Kathryn Smith (23 page)

She nodded as much as his hold on her would allow.

“Then why—
why
—do you insist upon blaming yourself for the fact that your mother—who for all her sweetness and goodness—was naive enough to believe in a man who has done nothing but hurt her?”

Her eyes widened, and she stared at him as though seeing him for the very first time. Brave didn’t blame her. He rather felt the same way. What the devil had gotten into him?

“Other people are to blame.” Softening his tone, he traced the curve of her cheekbones with his thumbs. “But not you. Oh, Rachel. You just want to fix and help everyone. Who could possibly blame you?”

God, she broke his heart. It hurt just to look at her and see all that hope in her eyes. She wanted to believe him. She
really did. Just like he wanted to believe that she could fix him, too.

Her hands came up to grasp his lapels, and when she pushed her head against the prison of his hands, he let her go, surprised when she lowered her forehead to his.

A tear fell on his nose, followed by another. Wrapping his arms around her waist, Brave pulled her from the chair, so that she dropped to his lap, the skirts of her berry-hued gown frothing around her like a meringue.

She clung to him as though he was the only thing in the world she had left, and he held her as tightly as he dared, frightened by how deeply she touched him.

Another tear slid down his cheek, and as he tasted its salty coolness against his lips, Brave realized that he didn’t know if the tear was hers.

Or his.

How much longer was it going to take?

Sighing in frustration, Rachel hugged herself and stared at the door to her mother’s room.

As if he hadn’t kept them waiting long enough downstairs, Dr. Phelps was now keeping them waiting in the corridor outside her room. Reynolds had knocked on the study door almost twenty minutes ago to tell them that the doctor was almost ready for them.

If this was his idea of “almost,” she would hate to experience what the good doctor would consider a long time.

By the time they’d answered the summons, Rachel had regained control of herself. She’d been horrified to see the mess her tears had made not only of her own appearance, but of Brave’s as well. But if Brave’s mother or any of the servants had noticed the damp patches on her gown or Brave’s jacket, or the streaks on their cheeks, they didn’t let on. And for that, Rachel was grateful.

She was even more grateful for Brave himself. She wasn’t completely certain she believed everything he’d said to her in the study—she couldn’t even remember much of it. But she remembered that smile he’d given her—one that had actually reached his eyes. And she remembered how passionate he’d been as he tried to convince her that she was without blame for her mother marrying Sir Henry. And she remembered the way he’d held her as she cried.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she hadn’t been completely to blame for her mother’s ill-fated marriage. Maybe at the time she had been too young to change things, and maybe her mother had made the decision on her own, but that all changed when Rachel grew into adulthood. And she still couldn’t help feeling that there must have been something—anything—she could have done to keep this from happening. Because if there wasn’t, then it meant that she might not be able to prevent it from ever happening again.

Brave placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest. It was a comforting gesture, and she was more grateful for him than he would ever know. He hadn’t tried to force her into conversation. In fact, he’d hardly spoken at all. He’d let her know he was there for her with little more than a concerned glance or a warm touch. It was nice, knowing that she had someone to lean on.

Finally, the door opened, and two maids scurried out. Slowly, Rachel rose to her feet. The shock of the morning had left her knees like jelly, and she had no desire to make even more of a spectacle of herself by collapsing. Casting up her accounts in the foyer had been humiliation enough.

Phelps stepped into the hall and fixed her with a gentle smile.

“How is she?” Brave asked before Rachel could find her voice.

“She’s as well as can be expected,” the physician replied bluntly. “However, I’ve determined that none of her injuries
should result in permanent damage. I expect her to make a full recovery.”

Clutching at Brave’s hand, Rachel smiled in relief. He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

“However,” Phelps continued, “it could take several weeks before she’s up and around. She suffers from bruised ribs and a dislocated shoulder, neither of which is going to be very comfortable for a while. The cuts and bruises will begin to heal and fade in a few days, and you should notice a reduction in the swelling by then as well.”

“Can I see her now?” Rachel asked.

Phelps stepped away from the door. “Of course you may. She’s been asking for you. She’ll be a little groggy. I’ve given her laudanum for the pain.”

Rachel thanked the doctor and made to enter her mother’s room, but before she did, she turned back to her husband. Wrapping her arms around his ribs, she hugged him as hard as she was able, absorbing as much of his essence and strength as she could. He tensed in surprise, but didn’t try to pull free, even though the doctor and the maids were watching.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and before he could reply, released him and darted through the open door.

The sight of her mother’s face was less grisly, but no less horrifying than it had been an hour ago. Dr. Phelps and the maids had cleaned away all the blood and dirt, but Rachel could see clearly how much damage had been done.

“Rachel, is that you?” Marion’s voice was thin and hoarse.

She closed the door. “Yes, Mama. It’s me.”

“I can’t see you. Come sit beside me.”

Her mother couldn’t see her because both of her eyes were swollen almost completely shut. It occurred to Rachel that Sir Henry often blackened her mother’s eyes so that they swelled in such a manner, as though he didn’t want to look her in the eye while he beat her—or after.

Rachel eased herself onto the bed, taking care not to jostle the mattress too much. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from her mother’s face. The sight would break the hardest of hearts, and Rachel had no doubt that the next time she looked upon those hideous shades of red and purple she would sob like an infant. She was much too angry, too cold inside to do anything but study them dispassionately. She wanted to memorize every swollen inch so she could paint the picture perfectly for those men who would decide whether or not her mother deserved to be free of her husband.

In fact, drawing a picture might be the best course of action. If she sketched her mother as she looked right now, certainly there would be no way anyone could side against her.

Her mother reached out a hand. Rachel took it. There was blood beneath her fingernails. Her other hand was clean, save for a little dirt around the pads of her fingers.

“Are you in much pain?”

“Dr. Phelps gave me a tonic for it. He wouldn’t leave until I’d taken some of it.”

“Good.”

Her mother squeezed her fingers. “Don’t worry yourself. Giving birth to you hurt more than this.”

Rachel’s heart swelled at her mother’s attempt at lightness. “Well, that makes me feel much better, Mama. Thank you.” Tears threatened again. She couldn’t be as cavalier about this as her mother was. She just couldn’t.

Marion’s lips twitched in a faint and twisted semblance of a smile. How could she possibly find anything to smile about?

“I meant that it’s not so bad. The tonic seems to be helping. Besides, physical pain eventually fades.”

But what about the deeper scars? Would her mother ever recover from Sir Henry’s brutality emotionally? Would she ever regain her strength and independence?

“Tell me what happened.” Her voice was hollow in her
own ears, as though she was listening to herself through the end of a long tunnel.

“Why?”

“Because I want to be able to write it down for when we petition for a divorce.”

Even such a simple gesture as moistening her lips looked painful when her mother did it. “Do you really think he can protect me from Henry?”

Rachel didn’t know what Brave would or wouldn’t be able to do, but there was no way in hell that Sir Henry was ever going to touch her mother again.

“You’ll be safe,” she promised.

Sighing, Marion winced and laid her other hand across her ribs. “I’m so sorry, dearest.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“For not listening to you in the first place. You knew his character better than I did, and I should have known, but I so foolishly wanted to believe…”

“Of course you did,” Rachel replied without censure. She reached out to stroke her mother’s hair. Dried blood was caked between the fine strands. She withdrew her hand.

“Tell me what happened, Mama. Don’t leave anything out.”

Marion drew a shallow breath. “Everything was perfect until this morning when I received your invitation to tea. When I told Henry that I planned on visiting you he forbade me to leave the house. When I protested he hit me, and—” her voice broke.

Rachel remained frozen in furious silence as she waited for her mother to continue.

“And when I tried to fight back he went insane. I lost consciousness, and I assume that’s when he stopped.”

“Then what did you do,” Rachel prodded gently, carefully keeping her anger from her voice. She felt sick.

“I left the house and started walking for here. I fell in one of the fields and couldn’t get back up. I dragged myself for
what felt like forever until one of Braven’s tenants found me and brought me to you.”

A huge, hard lump gathered in Rachel’s throat. How could she have ever thought this woman weak? Naive perhaps, but no one who could stand up to someone more than twice her size and drag herself across the ground on injured ribs could ever be mistaken for weak.

She blinked back tears. “You did the right thing, Mama.”

A few seconds passed before her mother spoke again. “Rachel, I think Dr. Phelps’s tonic is starting to take effect. Would you mind if I rested for a bit?”

“Of course not.” She leaned down and kissed her mother lightly on the forehead. “I’ll check in on you later.”

“All right. Don’t let Henry take me home.”

“Never,” Rachel vowed, her jaw clenched so hard her shoulders trembled with tension.

Silence. She was already asleep.

Rising to her feet, Rachel thought about her mother’s last words. Sir Henry would come looking for her, of that there was no doubt, and while she had little doubt that Brave could deal with him, what happened when he returned with the law? Would they allow him to take her mother back to Tullywood?

Surely no one could be so cruel and heartless.

Her gaze went to her mother’s face. There was firsthand evidence of just how heartless and cruel some people could be.

She knew what she had to do.

Leaving her mother’s room, Rachel was relieved to find the corridor empty. She didn’t want to have to deal with Brave just then. The less he knew the better.

She hurried down the stairs, holding her skirts up with one hand while the other held the banister for support. The trembling in her legs still hadn’t completely ceased.

Reynolds was at the bottom, watching her with a worried gaze. “Might I inquire after your mother, Lady Braven?”

“She’s resting now, Reynolds. Thank you for your concern.”

The diminutive butler looked so relieved that Rachel was touched by it.

“Where is my husband?”

“He’s in his study with Dr. Phelps and the dowager countess, my lady. He asks for you to join him there.”

Rachel thanked him and turned down the hall toward the study, but instead of continuing all the way down, she went into the library instead. Once inside, she went to the desk and opened the bottom drawer on the right side and withdrew a polished mahogany box.

The pistols were a few years old, but she’d seen Reynolds cleaning them just the other day and knew they were in fine working order. Balls and powder were also in the box, and she loaded one of the pistols before putting the other and the box back in its drawer.

With her weapon hidden in her skirts, she stuck her head out of the library door. The coast was clear.

All she had to do was get to the stables and ride to Tullywood.

And then she was going to kill her stepfather.

“Hello, Potts. Is Sir Henry here?” Keeping her tone deceptively light, Rachel slipped past the portly butler to enter Tullywood’s front hall.

“I don’t know,” was his only reply.

“You don’t know?” Scowling, she whirled around to face the man who had always been more friend than servant. “Did he go out? Is he in the house?”

“I have no idea where he is, Lady Braven,” the elderly man replied as he slipped into a brown-wool overcoat. “And you may rest assured that I don’t care if I ever see the blackguard again.”

Rachel was taken aback. Potts, for all his loyalty to her and her mother, had never spoken disrespectfully of Sir
Henry. It was then, as her anger toward her stepfather eased somewhat that she noticed the satchels at his feet.

“Potts, whose bags are those?”

Plunking a worn hat on his head, Potts peered down at the luggage. “They’re mine, my lady. I’m leaving.”

Rachel couldn’t believe her ears. “Leaving?”

Potts nodded, a sharp jerk of his snowy head. “When I heard what he did to dear Lady Marion, I realized I could not countenance another moment under this roof. I’m staying with my daughter until I can find another position.” He picked up both valises. “I should like to call upon your mother in a day or two if that is agreeable to you.”

“Of course it is. I shall speak to Lord Braven about a position for you—if you would like.” She’d have to make sure Potts wouldn’t be a painful reminder of Sir Henry’s cruelty to her mother first, however.

“You’re too kind, my lady.” He bowed and turned to leave.

“You’re not even going to ask what I’m doing here, are you, Potts?” Rachel called.

The aging servant looked over his shoulder. “Lady Braven, you can burn this place and its master to the ground for all I care.” And with that, he was gone.