CHAPTER NINE
f all the things Olivia had enjoyed during her former life, she had missed music the most. As a girl, she’d become accustomed to it being a part of her everyday life. It had all begun when she’d walked into the music room at Dunvar House to find an eleven year-old Adam seated at the pianoforte. When she’d sat beside him on the bench and watched him masterfully play without the benefit of sheet music, she had been enthralled. The connection he felt to the music seemed visceral, instinctual. He’d told her that his mother had taught him herself. However, his talent for the instrument went far beyond anything that could be taught. Seeing him so passionate about the music had made her want to learn, as well. It had made her want to connect to the music in her own way.
So, just as his mother had, Adam nurtured Olivia’s own discovered talents. He’d taught her the pianoforte, though as the years passed them by, she’d begun to feel the pull toward stringed instruments. First there had been the violin and cello, which she’d come to play adequately. However, it wasn’t until a harp had been brought to Dunvar House that she’d found the instrument that she’d been born to master.
The first time she’d touched her fingers to harp strings, something had resonated through her like a ripple on the surface of still waters. Those little undulations upon her soul never ceased, growing stronger and wider every time she sat to play. An instructor had been brought in for her at Adam’s behest. He’d managed to convince the earl that the skill could be useful for Olivia as a noble lady, giving her an edge over the others when it came time for her to debut.
In less than a year, she’d surpassed all that the instructor could teach her, her talent growing by leaps and bounds with the guidance of a teacher to feed it. Each holiday from school, she would spend countless hours practicing, learning compositions, and even experimenting with songs of her own—little bits of music born only from her mind.
She’d missed playing with Adam, seeking out harp and piano duets for them to learn, the quiet moments they would encapsulate themselves in the music room, becoming lost in melodies and harmonies for hours. Often, the window would be left open for Niall, who might come from the stable if he heard the music floating out through the evening air. Climbing into the house, he’d settle into a chair and listen.
The rarest moments came when she could sneak him into the house when her stepfather was away and play only for him. She’d loved to feel his eyes on her while she did the thing she loved most … enjoyed the way he could appreciate what she did, even having no knowledge of music himself.
As she grew stronger, now able to walk about the London townhome without losing her breath, Olivia found her way back to it. She and Serena spent most of their afternoons in the drawing room, where Adam would play for them all—including Niall and Lady Daphne. Olivia never ceased to be amazed by her brother’s ability to pour his soul into the notes, to intertwine so much of himself into the music so that no one could doubt his mastery.
Closing her eyes and clinging tight to her daughter, she would let the notes flow through her, often shedding a tear as it brought back memories of her past. Serena had once laid her head upon Olivia’s breast and stared up at her with a little smile, reaching up with a tiny hand to swipe at her face.
“Why are you crying, Mama?” she’d asked. “Are you sad again?”
It had broken her heart to know that Serena had grown accustomed to her moods, watching her mother drift away from her time and time again. She hated that she’d allowed it to go on for so long, missing out on so many joyous moments with her little girl.
“I am not sad,” Olivia had said. “Sometimes, tears are happy. I love the music, and I’ve missed it, is all.”
One day, Serena had expressed an interest in learning to play like Adam, and predictably, her uncle had been all-too happy to oblige her. Taking her onto the bench beside him, he had begun teaching her the various notes and how to combine them to make chords. From where she’d sit on a settee, Olivia could not help but smile. Even when she had not been able to care for Serena, Adam and Niall had always been there. She did not think she could express to them how grateful she was to see her daughter so happy and carefree.
Once Adam would finish instructing Serena at the piano, he’d often invite Lady Daphne to join him at the harp, the two of them playing together as if they’d been born to. Daphne had shocked Olivia with her superior command of the instrument, her talent clearly born of something as visceral as Adam’s, honed over time with diligent practice.
After a few days of this, Olivia found herself beginning to feel the familiar urge deep within … that call toward the instrument she loved. The asylum had been so silent, aside from the berating voices of the nuns and the occasional weeping of the other girls—women like her who had found themselves forced to bear their children in such a Godforsaken place. By the time Adam had come for her, she’d begun to think she’d never hear music again. For so long, her world had been stunningly silent, voices coming at her muffled, as if through a windy gale. Now, sitting in this drawing room, her fingers began to twitch with a memory no amount of pain could have driven from her. Her insides grew warm, her palms breaking out in a sweat as a whispered voice in her mind told her she could bring herself to attempt playing again.
So, with no thought to Adam and Daphne’s duet, she rose from the settee, sitting Serena in Niall’s lap. Gaze fixated upon the harp Lady Daphne played with dexterous fingers, she began to move, slowly, as if through a dream. Her feet propelled her to the instrument, the outer edges of her vision growing hazy, until she could only see the harp, hear the harp, feel the harp.
Her mouth went dry, her stomach twisting and roiling as if she might be ill, a moment of doubt creeping up on her in an instant. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed past the lump of fear swelling in her throat. She was afraid she’d forgotten how to do this, and the part of her that had so loved the music might have died.
She would never know unless she tried. Would it not be worth it to regain this small part of herself? Even if she could never have Niall, or a normal life, or any of the things she’d always wished for … she would have this.
The harp went silent, and she realized that Lady Daphne must have stopped playing upon her approach. Across the room, Adam went on playing with his back turned to them, oblivious to what was happening. Niall and Serena remained where she’d left them, still and silent.
With a shaking hand, she reached out to touch the instrument, her fingertips caressing a single string. The light ripple of that visceral call went through her, resounded through her soul, and lit her heart on fire. Those parts of her had not been missing, after all; they had simply been misplaced. As she took a step closer, she felt it all falling back into place, shuffling into order, solidifying to create such clarity, she thought she might weep for being able to see and feel it.
Adam had ceased playing and watched them from the piano bench. However, she could not spare him a glance … not while she was beginning to realize that she really could do this again.
“I’ve heard you play beautifully,” Lady Daphne said, her voice low and her words measured, careful.
Olivia stared at the other woman, really seeing her for the first time. She was so much like Bertram, it was uncanny—just as pretty, a slight edge of hauteur lending her features a patrician air. But, where Bertram’s eyes had been limpid and enigmatic, Daphne’s were sincere, open, shining as if with tears.
This woman was so unlike Bertram, she realized … perhaps a broken and aching soul just like her brother. It was no wonder Adam could not set her aside. He saw himself in her, as if glancing into a mirror.
“I … I do not think I remember how,” she replied.
That was only partially true. Some instinctive part of her screamed that she might remember if only she tried.
“That’s quite all right,” Daphne said. “Would you like to try? Once you attempt it, your mind will take to it as easily as it once did.”
She was right, of course. Still, something held Olivia back, some mixture of fear and uncertainty keeping her from reaching out and taking command of the harp. Daphne was moving, rising from the stool and motioning at someone else across the room. Olivia kept her gaze upon the harp, her entire being trembling from the inside out as she tried to find the strength to put her fingers to strings for the first time in five long years.
She could hear voices, one of them Niall’s … but hardly deciphered the words. A dull roar had begun in her ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find her way back. The last thing she needed was to return to dulled senses—muffled hearing and unfocused eyes and a deadened soul.
Then, she was snatched back into the moment by a familiar touch, light but sure upon her hand. She opened her eyes to find Niall at her side, one of his hands lightly holding hers and urging it toward the harp.
He stared at her in wonder, as if he were just as taken aback by all of this as she. Yet, it was he who encouraged her this time, he who touched her fingers back to the strings with grim determination setting his features.
“Ye know how it’s done, mo gradh. I remember ye used to play such beautiful music. That part of ye is still in there someplace.”
Yes … yes, it was still there … in the deepest corner of her mind, glimmering like a faraway star, a tiny pinprick of light in the darkness.
Closing her eyes again, she took a deep breath, drawing strength from the hand upon hers, from the big body close enough that she could feel its warmth. He had always made her believe she could do anything, and now proved no exception. Her fingers twitched, this time, the movement strong enough to produce a note.
Her eyes opened, her lips parting as the sound floated into the air, bursting forth like a splash of vibrant color against stark whiteness. She plucked the same string again, and the spot grew larger and brighter, flooding her world with long-forgotten color. The empty air became a canvas, this instrument her paintbrush.
A smile softened her face as she tried more of the strings, testing herself, seeing if she could recall which ones made certain sounds. More colors came rushing back—blues and greens and hues of red. This room had not been nearly this bright when she’d first stepped into it. It was as if she’d thought she could see all this time, but only now realized how dim her world had become. This … this was true sight, true life, the truest part of herself.
And then, she truly began to play. She sank onto the bench, her hands working from memory, her fingers plucking strings in tandem, creating notes, music, a song.
What was this composition?
It took her a moment to remember it, but the more she played, her memories flooded her mind as if over a broken dam. François-Adrien Boieldieu’s “Harp Sonata”; one of her favorite pieces. Her smile grew, her heart soaring along with the music, and her fingers becoming surer the more she played.
Niall went still at her side, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him smile. She wanted to look at him, tell him that she felt more hope now than she ever had … that perhaps, they would be all right, after all. She wanted to thank him for helping bring this part of her back to life.
However, she could not stop, her mind demanding she resume the practice she had neglected for so many years. So, she played. She played, and played, with her brother, Daphne, Serena, and Niall looking on. One composition bled into another, and then another, this moment demanding she pull out the old remembered songs, each one greeting her like an old friend.
Niall knelt at her side, his head resting upon her thigh, his arms coming tight around her middle. The warmth and wetness of his tears soaked through the layers of her gown and petticoat. She could not remember the last time she’d seen him weep.
It only made her smile all the wider.
Sometimes, tears are happy.
And thank God for it. Just as much as she’d needed this, her Niall had needed it, too. He’d needed a sign that she was not completely lost to him.
Olivia was not certain how much time passed before her body finally gave out on her, a reminder that she still had not regained all of her strength. Her arms fell to her sides, and her head slumped as the final notes of her last song died away, the world spinning around her.
The buoyant sensation made her feel as if she floated when Niall caught her up, cradling her in his arms. She could not stop smiling, this sense of euphoria washing over her so swift and warm that she wished it would never end.
“C’mon, mo gradh,” he murmured, standing with her in his arms. “Let’s get ye back to bed. Ye played well, but now, it’s time to rest.”
She cast a little glance at her brother before Niall took her from the room. Adam was watching her with the same wonderment Niall had, his eyes shining like clear, green gems. She hoped this moment had brought him the same peace it had her. Perhaps he’d needed a sign, too, a bit of hope for himself.
“We will tend to Serena,” she heard Daphne saying as they stepped into the corridor.
To her surprise, Niall did not protest. At last, he’d come to see what Olivia had been trying to tell him. He must understand by now that Daphne was not like the rest of her family. She was good, and pure, and genuinely seemed to care for her brother, and by proxy, her and Serena.
Olivia clung to him as he carried her up to her chamber, kicking the door shut behind him once they were alone. He went straight to the bed, bending down to deposit her among the bedclothes. She wrapped her arms around his neck before he could straighten, pulling him to her for a kiss. His response was eager, his breath quickening against her lips, hands cupping her face. She opened her mouth to him, tipping her head back to let him into her, reveling in his taste, his closeness, this newfound joy blossoming in her chest.
“Livvie … my Livvie,” he whispered between kisses. “Ye’ve come back to me.”
She let out a little laugh, then pressed her mouth to his for a long, lingering moment before replying. “Did you ever doubt I would?”
He rested his forehead against hers with a heavy sigh. “I didnae want to doubt ye … but sometimes, it was so hard to hope … I had started to think …”
“It does not matter anymore. I might never be who I was, but I can be something like it. I know that now.”
He smiled, stroking her cheek, tracing a path back to her hair. “You dinnae have to be like ye were for me to love ye. All ye ever have to be is my Livvie.”
She laughed again, this time unable to stop it all from coming out. It had been so long since she’d felt this way, the heaviness of the past easing just enough that she could breathe.
“I know you wanted me to rest, but I cannot spend all day abed,” she declared. “It is too fine a day, and I feel … God, Niall, I feel so alive.”
He stepped back to allow her to stand up, but watched her with a wary glint in his eye. “Ye’re excited right now because of what ye just did. But I want ye stronger, mo gradh. Ye cannae strain yerself.”
Brushing past him, she shrugged one shoulder. “I won’t. If it makes you feel better, we can pass the day doing something quiet … maybe we can finish Cecilia. I just … I cannot spend the entire day in bed.”
She practically floated toward one of the bedroom windows as if upon a cloud, her feet light, her heart lighter. Parting the drapes, she found herself gazing down upon the little courtyard in the midst of the garden off the back of the house. The sight of Daphne and Serena skipping rope together as Adam sat on a stone bench looking on made her smile. Finally, she and Adam might have what they’d always lacked. With Niall and Daphne near, they felt like a growing family. It might be a foolish hope, but today was just the day for such musings. If all went well, they could return to Dunnottar far different than they’d left it. Pressing one hand to the glass, she wished for it with all her heart.
Niall came up behind her, wrapping his arms about her waist and pulling her against him. She sighed, sinking into his solid body. One part of him was particularly solid, coming to life against her back, throbbing with the desire he somehow still managed to keep thinly veiled. She’d understood his reticence when things had been so uncertain, but now that she’d begun to feel more herself, Olivia wished he would take her to bed. More than likely, she’d have to undress for him again and boldly take what she wanted. The thought had her stifling a giggle as she imagined just how she might go about convincing him that she was finally ready, that he no longer needed to hold back with her.
“What the devil?”
Niall’s sudden exclamation brought her back to attention, and she glanced up at him, brow furrowed as she found his shocked gaze fixated upon something out the window.
“Niall, what—”
Her words choked off on a strangled cry of dismay as she set eyes upon what he was seeing. The warmth that had settled over her fled in an instant, her blood running cold and her heart dropping down into her stomach.
Adam, Daphne, and Serena were still in the garden, but someone else had joined them. Someone who struck terror into the core of her being at the mere sight of him. Tremors wracked her, beginning in her center and spreading out to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her mouth gaped open, but she could not draw breath, or speak, or even move. She stood frozen in Niall’s arms, the entire world seeming to shift and darken in a matter of seconds. Her knees gave out, and she nearly hit the floor, Niall fumbling to keep her held tight. Hot tears scorched her face when she blinked, falling off the edge of her jaw and running down her neck.
“No,” she managed, her voice small and weak. “No … he cannot be here.”
But she had seen him with her own two eyes—tall and slender and pale, that shock of red hair gleaming in the light of the sun. He’d been standing on the outside of the garden looking in, hovering on the edge of her new life as if waiting to tear it apart with tooth and claw. Her demon, come back to haunt her on what had been the best day of the past five years of her life.
Serena’s father.
The orchestrator of her most frightening dreams.
Lord Bertram Fairchild.
“Livvie, it’s all right,” Niall murmured, though he did not sound so sure himself.
He was furious; she could feel it in the hold of his shaking hands upon her, hear it in his quavering voice, smell it in the air. And she … she was plummeting again, all the light and color bleeding away and leaving her right back where she had started. She could feel it all slipping away from her—the hope, the happiness, the joy. How could she have forgotten how close he always was, how easily he could disturb her peace, returning to torment her again and again? Now, he was here in her waking hours, not just in her mind—the idea of a threat suddenly made tangible.
She had always known he could come and take their child away, hadn’t she? The threat of that had always been real, even when her dreams of him had not been.
She thrashed in Niall’s hold, panic descending upon her before she could stop it. “Serena! Don’t let him take her, Niall! Do not let him touch my little girl!”
Niall picked her up from the floor, carrying her back to the bed once it became clear her limbs had ceased to function. His face was a study in determination and rage as he loomed over her, something she’d never before seen sparking to life within his eyes.
“I will protect her, mo gradh,” he declared, his hands curling into big, meaty fists, the veins in his forehead and neck standing out so prominently, it was a wonder they did not burst. “I will protect her, and I will protect you. Stay here.”
With that, he was gone, his heavy footsteps ringing out through the room, the slam of the door shaking the walls. Rolling onto her side, she curled into herself, unable to cease shaking, her throat constricting so tight, she thought she might suffocate. Her knight would always be here to defend them, she knew this. She could count on him and Adam to stop Bertram from laying a hand upon Serena. The protective mother inside her wanted to rise from the bed, march down the stairs, and confront the man who threatened to destroy their lives, to bring her daughter inside and keep her safe. Yet, she could do nothing but lie here struggling to breathe, her limbs heavy and dead, her heart pounding, her eyes squeezing shut as she tried to escape it.
However, there was no escape. He was here, and she could sense him, smell him, feel him. Bile burned the back of her throat, her stomach squeezing and clenching as if she might be violently ill. Still, she could not move, could find no escape.
His laughter rang out through her mind, and she could feel the weight of him on top of her, experienced that very real fear all over again … the fear that he might be the end of her. She whimpered and groaned as the tears fell, her skin itching and burning as if she might burst out of it at any moment, her soul flying free of this tortuous prison of her body.
Fighting me will only make this harder than it has to be … you’ve been practically begging for it since the night we met … just a taste, love …
“No,” she moaned, pressing her hands against her ears and shaking her head, trying to blot out his voice. “No, no, no!”
She could still hear him panting in her ear, grunting as he struggled to pin her down, laughing when he saw that she realized she had lost.
Slut … whore!
“Stop,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please … make it stop!”
There was no stopping this. It all came flooding back, overwhelming her to impotence, a state similar to the one she’d been brought home in. Tortured. Wrung dry. Broken.
Tossing the coverlet aside, she rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a thud. She could barely lift her head, the crushing weight of it too much to bear. Somehow, she managed to get to her hands and knees, crossing toward the dressing room. There lay her trunks, all her things that had been brought from Dunnottar. Inside one of them, Maeve had stashed a few spare bottles of laudanum, knowing that one would not be enough to get her through once they’d reached London. Olivia had forgotten about them after casting the potion off altogether, had not thought of them because she had not needed them.
But now, her mouth watered for the stuff, her stomach quivering as she imagined its taste, the feel of it running down her throat, the oblivion it would offer. That was what she needed. It was the only thing that ever drove Bertram’s voice from her head, chased the coppery scent of blood from her senses, washed it all away.
She pushed the door open and crawled, her knees aching, her entire body sore as if she’d been pummeled by fists on all sides. The pain had sunk as deep as her bones, as deep as her soul. It had become more than she could bear in a matter of moments.
Had she truly believed she could do this—become whole again? How, when this sudden despair was so acute, so crushing, so insurmountable? As she forced open trunk after trunk, her breath racing as she searched desperately for the key to the dulling of her senses, she tried with all her might to fight it. She tried to remember how far she had come, how happy she had been just a short while ago. Apparently, she was not strong enough, and the weight was far too heavy to be cast off.
No force within her could prevent what she did next.
She located the bottles, pulling one free of a tangle of clothing with a sigh of relief. Leaning back against the trunk, she worked the stopper free, even that requiring more strength than she possessed at the moment. She managed it somehow, dropping the cork as the medicinal yet sweet odor of the laudanum filled the dressing room.
She hesitated for only a moment before bringing the bottle to her lips, then tipping her head back and letting the potion flood her mouth.
Niall stormed through the house with a single motivation driving him. He was going to murder Bertram Fairchild with his bare hands. He would wrap his hands around that pale throat and squeeze, crush his skull with both hands, and bathe in his blood. It could be his only recourse after the sod had dared to come here and threaten the peace they had worked so hard to cultivate, the joy that his Livvie had found after so much heartache.
He had stood back for far too long, letting Adam tend to the matter of the Fairchilds, trusting his friend and master to get the job done. But, no more. He was done standing back and waiting; he was done observing the so called ‘place’ society had put him in because of the father he’d been born to. He was done feeling impotent.
He was Olivia’s knight, and now, he was going to do what knights did best—go to war.
The sun flashed bright when he threw open the door leading into the garden, but he barely registered the way it stung his eyes, narrowing them upon his target. The fool had come into the garden and was now arguing with Adam—who stood between Bertram and Daphne while Serena looked on with wide, curious eyes.
His ire rose even more at the sight of the cur standing so close to their little Serena. It did not matter that Bertram had sired her—he had no claim on the child, no right to come here and set his filthy eyes upon her. Stomping over the path toward them, Niall vowed to make him pay for this … pay for it all.
Whatever they’d been arguing about must have ended, because Bertram was turning to walk away. He did not intend to let the son of a bitch get far.
“You,” he rasped, pointing an accusing finger at Bertram’s back.
As expected, he turned to face Niall, confusion marring his pretty face as he seemed to wonder what the hell a servant might want with him. Niall struck fast, reaching out to fist the lapel of his coat with one hand, then balling up the other and crashing it into Bertram’s face. The impact of flesh and bone against his knuckles and the resulting spray of blood was not nearly as satisfying as it should have been. So, as Bertram crumbled to the ground with a groan, Niall went down on top of him.
The world fell away, and all he knew was that the man who had broken the woman he loved was finally at his fingertips. He was disgustingly pretty like a girl, even with blood splattering his face—the weapon he had used to lull Livvie into a false sense of security before striking like the viper he was. It made each blow to his cheekbones, jaw, and lips that much more satisfying. He growled like an enraged animal with each blow, putting the force of his weight behind every one, now out of his mind with rage. Then, he went to work on the man’s body. If he had his say, the bastard would not walk away from this encounter. For every bit of pain Olivia had suffered, Bertram would pay in flesh and blood. He struck his gut, his ribs, drove a knee up into his groin so hard, he was surprised the man’s balls did not come spewing out of his mouth.
Screams came at him from somewhere far off, high and shrill—Daphne calling out to him, Serena crying. It only made him think of Olivia screaming and pleading for mercy when this cur had forced himself on her.
He roared, the taste of the other man’s blood on his lips ramping up his fury until he was nearly mad with it. Holding Bertram by the throat, he pulled him up off the ground, then slammed him back down, bashing his head and knocking the wind from him. The other man stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes as Niall pinned him down and wrapped both hands around his throat. He began to squeeze, trembling at the feel of Bertram’s windpipe against his palms, a rapid pulse fluttering at his fingertips. It could be done in seconds … Bertram would die wheezing and thrashing beneath him. A just end for the man who had taken away the most precious thing in the world to him, chewing her up and spitting her out when he’d finished.
But then, a strong pair of arms wrapped around him—a grip equal in strength to his wrenching him from on top of Bertram. Niall fought, flailing to be set free as he was dragged across the ground, farther and farther away from his prey.
“Goddamn it, Niall!” Adam bellowed, wrestling him into submission. “I said, stop!”
No … he could not stop. Bertram was struggling to his feet, coughing and spitting streams of blood onto the ground. He was still alive, still moving, still unpunished for his crimes. He growled and tried again to pull away from Adam, but his friend was having none of it. He held Niall down while Bertram began backing away, swiping his sleeve over his swollen, bloodied mouth.
“Three days,” he slurred, glaring at Daphne—his own sister—as if he hated her. “And make it sixty thousand unless you want me to have that cretin prosecuted for attacking me.”
Then, he turned to flee, throwing open the garden gate and stepping out into the lane between houses, quickly disappearing from sight.
Damn it, Niall had to get free! He had to go after Bertram and finish this. He did not know what this sixty thousand pounds was for, but he could only guess. Bertram was using Olivia or Serena to blackmail them in some way; he just knew it. That only made him more determined.
“Get the fuck off me, damn you!” he bellowed.
Adam held him tighter. “Only if you promise to go inside and sort yourself out. I won’t have you going off and getting yourself into trouble. Livvie needs you.”
The mention of Olivia stole the last of his strength, and he sagged in Adam’s hold, his chest beginning to ache. He’d left Olivia upstairs in bed, crying and retreating into herself again. The mere sight of Bertram had terrified her to no end. There was no telling how it might continue to affect her, likely undoing some of the progress she had made. Despite the desire to rip Bertram’s head from his shoulders, Niall found that the need to be there for Olivia outweighed it all. She would always come first.
“I promise,” he muttered grudgingly.
“I mean it, Niall.”
“I promise, ye bloody idiot,” he snapped. “Now get off!”
Adam released him and stood while Niall struggled onto his knees, sitting back on his haunches and struggling to catch his breath. The incident had taken more out of him than he’d thought, and he felt as if he might pass out from fatigue, his head swimming with too many conflicting thoughts and emotions. Raising his right hand, he inspected his knuckles, cringing at the sight they made, already beginning to swell and darken with bruises, Bertram’s blood caking his fingers. It was no matter … he already carried countless scars.
“Well, then,” he grumbled, glaring at Adam as he rose to his feet. “What are ye goin’ to do about it, Hart?”
If the man did not want him to beat Bertram to a bloody pulp, then he’d better bloody well have a plan of his own.
For the first time, he took in Adam’s expression, finding there the same fury he felt certain was etched onto his. Adam narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening as he stared off in the direction Bertram had just taken.
“I’m going to kill the bastard.”
Daphne gasped, one hand coming up over her mouth, the other holding tight to Serena—who clung to her skirts, watching Niall with tears in her eyes. In all the commotion, he’d forgotten her presence entirely. Guilt now fell heavy upon his shoulders at the evidence of his loss of control. The little girl who had always looked at him with admiration in her eyes was now afraid, trembling and watching him as if terrified she’d be next.
“Why should you kill him, after ye stopped me?” he groused, tearing his gaze away from Serena. He could not have this conversation while looking into her innocent eyes.
“Because I’m a peer, and you’re not,” Adam countered, turning back to face him. “You could hang for what you just did, so you ought to thank Daphne for convincing me to stop you.”
He looked to Daphne, but she had eyes only for Adam, the horror she felt at his declaration written all over her face. “Adam …”
“He’s seen Serena,” Adam said to Niall, ignoring Daphne completely. “He knows she is his and is threatening to force us before a judge to have her taken from us. He’ll expose Olivia’s condition and take Serena unless we pay him fifty thousand pounds … well, sixty thousand now, thanks to you.”
Despite having known it all along, Niall still could not believe his ears. “Surely, ye don’t mean to pay it?”
“No,” Adam replied. “Because I am going to kill him, just like I said.”
Then, turning to face Daphne, he glared down at her, fists tightening and eyes blazing.
“And no one will convince me otherwise.”
Without another word, he was gone, long legs eating up the distance between the garden and the house. Everything about his posture declared he was in no mood to argue—stiff shoulders, rigid back, clenched fists. Fool that she was, Lady Daphne took it upon herself to go after him.
“Adam … Adam, wait!”
Niall watched them go, his hand throbbing like the devil, his head spinning from all that had just happened.
Bertram had appeared out of nowhere and upended their lives with his little extortion plot—endangering both Olivia and Serena in the process. Just thinking of it made him regret that he’d allowed himself to be stopped. It would not matter if he hung for killing the bastard. Niall had been born no one, and would die no one. If he were going to face death, he would gladly do so knowing he’d destroyed the one thing with the power to hurt them, the one person responsible for their misery or pain.
Closing his eyes, he took a few deep breaths, cranking his neck side to side to loosen the tense muscles. He was beginning to feel more himself, bringing his turbulent emotions under control. It would not do to go back to Olivia in such a state. Bad enough he would have to explain the state of his knuckles, though he would hope she’d understand and perhaps even thank him for what he’d done.
When he opened his eyes again, he was confronted with Serena, who still stood in the garden with him … neglected in all the chaos. She sucked in short, ragged breaths between hiccups, tears wetting her cherubic cheeks.
Shame flushed his face at the fear in her wide eyes, the way she trembled as he approached. If he’d been thinking at all, he might not have acted the barbarian with her looking on. It would have been better to come out here, pick her up and carry her inside, allowing Adam and Daphne to tend to the matter of Bertram. But he had not been thinking, and now, she was terrified of him.
He knelt before her, retrieving his handkerchief to wipe the tears from her face. “C’mon, a bhobain, let’s get ye inside.”
Taking her hand, he attempted to pull her toward him, but she yanked away with a shake of her head as a fresh flow of tears began. He did not think he’d ever loathed himself more.
“Serena, I’m sorry,” he said, gentling his voice as best he could. “That man … he was a very bad man. He could have hurt yer maw, and I couldnae let that happen. Do ye understand? I’d never hurt ye, or yer maw. I love ye both too much.”
She eyed him warily, chubby fingers wrapped up in the skirt of her gown. “What about Lady Daphne? Would you hurt her?”
Niall sighed, wondering if even this child could see the disdain he’d felt toward the Fairchild chit. Was he so easy to read, so naked in his emotions?
His answer came easily as he recalled Daphne helping nurse Olivia during her period of withdrawal, putting her fingers to those harp strings, doing what she could to make up for the abominable behavior of her family.
“Of course not, a bhobain. I’d never hurt an innocent … only bad men like that one who just left. Ye’re my little love, aren’t ye? Ye know how batty I am about ye.”
Her lips shifted into a little smirk, causing a dimple to appear in her cheek. It wasn’t her radiant smile, but it was a start.
“I’m tired,” she declared, coming closer and throwing herself against him.
He took her up with one arm, holding her close while she tucked her face against his neck. “Let’s get ye to yer room for a nap. After ye wake up, I’ll take ye to yer maw.”
She nodded her agreement, then wrapped her arms around him, holding fast. He sighed with relief, bringing his hand up against her back in reassurance. Apparently, it would take more than one little outburst to make her stop trusting him. He had frightened her, but hadn’t lost her love, and that was all that mattered to him.
After they’d entered the house, they encountered Maeve coming from upstairs. She paused on the landing, gaze curious as she glanced toward the closed door of the nearest drawing room. Behind it, Adam’s voice thundered and roared, interspersed with the sound of breaking glass and what might be a piece of furniture being overturned. Daphne argued in lower, though no less determined tones.
Niall raised his eyebrows at Maeve, who gazed at him with a silent question in her eyes.
“A long story,” he told her. “I’ll tell ye about it later. For now, would ye take her to her room? She needs a nap, and I must look in on Livvie.”
“Of course,” the maid replied, coming forward to take Serena from his arms. “I do hope everything is all right.”
He wanted to reassure Maeve that it would be, but the words died on his tongue. If he spoke them, they might turn out to be a lie.
“Send for me when she wakes,” he said, kissing the top of Serena’s head before turning to head upstairs.
He squared his shoulders, steeling himself for what he might find when he returned to Olivia. It had taken so long for her to begin finding her way back, only for Bertram to appear and destroy it in a matter of seconds. Just thinking of it made him angry that he had not finished the job, that he’d allowed himself to be stopped.
Adam’s words came back to him then, a stark reminder of what was at stake here.
Livvie needs you.
Little did Adam know just how much. He hadn’t seen the look on her face when she had noticed Bertram standing in the garden, hadn’t felt the panic radiating from her in tangible waves.
He’d left her in such a state. After so many years of this, Niall knew all-too well how swift and heavy the darkness could fall over her at any given moment. How much more acute would that be now that the object of her nightmares had turned up to disturb her peace?
She needed him right now, which meant the problem of Bertram and Adam’s declaration could wait. Turning in the direction the others had taken, he walked with purpose, his feet moving him swiftly through the house and up the stairs, his heart in his throat. Things had been going so well, he was not certain he was ready to be confronted with a broken and melancholy Olivia again.
He stopped in his own room to make use of the clean water on the washstand—cleansing his hands of Bertram’s blood and using a scrap of linen to bathe his face. Olivia did not need to see him this way. There was no time to change his clothes, his need to see and reassure her propelling him along his way.
Entering her chamber, he pushed the door closed behind him and made a beeline for the bed. Halfway across the room, he faltered, realizing that the bedclothes had been tossed aside and Olivia did not lie among them.
“Livvie?”
He frowned, glancing about the room, thinking maybe she huddled in a corner. Silence greeted him. As he turned in a slow circle, searching out every inch of the chamber, he realized she was not here.
“Where are ye, mo gradh?” he murmured, going to peer back out into the corridor.
Had she recovered and gone off in search of him? No sign of her returning to her room, so he went back inside and crossed to the door connecting her suite to Adam’s. The muffled sounds of him and Daphne arguing came at Niall from downstairs, so he knew they were not inside. Neither did he find Olivia when he threw open the door and swept through the chamber calling her name.
Panic rose up into his throat, swift and burning. He wanted to believe she had simply gone to find him, or even to the nursery for Serena. Yet, he could not brush off this feeling … this premonition causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, telling him that something was terribly wrong.
Raking a hand through his hair, he glanced about the room once more, searching for any clue to where she might have gone. That was when he noticed the door to the dressing room hanging open … and a pair of tiny feet stretched out through the opening.
“Livvie!”
He was across the room in an eye’s blink, the wind knocked from him as if he’d taken a fist to the gut when his gaze landed on her. Splayed across the carpet with her gown twisted about her legs, she appeared half-dead—motionless, pale, her eyes wide open and fixated straight above her. Her limbs appeared disjointed, strewn this way and that, her hair fanned out around her face in an almost picturesque display. If it were not for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, or the sound of her harsh breaths filling the space, he might have thought her dead.
Falling to his knees at her side, he muttered a string of oaths, catching sight of the empty bottle overturned on the floor beside her. The half-empty flagon that had been on her washstand, brought from Dunnottar, had been removed upon Olivia’s request. She’d claimed not being able to abide the sight or smell of the stuff and had not wanted the temptation of it so near. There must have been a spare bottle hidden away he hadn’t known about … and in her state of despair, she’d gone right to it.
“Livvie,” he called out, crouching over her and waving a hand before her face. “Livvie, how much of this poison did ye drink?”
She remained unresponsive, failing to even blink as she stared straight through him and into some place he could not see. He had no way of knowing how much she’d ingested, but he did realize that her usual dose would never have put her into a stupor. However much she’d drunk, it was sure to have been too much. She’d never survive so great a dose.
“What have ye done?” he whispered, his eyes stinging with oncoming tears, his chest so tight, he felt as if it might cave in and obliterate his heart into dust.
He forced himself to breathe, to remain calm, to think. He had not been gone that long, she couldn’t have drunk it all at once … which meant there was still a chance she could be saved.
“Ye won’t leave me so easily, mo gradh,” he declared, slipping his arms beneath her body to lift her. “I willnae let ye.”
Carrying her back into the room, he glanced about for something … anything he could use to rouse her. Terror threatened to unman him, but he fought against it with every ounce of his will. If ever there was a time he needed to have his wits about him, now would be it. Throwing her none-too-gently upon the bed, he rushed to the vanity table, where a vinaigrette stood amongst the other jars and vials. He snatched it up and went back to the bed, frantically waving it about beneath her nose.
She blinked, her eyelids fluttering for the first time since he’d come upon her. Still, she did not move, did not speak, gave no sign that she was anything close to coherent.
“C’mon, Livvie,” he urged, grasping her shoulders and giving her a shake. “Snap out of it!”
The vinaigrette proved all but useless, so he threw it aside and shook her again, raising her shoulders off the bed and trying to jolt her back to the real world. She simply lay limp in his hold, her head lolling heavy from her shoulders, her breathing still harsh and far too swift.
Cringing, he drew back one hand and gritted his teeth, already hating himself for what he would do next.
“Forgive me.”
He let his hand fall, his palm connecting with her face with only about half his strength. Still, it was enough to create heat between his skin and hers, the sting blossoming against his palm, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the room. She shook, her limbs jerking and her eyes going even wider before beginning to water.
He blinked back his own tears at the sight of her reddened cheek. Still, she was rousing, whimpering and struggling to breathe.
“There ye are. Come back, Livvie … I’m right here. Come back to me.”
She trembled, squeezing her eyes shut and groaning as if pained. He glanced about the room again, his mind racing as he tried to think through the anguish overwhelming him with crushing force. She’d ingested far too much of the laudanum and needed to be purged of the stuff if she were to have a fighting chance.
He leapt from the bed and dashed to the commode resting in the corner. Snatching its doors open so hard that one of them flew off the hinges, he found a clean chamberpot inside. He took hold of it and ran back to the bed. With one hand bracing her back, he sat her up and dropped the heavy pot into her lap. Her head fell back against his arm, and her eyes snapped up to focus upon him. He gazed into them and found her in the depths, the tiniest spark enough to convince him he hadn’t lost her yet.
“This may hurt, but it’s for yer own good, Livvie,” he warned, before plunging two fingers into her mouth, aiming for the back of her throat.
She gagged, lurching in his hold and dropping her head over the pot. He withdrew his fingers just in time, moving clear of the contents of her stomach as they came rushing forth while she coughed and heaved. The stench of laudanum flooded his senses, and he nearly retched himself, but held firm, refusing to let her go. Taking hold of her hair, he held it out of her face and kept her bent over the pot, crooning to her as she cast up everything her tiny body could have contained.
“That’s it … ye’re gonna be fine, mo gradh. It’ll be over soon.”
Once he was certain she’d finished, he released her, going to the far side of the room to set the pot aside. When he came back to the bed, he found her lying amongst the cushions, shaking and sobbing, her eyes far more focused than they had been. He sat and reached for her, drawing her up so that she lay across his lap, her head resting on his chest.
“I’ve got ye, Livvie,” he whispered against her hair, the quaver in his voice giving truth to his own state. He was scared witless, his stomach in knots, his heart pounding. “Ye’ll be all right. I promise … I willnae let him hurt ye.”
She clung to him, one weak hand wrapped in the front of his shirt, her face buried against the fabric. He was shaking now, violent tremors ripping through him as the rush of blood and pounding of his pulse began to slow and the reality of what could have happened came crashing down upon him. He went on holding her, rocking her, trying to soothe her with words, promising things he was not certain he could deliver.
That she would be safe, that she would get better, that the world would seem brighter once this had passed.
He was not certain if any of it could ever be true.