The Butterfly Formatted

by Vale, Victoria

  Once she felt certain he was finished, his cock shrinking to a less intimidating size, she released him from her mouth and collapsed against him. He gathered her close, still trembling with the aftershocks of his finish, his breath harsh against her hair. She nuzzled his chest, enjoying the tickle of his soft, downy hair against her cheek, the pleasant mingling of their two scents becoming one, the security of his arms around her.

  Something warm and light came over them—his blanket, his scent clinging strongly to its fibers. She knew she ought to rise and dress, perhaps return inside. But, none of that felt as important as lying with Niall in the aftermath of what they’d just done. It felt more poignant a marking of her coming out than some insipid party, perhaps even the most significant moment of her life.

  So, she clung to him, allowing herself to drift drowsily in some space between sleep and wakefulness. He must have thought her unconscious, or perhaps was barely coherent himself—otherwise, he might never have uttered the words that fell from his lips aloud.

  “Livvie … mo cridhe … mo gradh … How will I ever let ye go, now?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and willed the tears welling in them not to fall. The Gaelic words were some she’d read before, and she understood them well.

  My heart … my love.

  Niall loved her. It was the one thing she’d always wanted to hear, and the last thing she should ever have heard him say. She took no comfort in knowing he returned the love she’d held for him for so long. Not when she knew that they’d only ever hurt each other in the end.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  iall came awake to find that Olivia had already stirred. Staring up at him from a tangle of sheets and strands of disheveled hair, she attempted a weak smile. The light of the late morning sun streamed through parted drapes, casting prisms of amber through her dark irises. She had more color to her cheeks than the day before, and the glassy sheen to her eyes had disappeared, giving him a glimpse of the girl he used to know.

  Had it been so simple? Could weaning her off the laudanum have been enough to give him his Livvie back?

  “Good morning,” she said, her voice a bit raspy—likely from a dry throat. She’d had a difficult time drinking more than a few sips of water or broth at a time.

  “Good mornin’, mo gradh,” he replied before kissing her forehead. “How d’ye feel?”

  She stretched and yawned, then nestled even closer to him beneath the bedclothes. As always, her nearness made a mess of his senses, his every nerve ending coming alive, hungering for her touch. He could never decide if it were a pleasure or a torment.

  “Better, I suppose. Certainly more rested than before. But, I feel as if I haven’t eaten in weeks, and I must smell awful.”

  Grinning, he dipped his head and nestled his face in the crook of her neck, taking a deep inhale. She only smelled like Livvie to him—like hyacinth and jasmine, and some other scent that seemed to belong only to her. If the light hint of sweat from all her tossing and turning lingered over it … well, she still smelled sweet to him.

  Still, he could not resist teasing her when this was the first time she’d been so lucid for this long.

  “Och … ye smell like a stable! And I should know, havin’ spent far too much time standin’ near the wrong end of a horse.”

  She scoffed, tweaking the tip of his nose. “Brute.”

  “Now, now,” he teased. “This brute would bring ye breakfast if ye treat him a bit nicer. I s’pose ye could stand toast and chocolate warmin’ yer belly right about now.”

  As if it had heard him, her belly rumbled and groaned, prompting a laugh from him and a giggle from her.

  “Yes, and perhaps some eggs, as well. I’m positively starving.”

  After kissing her shoulder, he went about untangling himself from her, though she did not make it easy. With a little whimper of annoyance, she clung to him, tightening her arms around his neck.

  “Don’t go yet,” she urged. “I know you’ve been with me all these days, but I have hardly gotten to enjoy it.”

  As much as he would have loved to remain abed with her for the rest of his life, he was anxious for her to eat and perhaps attempt to leave her bed. Seeing her regain her strength now took precedence over all else. However, he let himself go still and relax in her hold, content to give her a few more moments.

  They lay in silence for a while before she spoke again, craning her neck to look at him.

  “I am worried about my brother.”

  He frowned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hart can take care of himself. Ye know that.”

  “I know, but … this business with Lady Daphne has him at war with himself, I think.”

  Niall started, his pulse kicking up a notch. He did not like the idea of Olivia being involved in this revenge vendetta Adam had embarked upon in any way. Bad enough Niall had played a role. The entire thing had been about avenging and protecting Olivia, which was why he could not understand Adam bringing the Fairchild chit to live under the same roof as his sister.

  “What d’ye know about that?”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “I vow, the lot of you think I’ve gone daft as well as mad. Just because a woman has fits every now and then does not mean she’s suddenly an imbecile!”

  “Of course not,” he replied. “Yer the smartest person I know. But, Adam and me … we didnae want ye gettin’ caught up in it.”

  “It is too late. We are all wrapped up in it now. Besides, I cannot pretend to be pleased about the way Adam has gone about using her as some sort of weapon against her family.”

  Niall clenched his teeth, exasperation welling up swifter than he could control. Couldn’t she see that they’d had no choice? The family who had destroyed her did not deserve pity. They had earned every bit of the hell Adam had brought down on them, and Niall had reveled in watching every blow fall.

  “Her brother violated ye,” he spat. “Her father turned ye away when ye came to him with news of the babe ye carried. Her uncle tricked ye and took ye away to that godforsaken asylum. She’s one o’ them, Livvie. The chit doesnae deserve yer pity!”

  “She cannot help the family she was born into, any more than I could,” Olivia argued. “I cannot believe you are defending Adam in this!”

  She seemed more than content to let go of him now, so Niall sat up, staring down at her in disbelief.

  “And I cannae believe ye’d turn on him after all he’s done to protect ye!”

  Jaw dropping in horror, she struggled to sit up, as well. “I’d never turn on my brother. That does not mean I will condone his actions. While I certainly understand, and even share in his anger toward the Fairchild family, I will not condemn Lady Daphne when she has never done me harm.”

  Tearing the bedclothes aside, he got to his feet, fumbling about for his shirt. He did not bother to hide his scars. He had no secrets from her any longer.

  “She might have known what was done to ye,” he muttered while pulling the garment over his head. “She might’ve known and done nothing. And if she did …”

  “You do not know for certain, do you?” Olivia challenged, turning to watch as he tucked his shirt in and jerked his braces up over his shoulders. “You’ve just decided to hate her because you are angry with them.”

  “As you should be! For Chrissake, Livvie, that family destroyed ye!”

  “Why won’t you simply admit that it is not Lady Daphne you are angry with?” she said, voice low, eyes turned down to the bedclothes. “You are angry with me, Niall. You always have been.”

  He paused in lifting his coat off the back of a chair, something twisting in his middle, making it difficult to breathe. Her accusation fell heavy upon his shoulders, searing him right down to his marrow.

  “Why would ye say somethin’ like that?” he rasped, the lump in his throat making his words come out rough. “Of course I’m not mad at ye.”

  Biting her lip, she nodded, tears welling in her dark eyes. “Yes, you are. It is all right, Nial
l. I am angry, too. But, I just want to live again. I want to move forward with my life and … I don’t know, perhaps find some sort of happiness. I want that for you, too. But we have to face the things that have happened. I think that has been my problem all along. My mind retreated from what was done to me, so that I could survive. But survival is no longer enough. And if I must confront my … my demons … then you must face yours. You are angry with me for putting myself in the position I did. If I hadn’t … then maybe none of this would have happened.”

  Was this what she thought—that he blamed her for being raped? He wanted to be insulted that she would assume such a thing. But then, he realized perhaps Olivia was actually the one who was angry with herself. Perhaps she thought she might have avoided her fate somehow, avoided Bertram.

  For his part, Niall blamed himself … he always had. If he hadn’t allowed her to leave, things would have turned out differently.

  “The blame for what happened doesnae rest on you,” he insisted. “It falls on the Fairchilds, and if Adam has to use the daughter to get to them, no one will tell him he cannae … not even you.”

  “Niall—”

  “I cannae do this right now,” he snapped, pulling on his coat and making his way toward the door. “Ye need to rest more … yer strength is only just returnin’. I’ll send yer breakfast and Maeve so she can help ye with a bath.”

  “Niall,” she called out, halting him at the door.

  He turned to glance at her over his shoulder, one hand still on the knob. “Dinnae ask me to forgive them, Livvie. I cannae, and I willnae. It’s because I love ye that I hate them. Can ye not see that?”

  Without waiting for her to respond, he jerked the door open and stormed out into the corridor. Slamming it shut behind him, he leaned against it, closing his eyes with a deep breath.

  He had forgotten how perceptive she could be when her lucid moments had come to be few and far between. He had also forgotten how well she knew him, how easily she could force him to confront things he would rather avoid.

  Damn it, he did not want to let go of his anger. It was what had driven him all this time, what had kept him alive when he’d thought the agony of watching her suffer might kill him. It was all he and Adam had had left after she’d returned to them in shambles. And now, because she’d been lucid for a short time, he was supposed to simply forget it all? He was supposed to overlook that when she’d first come back to them, she had not even been able to speak? Should he also disregard that the poor child who had been born in the midst of all this might someday have to be told where she’d come from?

  Olivia did not understand. How could she when she’d spent so much of the past five years out of her mind? And who was to say the moment of clarity would last? It never did, and he would be a fool to get his hopes up that this time would be different. That reminder only made matters worse, until he felt as if he might tear the entire house down to its foundation if he could not get himself under control.

  He spied Maeve coming down the corridor, a stack of clean linens for Olivia held in her arms.

  “Oh, good morning, Niall. I was just coming to take over with Olivia for you.”

  He gave a jerky nod and moved away from the door. “She’s just woken up and needs breakfast and a bath. Now that she’s better, she’ll be wantin’ to see Serena. I’ll come back with her later.”

  Maeve eyed him as if concerned, but knew better than to ask what was bothering him. Best for her to leave him to his own devices until he’d calmed. As the maid disappeared into the room, he took himself off to his own chamber, finding a footman to send for a bath along the way.

  By the time the servants finally appeared with a hipbath and buckets full of steaming water, Niall had nearly worn a hole in the floorboards pacing back and forth.

  The time spent shaving, bathing, and dressing hardly took the edge off, and he remained as restless as ever. Back home at Dunnottar, there was always something to do, some task to keep him busy. Here, there was far too much sitting and waiting, too much inactivity. He’d go mad before long without something to keep him from getting lost in his tumultuous thoughts.

  So, he took himself off in search of something—anything to keep him occupied until it came time for him to sit with Olivia again. He found said diversion in the form of Lady Serena Callahan, Olivia’s four-year old daughter, who he found skipping rope up and down the corridor outside the nursery. With gleaming auburn hair and features one might call aristocratic—even on one so young—she was the spitting image of the family he hated. In truth, her face put him in mind of Lady Daphne, which one might think would make him loathe the little girl. But, one look into those innocent brown eyes, identical to Olivia’s, and he could not help but love her. It wasn’t Serena’s fault she’d been brought into the world under such horrid circumstances, and because she belonged to Olivia, Niall would do anything for her. He loved the daughter as much as he did the mother, his feelings for the child as tangled up in anger and bitterness as his feelings for Olivia. After all, seeing the woman he loved had birthed someone else’s babe only reminded him that he had not sired one on her … that he never would.

  “Niall!” Serena cried at the sight of him, dropping her skipping rope and dashing down the corridor toward him.

  “A bhobain,” he murmured, crouching to catch her up when she threw herself at him with no regard to where she might land. “Have ye had yer breakfast yet?”

  Just as Olivia understood his Gaelic endearments, so did little Serena. She had been taught that she was his ‘little darling’ and reveled in the fact that he never used the honorific toward anyone but her.

  She nodded, curls bobbing around her cherubic face. She wore a smile, as always, a phenomenon that never ceased to amaze him. For a child who had been born in the midst of such darkness, she was a surprisingly sweet, sunny girl.

  “Yes, and Uncle Adam and Lady Daphne have promised that I may go outside if it does not rain.”

  He hefted her up in one arm and continued down the corridor. He tried not to grind his teeth at the mention of that woman, or go off railing to anyone who would listen that he did not want Serena anywhere near the chit. She’d become too much a part of their lives, and he did not like it one bit.

  “Sounds like ye’ve a full day ahead of ye,” he managed, setting her back on her feet. “But, guess what?”

  She stared up at him with hopeful eyes and clasped her hands together. “What?”

  He knelt before her, straightening the bow that had gone crooked atop her head. “Yer maw’s feelin’ much better today. After she’s had her breakfast and a bath, I bet she’ll want to see ye.”

  Serena’s smile could have melted the iciest of hearts—it was so wide and warm. “Oh, I cannot wait! May I change my dress? I want to be beautiful when Mama sees me!”

  Niall grinned. “Ye’re beautiful just the way ye are, a bhobain, and yer maw will think so, too. She missed ye while she was ill, and will want to see ye no matter how ye look. While we wait, why don’t we see if we can sneak some biscuits and hot chocolate from the kitchen?”

  She clapped her hands together and bounced up and down with glee. “Yes!”

  Picking her up again—because her little legs could never keep up with his long ones— he carried her off to the kitchen.

  They spent a pleasant hour there, him silently listening to her childish prattle. The girl was as used to his sullen moods as everyone else in the household and so did not appear concerned that he sat scowling while she chirped and giggled, her upper lip stained with chocolate.

  When Maeve arrived to inform them that Olivia was prepared to visit with Serena, Niall was left to his own devices. He wandered about the house a bit aimlessly, hoping to find some way to occupy himself, to take his mind off Olivia until he was inevitably forced to go back to her. As always, being away from her left a dull ache in his chest. Though being in her presence often proved just as tortuous, with the reminder of all the ways he could never have her for
emost in his mind.

  The sound of harp music drew him toward the open door of a large drawing room. Near a bay of windows, a large pianoforte sat beside a collection of music stands and small tables stacked with sheet music. In the corner, a harp stood, with the regal figure of Lady Daphne Fairchild seated before it on a stool. Tall for a female, she was a study in ladylike poise and grace, very much like Olivia. Back erect, head tilted just so, hands moving swiftly over the strings of the instrument she played. The sight of her stoked his annoyance, as always. Why was she free and happy and whole while his Olivia had been destroyed by the actions of her despicable family?

  Sensing the presence of someone else in the room, he turned to find Adam standing a stone’s throw away from him. Leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, he watched Daphne play, wearing an expression others might never be able to decipher. Knowing the man as well as he did, Niall could see his conflict, the confusion he wrestled with concerning the daughter of their mutual enemy.

  Catching Adam’s eye, he inclined his head toward the corridor. Adam’s mouth tightened at the corners, but he straightened and came to meet him outside the room.

  Once they stood just out of earshot of Daphne, Adam turned to him, hands folded behind his back.

  “How’s Olivia this morning?”

  “Better,” Niall replied. “The tremors have stopped, and Maeve says she ate a hearty breakfast.”

  “That is good to hear.”

  Darting his gaze to the open drawing room door, then glancing back at Adam, he cleared his throat. “I think it’s time we returned her to Dunnottar. In a day or two, she’ll be strong enough to make the journey.”

  Adam’s brow furrowed. “We are not finished here. As long as Bertram Fairchild is—”

  “Hang Bertram!” he spat. Then, realizing he’d raised his voice, he attempted to get himself back under control with a deep breath before going on. “We said we would repay him for what he did, and ye’ve done that, Hart. Ye beggared the entire family until they couldnae even hold on to their home. Ye coerced the uncle into killin’ himself. Ye ruined the sister and made sure the entire ton knew about it. Now, ye’ve come to London to rub his nose in it and move yerself into the very same home they were forced to sell. As far as anyone who matters is concerned, Bertram and his father are nothin’. They’re outcasts among their own people. It’s what we wanted. Short of shootin’ ’em both in the head, what more is there?”