she’d been trapped in these past days and weeks. Clutching the glass tighter, she’d gazed down at the inside of her left arm. Slender and pale, her skin had showed the spidery blue veins running along it. They’d been the perfect guides for where she ought to use the glass, to test herself for that sensation again. If she was going to remember the feeling, she’d need to recreate it. Biting her lip, she’d moved swiftly, knowing she only had so much time before Maeve returned.
The first cut had not registered, though the sight of her skin splitting and then welling up with blood had captivated her. It had been so beautiful and bright against her white skin, trickling warm and smelling so good, like a coin placed in the palm of her hand. But the feeling still had not come back, so she’d tried again, and again, dragging the sharp bit of glass over those blue veins, becoming hypnotized by the resulting font of blood, its metallic scent, its warmth as it trickled over her arms and stained the rug. By the time she’d taken the glass into her left hand to attempt the same effect on her right arm, her body had begun to sing with that lost sensation, sweet and blissful.
Pain.
Perfect, excruciating, rapturous pain.
She had closed her eyes, her head falling back as she’d sunk the glass in yet again, this time experiencing its sharp prick, the burn of it slicing her flesh, tearing her open. She had moaned, the sensation traveling through her entire body, piercing deep into her chest, her belly, between her legs. Again and again, she’d dug the glass in, alive with the pain by then, her every nerve ending awakened from a sound sleep, the surface of her skin crackling with electricity.
From there, everything else had happened in a haze. She’d collapsed, weakened after so much feeling, such a tidal wave of delightful agony. There had been startled cries and screams, the sobbing of Maeve, who’d seemed distressed by the red stains and the state of Olivia’s arms.
She had wanted to tell the maid not to cry … for, finally, she could feel again. Agony was so much more glorious than the heavy weight of nothing. Even the dizzying sensation of lying there as the room had begun to tilt and spin had felt good, as if she floated on a cloud. The darkness had returned, but this time, it had been warm and cozy, letting her drift on its black waters as opposed to dragging her down.
Fading in and out, she had registered being carried, then the blood washed from her skin. She had shuddered and groaned as a needle was dragged through her rent flesh, pulling back together what she had torn apart. The maids assisting the physician had wept, thinking she cried out in misery. Little had they known she’d been practically delirious with the pleasure of it, of feeling so alive after being so long dead.
Then, that accursed bottle was back, being pressed to her lips. She’d shaken her head to avoid it, but once the laudanum flooded her mouth, she had latched onto it like a babe suckling at her mother’s breast. Her throat had convulsed as she’d swallowed it, its taste sweet and medicinal, familiar and poisonous all at once.
She had come and gone, the pain bringing her back, the laudanum putting her under. She could remember leaving Dunnottar, being in a carriage, then an inn, then the carriage once again. Maeve had always been present, armed with her bottle of laudanum.
And so, here she lay in a townhome in London—one she had never resided in, but felt safe in, nonetheless. Her Niall was here, which meant Adam must be, as well. It was all she needed to know. If they were here, she would be cared for. Together, they could always be relied upon to keep her out of the doldrums. They had left her, and she’d found her own way out this time. She doubted they would approve of her methods. What else was she to have done when the substance that had once been her succor was now becoming her destruction? A thing that had previously rescued her from the terrors of her mind now forced her to drown in it, holding her under like a rough hand upon the back of her neck.
A commotion from outside the chamber drew her attention, and she glanced toward the door. Was Niall returning to her bedside? Where had he gone, anyway? She felt certain he could not have left so long ago, not after having just declared he did not intend to let her out of his sight.
Olivia had her answer when footsteps on the stairs seemed to shake the entire house, the heavy tread bringing someone down the corridor. A moment later, the panel swung open to admit someone—not Niall, but another person who made her heart ache and her eyes well with tears at the sight of him.
To others, Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor, proved an imposing man, a downright frightening one. As massive as a great oak, with a wide chest, long legs, and arms that looked as if they could crush a body with a single squeeze, he was built to carry the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. No one knew better than Olivia just how considerable that burden could be at times, her own condition comprising most of the heaviness. The unrelenting hurts he’d suffered—since birth, it seemed—had carved his face into one like stone—a stubborn jaw, sharp ridge of a nose, a hard, cruel mouth. Despite all that rigidity and darkness, his eyes always spoke the truth, as open and clear a path into his mind and heart as one could find.
Just now, as he approached the bed and studied her, the dark mahogany had taken over the tongues of green and gold fire, smothering them almost completely. He was saddened to find her like this, to be confronted with the evidence of what had happened at Dunottar in his absence.
For a long while, neither of them spoke, and she simply studied Adam, whom she had given the nickname Hart to years ago. She wasn’t certain why she referred to him by the shortened version of his title, but it had stuck and fit him as much as the overlong strands of dark hair hanging down his back. Her Hart, as well as her heart … one of only two men she could trust with her entire self. The one who had taken the place of the father she had never really had. Her own sire had died not long after her birth, and her mother, widowed and destitute, had quickly remarried, joining with Adam’s father. Rowland had provided well and seen to her practical needs, but as a fatherly figure, he’d been lacking. And so, Adam had become her light, her firm, guiding hand, her confidante and protector. For so long, he had been her only true family.
As he came toward the bed, his iron façade began to crack, the despair she’d caused showing through. His gaze shifted from her face to the linen bandages wrapped around her arms as he sank onto the bed beside her.
“Ah, butterfly,” he murmured, his deep, guttural voice tinged with just the slightest hint of a Scottish burr. “What have you done to yourself?”
She could only stare up him, her eyes stinging as she allowed him to take her hand, gingerly lifting her arm to begin unwinding the bandages. Her throat constricted, the guilt of distressing the people she loved washing over her. She hated making them worry. But, how could she help them understand that she hadn’t wanted to die? That she’d only been trying to come back to life somehow?
They thought her mad … deranged. Perhaps she was. Her thoughts certainly did not seem like those of a normal young woman. However, they felt true to her; they felt real and visceral and such a part of herself.
She watched him open her bandages, finding the pink stains on the strips closest to her skin, his eyes welling with tears she knew he would not shed. Adam had not wept since the day her mother had died, when they’d both been so young. He had already lost his own mother years prior, and had developed a closeness with his stepmother, a woman Olivia barely remembered. She knew that Lady Edith Callahan had been kind, warm, accepting of a boy who had not been her own son. Olivia could remember holding tight to Adam’s hand as they’d stood at her bedside and watched her take her last breath.
“I am sorry, my son,” she had said to Adam, before turning to tell Olivia that she loved her.
That young boy had lowered his head and shed tears for the last time, deep, painful sobs shaking his body, which had already been so much larger than others his age. From then, he had been unwavering in his stoicism. Olivia often wondered if he’d felt he had to be this way in order to care for her, to stand between the dangers of the world and the little girl he had loved as if they’d been born of the same womb.
For all his efforts, here she lay … tarnished, ruined, destroyed.
The last of the linen fell away, revealing her wounds, still ugly and ringed in bright red bruising, the stitches pulling and itching. A rough sound emitted from him, like a sob or a tortured growl, the sort of sound she might expect out of a wounded lion.
“Why, Livvie?” he rasped, shoulders shaking as if he sobbed.
But, when he raised his head to look at her again, there were no tears, only the tortured visage of her beloved brother.
“Why?” he demanded again, leaning into her, resting his head upon her shoulder and gathering her close.
His familiar scent enveloped her, cedar and the spicy aroma of the cheroots he loved so much. She rested her head on top of his, breathing him in, taking comfort in his presence. He and Niall were here … her two knights in shining armor. She did not have to do this alone any longer. They would help her fight her way back.
“The laudanum,” she whispered, trying to find the words to explain to him as she’d tried with Niall. “It takes everything away … all the feelings.”
In the first days following her return from the asylum for unwed mothers, she’d been in such a state, the physicians had recommended she be committed to an institution for the insane. She had no memory of this, but Adam had told her often enough that he would not see her languishing in one of those godforsaken places. The first bottle of laudanum had been left with them by the doctor, who’d claimed it could help keep her calm, dull the edges of the sharp swords impaling her heart, mind, and soul.
For a time, it had worked. It had allowed her to rest, to find peace in oblivion and escape from the nightmares. Now, she wondered if it might have been better to face her demons as opposed to running from them. It felt as if every time she turned around, there they stood, the dragon, the demon, that tall, cold tower … tormenting her, reminding her that they were real, that they had taken so much from her already.
“Aye, butterfly, I know,” Adam said, the affection heavy in his voice at the utterance of his nickname for her.
She shook her head; he did not know, he did not understand. “I just wanted … I wanted to feel again, Hart. I couldn’t feel anything.”
He drew back to meet her gaze, searching, trying to understand. She looked back at him, willing him to grasp the reality of her situation. If she continued on the way she had for the past five years, she would die.
After a long moment of silence, he nodded, resolute. “No more laudanum. Not unless you truly want it.”
A sigh of relief welled up in her chest, and she released it as a tear streamed down her cheek. Freedom, at last. No more having that awful drug forced down her throat … even when she craved it, even when she begged for it. If Adam declared something would be so, he would not change his mind. He would be here to ensure another drop of the potent draught never touched her lips again.
“No more laudanum,” she agreed with a smile.
And for the first time in so long, she felt the stirrings of hope deep in her soul.
“This will not be easy,” he told her as he began bandaging her arm, re-covering the wounds. “Your body will crave the laudanum. It won’t be pleasant.”
No, it would not be. Already, her hands had begun to shake, her insides quivering, the sensation of need gnawing upon her gut. She hadn’t had a swallow of the stuff all day, and it was beginning to take its toll. By morning, she would be a writhing, panting mess, desperate for even a drop. Thinking of the vibrant sting of pain, she smiled at him.
“I know … I want that, too.”
Adam nodded in understanding, which brought her even more relief. He lived in the shadows, reveling in his own inner pain. Surely, he could see that she needed this, to let it all consume her—the pain, the fear, the darkness. And then, perhaps, she could finally move forward with her life. Maybe she would never be the same, but then, she did not want to be Lady Olivia Goodall the perfect, porcelain doll again. She wanted to be something better, something stronger. She could never become that if she went on like this.
He’d just opened his mouth as if to reply when Niall appeared in the doorway behind him, his expression clouded with annoyance. Such an expression made the scar running across his left cheek stand out, white and strained against his sun-kissed skin. His hands balled into fists at his sides, causing his shoulders to strain the seams of his coat.
“Master, there is someone here demanding an audience with you.”
Adam scowled. “Whoever it is can sod off, Niall. Now is not the time—”
“Where is he?” screeched a woman’s voice from outside the room, carrying down the hall and into the bedchamber. “I will not be put off! Tell the bloody coward to come and face me!”
Olivia furrowed her brow and peered behind Niall to catch sight of whoever had come here looking for her brother. By the sound of things, Hart had done something to upset this woman. Adam was on his feet in a blink, his long legs carrying him swiftly to the door.
He disappeared for a moment, and from where she lay, Olivia could hear more shouting and screaming, her brother’s low, rumbling tones mingling with the woman’s high-pitched ones. Despite her own current predicament, she could not help the curiosity welling up in her at what sounded like a lover’s quarrel.
The past few weeks and months had been such a haze, but she could faintly remember that he’d had a guest at Dunottar recently … a woman who’d had the household servants whispering bits of gossip when they thought she was not listening. Their liaison was supposed to have ended three months prior, but, apparently, this was far from over.
Niall peered out into the corridor just as Hart’s voice came thundering toward them, loud and clear.
“Stay with Olivia. No laudanum!”