“Tell Lady Helena I’ll be back for her,” Mr. Glyde said over his shoulder. There was unconcealed menace in his words. “She may depend upon it.”
“Yes, yes,” Hargreaves muttered. “We must away, Mr. Glyde.”
Boothroyd ushered the two men out of the library and into the hall, where Neville was waiting to show them out. A resounding crash of thunder only served to hasten their departure.
Justin watched them go, the reality of the situation sinking into the very marrow of his bones. He felt oddly numb. As if the entire encounter had happened to another a person.
When Boothroyd returned, he appeared to be equally affected. His face was a studied blank. He shut the library doors behind him and, after a long moment of silence, repaired to a nearby table which held a decanter of sherry and two glasses. He poured himself a generous measure and drank it in one swallow. “The Earl of Castleton. It beggars to belief.”
“Do you know the man?” Justin asked.
“I know the title. One of the oldest and most distinguished. One of the wealthiest as well.” Boothroyd poured himself another drink. “What do you propose to do, sir?”
Justin knew what he had to do. He had to talk to Helena. He had to demand answers. But beyond that…
“What do you advise?” he asked.
Boothroyd pursed his lips. “I’ve had my doubts about her suitability. I’ve made no secret of that. Nevertheless…I don’t believe she’s mad.”
“Nor do I,” Justin said.
“But she lied to you, sir.”
“She never lied to me.”
“Withholding the truth is tantamount to dishonesty.”
“She never lied to me,” Justin said again. “No more than I lied when I refrained from telling her about Sir Oswald or about what happened at Sati Chaura Ghat.”
Boothroyd bent his head over his glass. “Ah. So, you haven’t told her.”
Justin huffed. “Did you think I’d be proclaiming it from the rooftops?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but what I thought is that marriage would make your life easier. I didn’t anticipate”—he made a vague gesture—“all of this.”
“Things have never been easy, Boothroyd.”
“No, but…”
“We’ve managed before.”
“Yes, we’ve managed, but…honestly, sir. Her uncle is the Earl of Castleton. He’s no Oswald Bannister.”
Justin’s lips twisted in a brief parody of a smile. “Lucky him.”
Boothroyd opened his mouth to respond. Before he could do so, the library doors opened in a clatter and Neville entered the room. He was in his shirtsleeves, his blond hair wet from the rain and his trousers streaked with mud. He met Justin’s eyes from across the room.
“Justin?”
“What is it now?”
Neville’s face crumpled in distress. “Paul and Jonesy have run off.”
“In this weather?” Boothroyd gave a disapproving cluck. “Damn fool dogs.”
“They chased a rabbit,” Neville said thickly. “Paul ran over the cliff.”
Bloody blasted hell. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with. Justin strode forward to place a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There are no rabbits at the cliff’s edge, Neville. If the dogs ran out—”
“They ran to the cliffs and Paul leapt over the side. Jonesy’s there, but he won’t come back.”
Justin cast Boothroyd a frustrated glance. “I have to speak with Helena. Can you…?”
“Those dogs don’t obey me,” Boothroyd said. “Where’s Danvers, Neville? Can’t he assist you?”
Neville ignored Boothroyd. Or perhaps he simply didn’t hear him. He was becoming increasingly distressed. “It’s Paul, Justin. You have to come.”
Justin hesitated for a moment. And then, with a sigh of resignation, he squeezed Neville’s shoulder. “Yes. Of course, I’ll come. Let me fetch a lantern.”
The sun set early this time of year. It wasn’t much past five and already dark. Even with their lanterns held aloft, Justin could scarcely see anything through the driving rain. It didn’t help that both dogs were black as pitch.
“Paul!” Neville shouted. He waved his lantern in front of him as he walked. “Paul!”
Justin had insisted Neville put on his hat, coat, and gloves. Not that his own were doing him much good. What use was a hat when the rain was falling sideways? He raised his lantern higher. “Jonesy!” he called. “Here, Jonesy!”
The wind whistled over the cliffs. They were closer to the edge now. “Have a care, Neville,” Justin said.
“He was here, Justin.” Neville trotted ahead, heedless of the danger. “Down here.”
With a muttered curse, Justin charged after him, half-slipping in the mud. Damnation, but he couldn’t see a blasted thing! Confound those dogs. For all he knew they were already back at the Abbey, curled up in front of a fire.
“Paul!” Neville cried. “Paul!” He stepped forward blindly.
Justin reached out in the nick of time, seizing him by the back of his coat and hauling him backward, away from the cliff’s edge. Neville’s feet slid out from under him. He fell with an undignified splat onto his rear end.
“He was there, Justin! That’s where I saw him!”
Justin peered into the darkness. In the halo of light cast from their lamps, he could see the jagged edge of the cliffs. It was a particularly dangerous spot. A person who wasn’t paying attention could easily lose their footing. He wouldn’t have thought a dog would be in danger. Then again, Paul was still young and over-exuberant. For all Justin knew, he might have chased a shadow down over the side.
“Stay here, Neville,” he commanded.
Neville nodded his assent. “I won’t move.”
Justin ventured forward, choosing his path with care. And then he heard it. A high-pitched sound. It was not quite a bark. It was more of a whine. A plaintive, distinctly canine whine.
“Jonesy?” Justin shouted as he approached the cliff’s edge. “Paul? Where the devil are you?” He extended the lantern over the side and peered down. “What in blazes…”
The dogs were there. Both of them, perched on a narrow outcropping. He could see their dark silhouettes in the rain—Jonesy sitting and Paul lying down, his muzzle resting on his paws. They didn’t acknowledge him. Their attention was fully occupied on the small white figure at the other side of the ledge.
Justin’s heart leapt into his throat. Good God, it was Helena.
She was huddled against the wall of the cliff with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped tight around herself. Her forehead was pressed to her knees, her unbound hair a wet, tangled mass all around her. She was wearing what looked to be nothing more substantial than a dressing gown. She was soaked to the skin. He could see the shivers coursing over the delicate curve of her back and shoulders.
He uttered a blistering oath. She must have fallen. There was no other explanation. He sank to his knees on the wet grass, dropping his lantern down beside him. “Helena? My God, Helena. Are you hurt?”
She didn’t respond.
“Helena? Can you hear me?”
She gave no sign that she could.
A sickening feeling of foreboding settled over him. He thought of Neville, falling from the cliff face and striking his head. The scene had replayed in his mind thousands of times over the years. Is that what had happened here? Had Helena slipped over the side and struck her head on the rocks?
He tossed aside his hat and stripped off his coat and gloves. “I’m going to climb down to you. Stay exactly where you are.”
“Don’t.”
Justin froze. “What?”
Her words were faint and slightly muffled. “Don’t come any closer.”
“I have to. If you’re injured, it’s the only way to get you off of the ledge.” Justin
moved to swing a leg over the side. He heard her mutter something. He couldn’t quite make it out. “You needn’t worry about me,” he assured her. “I’ve been climbing these cliffs since I was a lad.”
She lifted her head then and looked up at him. Her beautiful face, usually so composed, so regal, was white and frightened in the light of the lamp. “If you come any closer, I’ll throw myself over the side.”
The fine hairs rose on the back of Justin’s neck. He stared down at her, fully registering the extent of her terror for the first time. He’d thought her fear had to do with her position on the ledge. He’d thought she was hurt or afraid of falling or—
“I mean it,” she said. “I won’t go with you. I’d rather die here.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes, I can see that.”
She pressed her forehead back against her knees, her arms drawn even tighter around them. He could hear her teeth chattering.
“What do you propose I do with you, then?” He was amazed at the steadiness of his voice. “Leave you here to freeze to death?”
“I don’t care. I won’t let them take me back to London.”
Them.
Justin cursed himself for an idiot. She wasn’t running from him. And she wasn’t threatening suicide if he touched her. She was afraid of them. Of her uncle and the brutish man he’d sent to retrieve her.
“My dear girl, do you think I’d let anyone lay so much as a finger on you?”
She looked at him again. The desolation in her expression tore at his heart. He knew then, with a painful certainty, that she didn’t believe he could protect her. That she’d thought he would hand her over to that man without so much as a by your leave.
“You’re my wife, Helena,” he said gruffly. “You married me to keep you safe and that’s precisely what I intend to do.”
“Mr. Glyde…I saw him…”
“He’s gone. I sent him away.”
Her breath shuddered out of her. “He’ll come back.”
“Not tonight he won’t. And not tomorrow. The road will be impassible.”
“He’ll come back,” she said again.
“He’ll have to get through me first.” Justin swung his other leg over the edge of the cliff. “I’m going to climb down now.”
Helena made no reply.
Justin kept one eye on her as he proceeded to feel his way along the rocky outcroppings of the cliff face. He hadn’t climbed in ages. And he wasn’t certain he’d ever done it in the rain. It wasn’t much of a distance, but it was slippery as all hell.
“Justin?” Neville’s voice boomed out from somewhere above.
Justin started and nearly lost his balance. He swore violently. “Blast it, Neville! Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”
“Did you find Paul?”
“Yes.” Justin lowered his booted foot to the ledge. “He and Jonesy are here.” Both dogs looked up at him, their tails thumping in greeting. Justin touched Paul’s head with a reassuring hand before edging carefully toward Helena.
Her face was pressed to her knees again. She wasn’t moving.
“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” Justin crouched beside her. Wet hair was covering her like a shroud. He lifted a hand to brush it from her face. Her skin was cold as ice. “That’s all right,” he said under his breath. “I can manage. If you’ll allow me…” He slid one arm around her waist and the other under her knees, gathering her to his chest. Her body was stiff and unyielding, but she made no move to struggle. Heaven help him if she had. The ledge was not big enough. There was every chance they’d both plummet straight over the side.
“I’m going to hand you up to Neville,” he said. “Neville? Lean down here, would you?”
Neville’s face appeared over the side of the cliff. “Is that Miss Reynolds?”
“She’s Mrs. Thornhill now,” Justin said as Neville reached out his arms. “Be careful with her.”
For the longest while, Helena wasn’t aware of anything save the sound of her own teeth chattering. Her hair and clothes were wet and she was shaking all over. She didn’t know how she’d managed to end up on the ledge. She’d been running away. The grass and mud had been slippery under her feet. She’d tried to keep her bearings. But it was growing dark so quickly. The rain was hitting her face. She couldn’t see properly. And she was too terrified to stop.
The cliff’s edge had rushed up in front of her. It seemed to come out of nowhere. She’d gasped and—
Fallen.
The next thing she knew, the dogs were there. Paul and Jonesy. Enormous black figures across from her on the ledge. She could smell their wet fur, could hear them whining at her.
The wind was cold on her face, the cliff face hard against her back. She thought she must have scraped or twisted her leg. There was a stinging sensation and what felt like a trickle of blood.
Time passed. A profound sense of futility weighed down on her, crushing her hopes beneath it like a heavy, suffocating blanket.
There was no escape. There never had been. It was always going to come to this. Whether she’d stayed in London or whether she’d run to Cornwall, or Paris, or Timbuktu.
She clutched her knees tight to her chest. She had no mettle, that was the problem. She was weak and useless and utterly lacking in courage. It was no wonder she was in this predicament. When it came to the point, she hadn’t even enough strength of will to throw herself over the side.
Not but what she didn’t threaten to do just that.
But then Justin was there, his deep voice sounding from somewhere above the ledge. “My dear girl, do you think I’d let anyone lay so much as a finger on you?”
She nearly wept then. Not because she was safe, but because he meant it. He truly meant it. He believed he could prevent them from hurting her.
His head bent low over hers as he carried her through the rain, walking in long ground covering strides.
He bounded up a short flight of steps. A door creaked open. “Great heavens!” Mr. Boothroyd exclaimed. “What’s happened?”
“An accident.”
“I’ll fetch Mrs. Standish.”
“No,” Justin said. “No. I don’t want anyone to see her like this.”
Helena hadn’t thought she was capable of being hurt any more. Not today, at least. But his words managed to find that one small, soft part of her still nurturing a miniscule shred of hope and skewer it with ruthless precision.
I don’t want anyone to see her like this.
It was the last thing she remembered before darkness engulfed her.
When she regained her senses, she was tucked under an eiderdown blanket in the great Elizabethan bed, her head propped up on a pile of pillows. Her hair was still wet, but no longer dripping. Her dressing gown and shift were gone. Someone had removed them. She was now wearing some sort of odd-fitting linen nightdress.
She touched the curved neckline of the garment. It had a short row of buttons. It also had sloping shoulders and what felt like gussets under the arms.
Good gracious.
It was a gentleman’s shirt.
She raised her head in alarm. The oil lamps had been lit and a fire was blazing in the hearth. In the flickering glow, she saw Justin. He was seated in a winged-back chair beside the bed, watching her.
Their eyes met and held.
A rush of color flooded her face. Oh, but she was beyond embarrassment. “Did you…?”
“It couldn’t be helped.” There was no warmth in his voice.
“I see.” She lay back against her pillows. Her cheeks burned and her stomach quivered with butterflies run amok. But she resolved to be mature and reasonable about the business. So he’d seen her without her clothing. It was not the end of the world. He was her husband. There was no reason to be missish.
She’d been wet through, she supposed. And, sin
ce she couldn’t remember much of anything, she assumed she’d either fainted or been in some manner of shock. Someone would have had to get her out of her sodden things. If Justin wished to keep her dreadful state hidden from the servants, he would have had no choice but to do it himself.
Though he didn’t look best pleased with the experience. Quite the opposite. He looked…angry.
He stood and moved to a marble-topped table near the bed. She heard the clink of crystal, followed by a splash of liquid. “Here.” He extended a glass to her. “Drink this.”
She took it from his hand. Their fingers brushed. It was the barest touch, but more than sufficient to set the butterflies soaring once more. “What is it?”
“Brandy,” he said. “Excellent for shock.”
She tilted the glass to her lips and took an obedient swallow. It burned like fire all the way down her throat. She stifled a cough.
“All of it,” Justin prompted.
She didn’t argue. She lifted the glass to her lips once more. As she downed the remainder of the rich golden liquid, an equally golden warmth slowly suffused her stomach, chest, and limbs.
He gave her an appraising look. “Better?”
“I-I think so.”
He nodded once and resumed his seat. He was still angry. It was evident in the set of his shoulders and the rigidness of his jaw.
Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She was the one who’d brought him to this pass. She’d lied to him. Tricked him into marriage. And now that he knew, it was plain that he hated the very sight of her. “Justin, I’m so—”
“Where did all of the bruises come from?” he asked.
Her unfinished apology disintegrated on her lips.
Her heart gave a painful contraction.
So that’s what he’d seen. Not her body. Not whether her unclothed form was pleasing. Just her bruises. Just the damage that had been done to her. She shouldn’t be surprised. Nor even disappointed. It was what defined her now. She only wished she didn’t feel so much shame.
“They’re everywhere. Around your arms. Around your neck.” Justin’s deep voice was taut with control. As if he were holding onto his temper by nothing more substantial than a half-frayed thread. “Who put his hands around your neck, Helena? Was it Mr. Glyde?”
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