by Elisa Braden
“Your hands, Annabelle,” Robert commanded, deep and hard. Harder than she’d ever heard him. “Now.”
The skin of her cheeks and neck pulsed with heat. She blinked away tears, swallowed away shame. Curled her fingers into her palms, feeling the sticky wetness of her own blood. “No,” she choked.
He grasped her right wrist. Pried open her fingers.
She grunted her resistance, but there was no fighting his strength.
All he did was sigh. Then murmur, “Now you’ve done it, Bumblebee. How will you wield a pen to write me all those letters of yours with such injuries?”
Though his voice softened with affection, she hated his words—the implication that he would leave soon, the nickname he’d used for the girl who invariably “bumbled” into calamity. She’d only ever done so around him. Trying to prove herself. Trying to remain close.
He was leaving. Oh, God. Robert might die.
Her stomach felt sick. Cramping. Her throat felt tight. Burning.
She wanted to scream at him. But she could not even look at him. She squeezed her eyes closed.
His thumb stroked the back of her wrist. “You may turn round, you know. I am relatively decent.” He paused. She pictured him glancing down at his own bare chest and wet breeches. “Well, nearly so.”
She tugged at her arm. “Let go.”
“Not until you tell me why you followed us. Hux said you’d promised to—”
“I did not promise. And what if I had? Breaking such a small promise is a tiny matter—nothing at all, really—considering what you are planning to do!”
A long pause had her picturing those shaggy dark brows lowering over brooding blue. “I am lost, Bumblebee.”
“Do not call me that.” She didn’t care that she sounded shrewish and shrieking. The heat inside her was caustic. Suffocating. Like smoke expanding in billows. She needed to let it out.
Another sigh. “Annabelle, then. Lady Annabelle, if we are being proper, I suppose.”
“You are l-leaving. For war.” Her words emerged as a low, bitter accusation. She hadn’t meant to say them. But they wanted out.
First, silence. Then, “I have a commission. That is my duty.”
“No.” She shook her head for emphasis. “Your duty is here. Here. With your grandfather and … us.”
“Annabelle—”
A ball of clothing sailed past her, flung by her brother and—presumably—caught by Robert. John had already donned his own breeches and shirt, along with thunderclouds of fury. He stalked toward them, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed. “Go home, Annabelle,” he barked. “You’ve had your eyeful of our naked backsides. I hope your curiosity is satisfied.”
The heat in her cheeks felt like a brand.
Robert had released her arm to dress, or at least, she assumed so. She still hadn’t summoned the courage to turn around and look at him.
“Leave her be,” Robert said quietly.
John ignored him to glare at her. “I assumed you’d outgrown this tedious infatuation. More fool me.”
“Hux.”
John’s eyes—a match for their father’s hazel—flashed bright gold in the dappled sun. They bored into hers. “It’s only worsened, hasn’t it? Now, look at you.” He waved an impatient hand toward her bloodstained skirts. “You’ve injured yourself again. And for what?” He pointed to the boy—man—behind her. “He is not your beau, Annabelle. Not your knight or your suitor or your future husband. You are a child to him. A pest. He treats you kindly because he pities you.”
Pressure seized her chest, tightening and tightening and tightening. Her throat hurt. Her heart hurt. Her face burned. It was the only part of her that felt warm.
“Huxley!” The growl from behind her was a warning. A warning John did not heed.
“She needs to hear the truth, Con. Unlike you, I am not so fearful of damaging her feelings that I cannot speak it.”
“Stop this.”
Hazel eyes came back to her, hard and determined. Her brother’s features blurred as her throat tightened further. She clenched her fists and stuffed them in the pockets of her skirt. Her right knuckles brushed paper. The pain in her palm reminded her there was something beyond the unbearable pressure inside her.
“Grow up, little sister,” John snapped after lowering his face nearer to hers. His finger nudged beneath her chin, his touch far gentler than his words. “Behave as the lady you should be, rather than the pathetic pup we must constantly rescue from her own foolishness.”
The sob caught her unawares, emerging as a grinding gasp. The aching pressure in her chest did not ease. Another whimper escaped before she caught it.
John’s hand was violently swiped away by a bearish paw attached to a long, muscled arm. Then broad, linen-clad shoulders moved in front of her. A hard shove sent her brother backward.
Dimly, she thought the two young men might start brawling. They were shouting at one another, but she missed half the argument, too focused upon trapping another humiliating sob inside. She could not let it out, though her shoulders shook with the strain.
“… no call to be so cruel, you bloody arse!”
“Look at her! She’s covered in lacerations. She might have fallen down the bank, cracked her head, drowned, or broken another damned toe!”
Robert gave his best friend a second powerful shove, sending John stumbling backward toward the south bank. “Leave. I will bring her back to Clumberwood.” His voice was a low roar, rippling with anger.
“Haven’t you realized by now coddling her makes everything worse, you porridge-headed—”
“Go! Or, so help me, Huxley, I’ll break that charming face of yours into blackened bits.”
John threw his arms wide before gesturing toward her. “Very well. Let it be upon your head to explain her injuries to my mother and father.”
“Go.”
With a disgusted snort, John pivoted and stalked toward the south end of the bridge, muttering about where he’d left his boots.
Robert turned. He was breathing heavily. His jaw was stiff, his eyes closing briefly as though he sought to regain command of himself. When he looked at her, a swooping pain gripped her belly. There, deep in the blue, was controlled anger, old affection, remorse, and … pity.
She swallowed against the ache in her throat. “It is true, is it not?” she whispered. “That is what I am to you. Pathetic.”
An instant before he shook his head and raked a hand through dark, wet hair, she saw the truth. It stabbed through her middle. It made her bleed.
Because his eyes dropped away for the barest instant. His discomfort produced the briefest wince before he schooled his expression into his customary solemn lines. Robert might intend to spare her feelings, but his honorable nature did not allow for ready deception. Had she cared to look, she might have seen it sooner. Instead, she’d imagined his every glance had been a connection, his warm, dry hand affection, and his rare smile a promise.
How wrong she had been.
“Bumblebee.” His voice was as rocky as the river’s banks. He did not seem to know what else to say. Only that—the name he’d called her forever. Since she was a … child.
Suddenly, the future she’d imagined began to crack apart like a tumbling rock bursting open along its faults. Their first dance together at their betrothal ball would have been at Clumberwood Manor. She would have worn blue silk, and he scarlet wool with gold epaulets. He would have kissed her behind the walled garden.
Their wedding would have been at Rivermore Abbey, where he and his grandfather lived. The chapel there was lovely, with rainbow light pouring through stained glass onto ancient stone. She would have decorated the worn, walnut pews with ivy and orange blossoms. She would have worn lace in her hair.
They would have had babes together, she and Robert. Little, sweet-smelling babes she would have cradled and nurtured and loved. On a summer day like this one, they would have taken their family fo
r a carriage ride to visit Mama and Papa and her four younger sisters. Their children would have laughed and wriggled and teased one another. And all the while, Robert would have gazed upon her, love glowing in his blue eyes.
Not pity. Never that.
She wanted to vomit. She wanted to wail. The jagged pieces of her future—once shimmering brighter than diamonds—crumbled to dust on the stones of Packhorse Bridge.
He was leaving.
For war.
He might die.
And he did not love her.
Not as he should. Not as she loved him.
She crossed her arms over her chest, gripping and holding herself together. The pressure was agony. It wanted out. She breathed faster. Staggered backward away from him, the source of her pain.
“Bumblebee, don’t. I never wanted you to be hurt.”
She could not speak, only squeeze her arms tighter. Another step back. The bridge’s stones slipped beneath her boots.
He closed in, his heavy brows crashing into a frown. “Stop. Annabelle, stop.”
She shook her head, continued backing away. She could not be near him now. She must find a place to let the pressure out. Somewhere she would not be pitied or humiliated.
“Bloody hell,” he gritted, lunging toward her. “Stop!”
She did not think. She must get away. Her feet scrambled faster.
And lost their grip.
And her calf snagged on the low parapet.
And trees became sky.
Her breath left in a soundless scream at the disappearance of the stones beneath her feet, the sensation of nothingness at her back. Her arms failed to loosen in time to catch herself.
Which was why she reached for him so late. Why, when he reached for her with his strong, dry hand, all he caught were her fingers, which were slick with blood. Still, his grip was ferocious. Painful, even.
Her gaze flew up to his, bound by the blue. “Robert,” she mouthed, no air available to produce sound. “Pl-please.”
He’d fallen to his knees. His jaw flickered, his shoulders shuddering with the strain of holding her, dangling above the Tisenby. But his eyes were the worst. Desperate. Horrified.
Her fingers were slipping.
“Annabelle.” His muscles shimmered. “I—I cannot … much longer. Reach for me.”
She wanted to. How she wanted to. But she was frozen. Her feet kicked out for stone but found only air inside the bridge’s arch.
“No! My wrist. Use your other hand. God, Annabelle. Help me.”
He gripped the parapet with his free hand, stretching his torso and making himself a rope between the bridge and the abyss below. She glanced down. They were just inside the river’s edge. If she fell, she would not hit water. She would hit rocks.
Those rocks rippled and spun in her vision. Someone whimpered like a pup in distress. It was her voice, she thought, but younger than thirteen. A child, really.
Two things happened at once. Her free arm unfroze, allowing her to swing it upward and claw for a grip upon his wrist.
And Robert let go of the parapet to reach for her.
Her eyes met his. Saw his fear. His shock at losing his balance upon the stones of Packhorse Bridge. She felt his grip upon her elbow, even as her bleeding hand circled his thick wrist.
Then, she felt them both falling. Felt his grip swinging her, his strength astounding as he forced her weight toward the center of the river like a fisherman tossing a net into deeper water. He let go at the farthest arc. She could not hang on, not with the blood on her palms and the momentum of his swing.
She fell.
Bridge and leaves and sky disappeared.
Water swallowed her with a concussive clap, a consuming chill. Her legs folded beneath her as they met the river’s bed. But she did not hurt. Apart from swallowing a bit of water, she was … unharmed.
Good heavens, Robert had saved her. Again.
She shoved upward through murky water, her pink skirts dragging and fighting her legs. No matter. The river was not terribly deep, and John had long ago taught her to swim.
When she broke the surface, she immediately looked for Robert. Had he managed to catch himself? Surely a man of his strength would have done. Or had she seen him … fall?
The pressure in her chest built as she treaded water, frantically searching the bridge above, the heart-shaped leaves at the north end, and finally, the river’s bank near the abutment.
Where rough rocks now were stained red.
Where Robert—who belonged to her, and she to him—lay like a fallen god.
Silent.
Still.
Broken.
She screamed loud enough to quake the trees. Screamed his name, over and over. She gulped water. Fought her skirts. Kicked at the current, which wanted to drag her past him. Her feet found pebbles and sand. She shoved her body toward him, ground her knees on rocks for the second time that day.
Reaching him, she saw his collarbone protruding grotesquely against his skin. Saw his leg bent at an unnatural angle. Bone piercing through. Blood staining rock. She reached for his jaw. Brushed his eyelids with her thumbs. Stroked his heavy brows over and over.
She could not tell if the blood that streaked his face was hers or his.
And she did not realize how loudly she’d been screaming—how relentlessly she’d been chanting, “Robert, please. Wake up. Wake up. Robert!”—until she felt her brother’s arms tighten around her from behind.
“Come away, Annabelle.”
“No!”
“Let me help him.”
“Robert! Wake up!” Her hands trembled so badly they felt disconnected from her body. Numb. “Why won’t you wake up?”
“Annabelle!” John forced her up onto her feet with a huge heave. He spun her even as she kicked and clawed to return to Robert’s side. He shook her and forced her to look into shockingly hard, steady hazel. “Fetch my horse. Ride to Clumberwood Manor.”
She shook her head.
He shook her again. “He will die, Annabelle. If you do not fetch a surgeon, he will die. Is that what you want?”
“No,” she sobbed, her voice frayed after all that screaming. “Please. John, it is my fault. He mustn’t die.”
John’s jaw hardened while his eyes melted into liquid gold as their father’s sometimes did when gazing upon his children. Her brother gathered her close, his arms wrapping her too tightly as he cupped the back of her head. Her chin dug into his shoulder. His breath was hot against her ear. “He won’t, little sister.” He pulled back, the gold blazing. “We love him too much to let him leave us, don’t we?”
It was only after she’d climbed the bank, after she’d struggled onto John’s saddle and raced the half-mile to Clumberwood that she lost her hold upon it—the pressure inside her. As her home came into sight, the pressure burst, forcing its way out as gasps.
Robert might die. Not in battle, but at her careless hands.
She’d fallen into the river earlier. But only now was she drowning.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWO
“How swiftly childhood ends. How brutal is the world that makes it so.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock reflecting upon the vagaries of youth and fate.
*~*~*
Dearest Robert,
Perhaps you heard I turned my ankle last week. I blame our new dance tutor, Monsieur Garcon, who became distracted when Eugenia accused him of not speaking French. Though she is only five, her observation was quite correct. I suspect he hails from Birmingham.
Still, the thought of you when I was injured brought comfort. I remembered how you would always catch me, always carry me. When you are near, I never have cause to wonder whether I am safe. With you, I always am.
Ever yours,
Annabelle
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated May 14, 1808
*~*~*
August 1, 1809
Robert’s head floated high above his body. The laudanum, he supposed. A pity it did nothing for the agony clawing fire outward from his leg, neck, shoulders, back—and the aforementioned head.
Not enough, at any rate. That would require oblivion. Or death.
His grandfather sat on the foot of his bed, square shoulders curved forward in rare defeat. “It is done, my boy.”
Falling from a bridge produced myriad gradations of pain in his body, from mild bruising around his wrist to screaming anguish where bone had pierced flesh from inside.
But nothing hurt as badly as this.
He let his gaze fall to the side, glaring at the queer square of light shining around his bedchamber draperies.
“Commissions do not sell as readily during war,” his grandfather continued, the old man’s voice rasp and flint. “Too much risk a man might have to earn his laurels.” A wry grunt signaled the Marquis of Mortlock’s disgust. “Pale, pampered whelps,” he muttered. “Nevertheless, yours has sold. Sir Harold Standish’s boy appears eager to join your regiment.”
The square of light wavered, silver and blue. “No longer mine.”
Grandfather hummed his agreement. Slowly, the old man stood, bracing himself against the bed’s post. “A pity, indeed. Martin Standish might be eager, but you were born for it. Runs in your blood.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Robert lay propped against a pile of pillows. Iron-hued brows creased and lowered. A big, bony hand gripped the bedpost as broad shoulders sagged. “You’ve your own battle ahead, my boy. Not the one you anticipated. Less glory, to be sure.”
Robert let the silence thicken. Perhaps Grandfather, in his gruff way, meant to inspire resolve in his broken grandson. Instead, Robert wished the rocks of the Tisenby had done a more thorough job.
“It will require every ounce of Conrad steel you can muster,” the old man continued. “God knows you’ve inherited your share.” He shook his head, then glanced down at his own big, gnarled hands. “Built like me. Always were.” Turning, he placed a hand beside Robert’s on the blanket, spreading his fingers, comparing the two—one showing the wear of more than seventy years, the other young and scabbed and bruised. “Your father, your brother. They take after your grandmother’s side. The Northfields pride themselves on being thoroughly domesticated. Not a soldier in the lot.” The gnarled hand patted the blanket as though it wished to comfort but did not know how. The old hand withdrew. Grandfather drifted toward the bedchamber door, pausing before he disappeared.