Rescued by the Duke: Delicate Hearts Book 2

by Catherine Mayfair

  “There you are, Your Grace,” Mrs. Donovan said as she rose from her kneeling position, the last of the splint in her hand. “Your leg has mended well. You will need to exercise your muscles as soon as possible to keep them strong. Then, when you begin your attempts to walk, your legs can take the weight of your body to keep you upright. I can show you them now before I leave if you’d like.”

  “That is not necessary,” Richard assured her. He shot a glance at the darkening sky. “You should be on your way before the storm worsens and you are caught in the rain.” At the flash of lightning, his mind returned to that fateful night that seemed so long ago. His anger, the hurt…and the fall.”

  “Well, I will agree to it today, but I shall return twice per week to aid in your recovery, and you will not be able to tell me no.”

  Her tone was teasing, but Richard did not care. He held on that small bit of strength inside him and smiled. “It will not be needed, I assure you,” he said as he reached into his pocket. When she made to argue, he lifted a single eyebrow to her, and she kept silent. “Thank you, Mrs. Donovan. I assume your word of keeping my condition private still stands, including not speaking to my wife?” He handed her a few notes, and her eyes widened.

  “Yes,” she replied with a nod of her head. “It will remain our secret.”

  He had come to trust the woman, and once he had squelched her arguments against keeping his current prognosis from Abigail, she had been easier to manage.

  “I do hope you recover,” she said. Then she gave a light curtsy and left the room.

  Richard returned his gaze to the fireplace. Behind him, several candles glowed with soft light, leaving his form a shadow on the wall—the form of a broken man with wheels for legs. He reached for the bottle of brandy—he had forgone the use of the decanter; it only added an unneeded step to the process—and poured himself a generous measure. He assuaged the concern of his inner self that at least he was not drinking straight from the bottle like some sot.

  “You will not find solace in spirits,” Abigail said, emerging from the shadows. “Nor by refusing to try and fix what is broken.”

  He barked a bitter laugh and then took another drink. Resting the glass on his thigh, he looked up at her. His heart ached at her beauty, at how the light captured her delicate features and the fire of her hair. “I care not anymore.”

  Abigail sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You must eat.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Some tea, perhaps?”

  He motioned to a small desk. “There are papers there you need to see,” he said.

  She scrunched her brow and walked over to the desk. “Do you want me to read them?” she asked as she walked over to him, papers in hand.

  “You may later. For now, I will explain what they say.”

  She nodded, and he poured himself another brandy. He inhaled its fragrance before taking a large gulp, finding comfort in the burning it left in his throat. At least he could still feel something.

  “There is a letter for my banker in Winchester. You will be given a generous weekly allowance in my absence.”

  “Your Absence?” she asked, brows raised high. “I do not understand.”

  “You are to return to Helmsford Castle at once. The other letters state my immediate trip to India that is to last for a year. On my voyage home, I will fall overboard, and thus the reason for this.” He tapped his thigh, though he felt nothing. “The boy may return with you for a time, if you wish, until a suitable home can be found for him.”

  Abigail knelt in front of him. “I will not leave you alone,” she said, her tone adamant. “Not for a day, but especially not a full year.”

  He snorted. “Why? To ease your conscience?” He filled his glass once more.

  “No.” Her voice was just above a whisper.

  “Because you love me?” He already knew the answer to that question.

  “I do love you as my dearest friend,” she said as she wiped tears from her eyes. Another answer he did not want to hear, one that made his anger rise.

  “If you do not love me as a wife should, then I do not want to see you.”

  “You cannot mean that!” she cried. “Do you hate me that much?”

  He did not hate her and knew he never could. However, he needed to save her from the life of misery being with him caused her. “You will leave tomorrow,” he said aloud. “See that you adhere to my instructions. If you care about me in any sense of the word, you will do this. You do care for me, do you not?”

  She nodded and stood. “I do.” Then, much to his surprise, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I always have.”

  Her words perplexed him, and as she slipped back into the shadows and up the stairs that led to her room, he took another drink, wondering if some love, even if it was the love of friends, was better than none at all.

  ***

  Through tears of frustration and pain, Richard managed to roll the wheelchair out the door that led to the rear veranda. Moving across the floor had not been difficult, for he had been moving about the sitting room for several weeks now. The issue had been his attempt to navigate over the short step. How he would get back inside, he did not know, and at this point, he did not care.

  Abigail had left less than an hour earlier, tears telling him that she did not want to leave. To make matters worse, Patrick had looked at Richard with a quivering lip, his hands clutching the business book he so desperately wanted Richard to read to him. However, Richard had sent them away. In his heart, it was not what he truly wanted to happen, but it was what was best for both of them. It was not until the door had closed behind him and Richard was left sitting in the silent room that he realized how alone he now was, and fear had seized him as much now as it had that night over a month before.

  Now, if he cried out, no one would be there to hear him, to save him from any enemy, calamity, or more importantly, from himself.

  He took a deep inhale of breath and allowed the wind to blow over him. He had his brandy to keep him warm, and thinking of the spirits, he reached for the bottle he had settled between his legs to keep it from falling when he made his trek through the door. More than once, he had to reach out and push it back into place, his legs unable to grip and hold the bottle. Uncorking the bottle, he took a deep drink, no longer caring he had no glass.

  Taking a deep breath, the wind blowing off the ocean was cool, perhaps even cold. Alone now, he allowed a single tear to roll down his cheek as he remembered the words Abigail had spoken. He glared down at the bottle. She was right; there was no hope in drinking one’s self into a stupor, and with a roar, he threw the bottle over the short wall. The bottle clattered as it hit the limbs of a nearby bush and shattered before it hit the ground. A moment of regret rushed through him, but he pushed it aside.

  In the distance, thunder rumbled and lightning lit up the ocean before him, both echoing the torment in his heart. He wanted to go out there, to scream as loud as he could, to release the coil of anger within him.

  Therefore, he did just that.

  If moving through the door had been difficult, pushing the chair through down the path was excruciating. However, anger drove Richard to push harder, to force the chair as far as he could take it—to the ocean if he could. It was as he attempted to push through the sand of the beach that his strength gave out, and he hit his hand on the wheels until they bled.

  “I cannot face my own wife!” he cried out to the storm. “Nor a young boy of eight! I am the greatest coward who has ever lived!” His mind went back to a child who cowed at every sound, and he followed that boy into adulthood, to become a man without the strength to speak up on his own behalf, to say what was on his heart. It had cost the love he and Abigail had once shared, for it was his silence that had made them drift apart. Did he expect anyone to read his thoughts? Apparently so, for his reaction to the fact that Abigail did not share his love in the same way had come as a surprise to him. What a fool he had been. And what a
weak man.

  “But I did stand up,” he whispered. His thoughts returned to the day when he stood up to his mother concerning the wedding. Abigail had looked at him with admiration, and for the first time in his life, he had felt brave; he had felt like a man. Plus, the woman he loved had respected and admired him.

  The clouds opened, and rain began spattering around him. He pulled the blanket from behind him and placed it around his shoulders as the wind increased around him. As he sat there, water beginning to run down his face, he came to a realization that caught him a bit off-guard. Abigail did love him, but in her own way, just as he cared and loved her in his own way. Why had he not seen this before? The truth had not met his expectations, and he had lashed out. Had she not told him that she did not love him before they married? And what had he done? He had ignored her words, expecting her to simply fall into place.

  Well, it was too late now. She was gone. He had sent his wife and a young boy out into the night, just as a storm set in. What kind of man did such a thing? He knew the answer immediately. Not a man deserving of the title of duke. No, such a man had no backbone. A man such as he.

  As the lightning intensified around him, he stared at the raging water, wishing that somehow the sea would bring the waves to him, carrying him out into the ocean and away from the life he had forged for himself.

  Chapter Twenty

  The realization that the man who had professed his love for her no longer held that same sentiment brought new tears to Abigail’s eyes as she and Patrick made their way down the road. Not wanting to wait another minute, she had Patrick collect the new clothes she had purchased for him, and with that book clutched in his arms, the two had left the cottage and headed toward Brighton.

  As the wind increased, so did the lightning, and the first drops of rain fell on them. Abigail wondered how she could ever forgive herself for what she had done. To drive a man who had loved her so completely to go out into a storm only to return with the possibility of never walking again; what kind of woman did such a thing? Not only had she been the cause of his fall, but she had also upset him to the point that he could no longer look at her. The shame she felt was one that she would never release, a penalty for being a dreadful wife.

  “Miss Abigail?” Patrick said in a loud voice so as to be heard over the storm. “Miss Abigail!”

  She stopped and turned to the boy who continued to hold the book close to his chest. “Yes?” she asked.

  “Why can’t we stay with Mister Richard?” he said. “I love him. Doesn’t he know that?”

  Abigail lowered herself to squat in front of the boy. “I’m sure he does, Patrick,” she replied, though she was not sure she was being truthful. “But we must hurry before we are drenched.”

  “But why can’t we go back, then?” he demanded. “Don’t you love him, too?”

  She sighed. How did one explain the complicated lives of adults to a child? “Unfortunately, I have upset him terribly, and it will be best if I leave him alone for a while. That is what he wants, so that is what I will do, to please him.” Saying the words brought on a fresh wave of pain, but she pushed them down. She had made her bed; it was a fitting ending.

  Patrick took a step forward, his eyes much more intense than any adult she had ever met. “He loves you,” he said. “And I know you love him. If you love someone, you can’t leave him.”

  Abigail let out a sob and her breath caught in her throat when the boy threw his arms around her.

  “Oh, Patrick!” she cried. “If it were only that simple. However, it is not.”

  He pulled away. “He’s hurt,” he said. “Just like my da.”

  “Your father hurt his leg, as well?”

  Patrick shook his head. “No,” he replied with a sad expression. “He hurt himself here.” The boy pointed at his chest. “When he was drunk, he told me he hurt because my ma was gone. He told me that kind of hurt is caused by not being able to love someone.”

  Abigail wiped the tears from her eyes. The boy was wise, having experienced more than a child of his age should have endured. More than most adults should have to endure.

  “The Duke, he’s hurting now,” he continued with his insightful words. “The only thing that can fix this kind of hurt is love. Don’t you have any love for him to help fix him?”

  Abigail let out another sob and pulled the boy into her arms. Her mind returned to the day she had taught Richard her sign of rescue, the reward of a kiss. Oh, how she loved him dearly then, and now she realized she loved him still. How could she have missed it? The way he listened to her stories, or showed off on his horse as he tried to gain her attention. The manner in which he had rescued her from the possibility of marriage to Lord Rumsfeld, or how he stood up to her parents as well as his own mother. Every step of the way, he had been selfless in his love for her. And how had she returned that love? By reacting in a way that was self-seeking and prideful.

  Now, she understood that the love she had for him might not be the type one would find in romantic novels, but in her own way, she loved him more than anyone she had ever loved in her life. Perhaps it was not the love a wife should have for a husband, but it was a love that could heal, much like Patrick said.

  “You know, I do love him,” she said. “Very much so.”

  “Then you can fix him!” Patrick said enthusiastically.

  “Yes,” she said firmly, embracing the boy once again. “I will fix him.”

  ***

  The house was empty when she and Patrick entered it, and twice Abigail called out for Richard. Searching the all of rooms—even those upstairs, though she doubted rather highly he had somehow gotten the wheelchair up the stairs—and yet, she did not find him. Frustrated, she returned to the sitting room and peered out into the dark night. Rain lashed against the window, the sound deafening in the room.

  Where could he have gone in such a short time? she wondered. It was not as if he could simply leave the house without the aid of another person.

  However, as she stared out the window, a flash of lightning lit up the beach between the cottage and the sea beyond, and there she saw the silhouette of Richard in his chair. Her breath caught in her throat as panic tried to overcome her. What was he doing out there in weather such as this?

  “Patrick,” she called out without turning from the window so she would not lose sight of where she had last seen him. Without the light of the flashes, she could see nothing, so she waited for another flash of lightning to determine his exact location. “I need you to start the fire and fill the kettle. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Is everything all right? Where’s Mister Richard?”

  “Everything will be fine,” she replied as she placed her cloak over her shoulders and tied it around her neck. “Just get that fire started. I expect a nice, warm blaze and water ready for tea by the time I return.” She tried to keep her voice calm, though inside her thoughts were in a jumble. She grabbed Richard’s cloak and flung it over her arm. Hurrying past Patrick, who gaped after her as she ran past, she pushed open the door. The wind howled, lifting her skirts as she hurried down the path that led to the beach.

  At the end of the path, not ten paces into the sand, sat Richard, and Abigail thought her heart would break at the sight. She approached so as not to startle him, and he turned his head to glance over at her. Water dripped from his hair, and the blanket he wore around his shoulders had to be colder than the air itself it was so drenched with rain.

  “Abigail?” he asked, his voice barely audible. “Is that you?”

  “It is,” she replied. “I have brought you something a bit more appropriate for being out in the rain. I hope you do not mind.”

  He turned his face fully to her, and she had to stop herself from gasping. In the short time she had been gone, exhaustion had overtaken him, and he appeared older than his years. Had he been hiding this all this time? In his eyes, however, was a light twinkle of the person he had once been, and it was onto that which she gra
sped.

  “Why did you return?” he asked. “Did I not ask you to leave?”

  “I returned for the same reason you rescued me in the past,” she replied. “For the same reason you made a fool of yourself on your horse or told me tales that were not quite true.”

  “I do not understand,” he said, the wind blowing the rain onto his face, creating small streams that he did nothing to wipe away. “You cannot pity me; I would not be able to take it if you did.”

  She squatted down beside him and placed her hand on the arm of the wheelchair. “Never,” she said firmly. “I may grow frustrated, perhaps even angry, at both you and myself, but I will never pity you.”

  He snorted. “Then why did you return?”

  “Because,” she replied. “Because I love you, Richard. In my own way, I love you. I do not care if it is not the love you seek, for it is the only love I have to give at this time. But do not mistake me. I do love you.” He stared down at her as she knelt in the wet sand, and she did not care that she was dirtying her dress. Then she took his hand in hers, the coldness of his skin scaring her. “You are a brave man, the bravest man I have ever known. I want you to know that.”

  “That is a lie,” he replied bitterly, pulling his hand away. “I never have been and never will be brave, not when it comes to matters of the heart. Give me a battle to show me my bravery…” he looked down at his legs and laughed. “And now I cannot even show bravery in the manner of men! I am as useless as a rag doll!”

  “You are brave! Of course, you have not had the opportunity to go to battle, but many times you have shown great courage. It took courage to offer to marry me when you saw I was in distress. To stand up to your mother when you felt she was treating us wrongly. But most of all, it took courage to not blame me for what happened to you.” She held her breath as she waited for him to admit aloud for the first time that, indeed, his accident had been her fault. She steeled herself for those condemning words, but they did not come.