WORDS THAT MATTER
Arabella was exhausted. She slept against him as they rode back and Richard held her, feeling his heart ache with tenderness. She sighed as they crossed over a bump in the road and he tensed, not wishing to wake her. She slumbered against him. When they reached the village, he gently swung down from the horse.
“Almost there,” he murmured. She made a small incoherent sound and he reached up to hold her, tensing lest he'd scared her, but she fell back to sleep, slumped forward in the saddle.
He talked, hushed and emphatic, with the sentry. He had something he had to do. He just wasn't sure if it would work. He would need Bromley's help with that.
After giving the sentry his instructions, he left the stable hand to take his horses and they headed back home.
Arabella was in his arms, her head against his shoulder. He looked down at her and noticed the angry bruise on her forehead. His rage boiled in him and he wished he'd shot Rowell then and there.
Better that I didn't. Shooting a fellow officer could have got him shot himself. There would be no good to come of it. He thought as Arabella stirred against his chest that his love for her was stronger than any hate.
“Bromley?” he called as the door opened.
“Sir, I...Oh!” Bromley's face turned white, and, always gaunt, it became more drawn as he looked down at his mistress. “Sir! Is she...”
“She's alive, Bromley,” Richard said softly. “Could you get some water boiling, mayhap? And find some vinegar? Those wounds need fixing.”
“Yes, sir.”
While Bromley busied himself in the kitchen, Richard carefully carried Arabella up the stairs. Her neck was slack in sleep and he cradled her against him, keeping it safe from harm. He lowered her onto the bed carefully.
He looked down at her.
The bruise on her brow was not the only one – there were bruises on her arm at the wrist and elbow, and another one on her collarbone. She had an angry scratch at her neck and another on her face. Her pale skin glimmered in the firelight, the blue dress she wore a gleaming wool over her curves.
I am such a fool.
Richard felt no anger – at himself or anyone else – in that moment. Just a bleak emptiness. How could he have mistrusted her? How could he have even thought of turning his back on her? How could he have been so foolish as to think that she went to Rowell voluntarily?
“Richard, you are a fool.”
Saying it aloud made it no more or less true, so he sat down at the fire and thought about the next problem. Dressing wounds. He'd never dressed a wound, save his own minor injuries, in his life.
“Sir?” Bromley appeared at the threshold, trailing vinegar and bandages.
“Yes?” Richard stood. “Put them there, Bromley, and make some broth, mayhap? She's not eaten and might be hungry when she comes round.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And see if Mr. Briar's in?”
Briar was the surgeon. A dry, acerbic fellow at the best of times, he was usually busy and Richard hesitated to fetch him. However, what if this wound was more serious than he thought? He'd rather risk Briar's scorn than Arabella's worsening.
“Yes, sir.”
When Bromley had gone, he went over very quietly. She looked like a carving on a tombstone, so still and silent was she. He reached down and stroked her forehead. She murmured.
“I didn't mean to wake you,” he whispered. He gently uncovered the bruise, which turned into an angry gash under her hair.
Holding his breath, feeling completely inadequate, he started to dab at it with the soaked cloth Bromley brought. The vinegar was acrid and stung his eyes, making him want to sneeze, but he persevered. First the gash, then the smaller grazes and cuts. He saw her frown in pain and her eyes fluttered open.
“Easy, lass,” he whispered. “I'm just bandaging you.”
He saw her eyelids close, and thought she slept. Then she spoke.
“Richard, remind me not to ask you to tend me again. That aches like the blazes.”
He felt his mouth twitch with a smile. She looked so angelic, sleeping there. He lifted the bandage, leaning down to kiss her.
“Sorry, my dearest,” he whispered. “But I am no surgeon. I do my best.”
“Good,” she said sleepily.
He smiled and it seemed she slept, for her breath returned to its former steadiness. He worked carefully, bandaging her skull. He was just holding a cool cloth on the angry bruise on her wrist when he heard footsteps in the doorway.
“The surgeon, sir.”
Briar took a look at her, prescribed rest, food and sleep. Then he left.
“Doctor?” Richard called.
The doctor turned in the doorway, raising a haughty brow. “Yes?”
“Is there anything I can do? She seems so...so weary.” It wasn't just the exhaustion of body he meant, but a kind of weariness of soul he couldn't explain.
“Yes. Don't vex her. And don't press her to do or say anything. This is a sickroom, not a courthouse, young man.”
Thus reprimanded, Richard stayed where he was while the doctor donned his outdoor things and walked silently out.
When he'd gone, Richard went to the parlor. It was dark in there, the fire low in the grate. He stared into it and found that his conscience weighed heavily on him. The arguments and indifference, the odd silences, the misunderstandings. All of them burdened him. He covered his face in his hands, sorrowed.
Why had he been so distant with her? So mistrustful? One word, and he would have been able to ask if she was happy with him, if she regretted having chosen to wed him, if she was sincere in how she felt.
Why hadn't he asked?
Because I'm arrogant. Because my pride wouldn't let me risk the fact that she hadn't chosen me.
It seemed unbelievable, but he knew it was true. His own arrogance had almost lost him the woman he loved! How could he have been so foolish?
“Sir?”
He sighed.
“Yes, Bromley?”
“Doctor left some salts for her – says it might help her get her strength up, to sniff them sometimes.”
“Oh. Thanks, Bromley.”
He covered his face again and he heard Bromley shift in the door and then stop. He didn't hear him go.
“What?”
“Sir? You seem...distressed.”
He laughed. “I am, Bromley. How would you feel if you discovered you were so arrogant, you almost threw away the most precious thing in your life?”
“I'd stop being so arrogant, sir.”
Richard laughed. “Bromley, you're right. I think I'm going to do that.”
“How, sir?”
“I'm not sure yet,” Richard admitted. “But I'm going to try.”
He headed up the stairs to the bedroom. The door was half-closed and he pushed it open gently, and then sat down on the stool across from the bed.
“Arabella,” he said softly. “I don't know if you're awake or not, but I have to air these words and I can hope that, whether you're awake or not, you can still hear me. I want to say I'm sorry. I have been a fool. An utter, complete fool. How could I think you'd betray me? And even if I thought that, why was I too afraid to ask? Why did I let myself, for so long, believe in your indifference? I was too afraid to risk hearing it from your lips. I should have asked.”
He paused, licking dry lips. Opposite him on the bed, she stirred and shifted, the light falling on the angry wound on her forehead. He felt his heart clench, and then relax as her breathing returned to its former ease.
“I have said so many things I shouldn't have,” he said softly. “I said you were not suited to me, that we weren't matched. That you did not belong with me. I didn't mean it. I know now how foolish that was. I said so much that was nonsense, Arabella. Nevertheless, I forgot to say the only thing that's true. I love you. I always have, I think, from the moment I saw you. And I always will. Whatever happens. Whether you love me, hate me, or remain indifferent. It doesn't matter. I will always think of you – your smile, your laugh, your kindness – and I will love you. Forever.”
She shifted and sighed. He saw her eyelid flutter open. He held his breath. He didn't know if she had heard some of it, or all of it, or none of it. It didn't matter just then. He'd said it. She was awake as well.
“I love you, too, Richard,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”
Richard felt his heart break. Or, perhaps, not breaking, but mending. He stood and lowered himself to kneel beside her bed. He kissed her lips and she stroked his cheek and kissed him, too.
His heart filled with light.