Page 23 of A Raven Reborn

Next time, if there was a next time, she wouldn’t stop him, but tonight, she was too much of a coward to face him again. Instead, she curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace. Its dying embers radiated enough heat to ease her shivering. In spite of the hard, cold floor, and lack of pillow or blankets, exhaustion soon overcame her, and she slipped into a deep, fitful sleep.

* * *

Patrick scrubbed his hands over his face as he paced his study. After he’d shoved himself back into his trousers and downed a glass of brandy to ease his wounded pride, he eventually realized this wasn’t about him. There was more to Rosie’s story. Something dark was hidden there. Even darker than being abandoned at a brothel by someone who was supposed to protect her.

Why hadn’t she told him? He would gladly kill whoever had hurt her. A sardonic, hissing laugh issued from his lips. He was the one who had very nearly hurt her this night. He pounded his fist against his forehead. How could he have been such a bounder? She’d asked him for a kiss, and he’d practically ravished her. If she hadn’t stopped him, he’d have had his way with her on his desk, for god’s sake. She deserved better than that. What had come over him?

He continued wearing a path into the rug until sunlight crept in through the window. It landed on something white that lay in front of his desk. Her robe. He was a bloody cad. Somehow, he would make this up to her. There had to be some way he could make things right.

Dejectedly, he bent to retrieve the cotton garment from where it lay. As he lifted it, something fluttered to the floor. Her questions. He smiled, remembering her confidently shaking the paper open, determined to ask him everything. Had that only been a few short hours ago? She’d been so happy. He hesitated before unfolding the page.

He’d expected to see some sort of vague, bulleted list and was somewhat amused to see she’d actually written the questions exactly as she’d intended to ask them.

What happened to your shoulder?

Why does it bother you so much when someone calls you my lord?

May I visit The Raven’s Den?

Why am I not allowed to go to the market?

Am I your prisoner?

It was a short list, but each question pushed the knife just a little deeper into his gut. He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d bungled everything. Patrick hadn’t meant for her to feel like a prisoner in his home. He’d only wanted to keep her safe. And of course, this list also answered his own question. How could she possibly have trusted him enough to tell him of the horrors of her past, when he’d been so cryptic about his own life? That all ended today.

Patrick located A Christmas Carol in his collection of books and carried it with him down the hall. When he reached the door to his bedroom he pressed his ear to the cool surface of the door. He was relieved that he didn’t hear any sobbing, but that was hardly a goal to strive for. The cowardly part of him wanted to just place the items on the floor and creep back to his study to hide. The story of his life, really. Run away from anything even the least bit difficult. Well, Rosie deserved better. He tapped quietly on the door and was met with utter silence. A little bit louder the second time, but still nothing.

Praying she was asleep, he opened the door just enough to peer inside. His heart stopped. She wasn’t there. Not in her usual chair, and the bed hadn't been touched. Somehow she must have sneaked out and he’d been so caught up in his own worries, he hadn’t even heard her go.

He burst into the room, and looked around in desperation, his gaze finally landing upon her still form in front of the fireplace. His heart thumped back to life. Thank God. Still here, and asleep. But why was she on the floor? But he knew the answer to that too. She’d tried to tell him she wouldn’t sleep in his bed anymore, but it never occurred to him that she’d choose this instead. Curled in a tight ball with nothing but her silk nightgown for warmth, she must have been freezing. He was just about to crouch down and carry her to the bed, but then he realized if she woke up and saw his face, she’d be scared witless. He’d do everything in his power to never see terror like that in her eyes again.

Instead, he carefully covered her with the robe he held in his hand. It would have to suffice for now. He set the book on the table beside her chair and tiptoed from the room. Closing the door as softly as he could, he rested his forehead against the wooden surface. His heart ached for her. He had failed her, just like everyone else in her life. “I’m sorry, Rosie,” he whispered.

When he turned back toward his study, Finch stood in the hall, a knowing smile on his face. It vanished instantly when he looked into Patrick’s eyes. He backed quickly around the corner as Patrick stalked toward him, in what was probably a desperate hope he would simply pass him by. Not this time. Patrick turned and pinned him against the wall with his gaze. He leaned in, his face a mere inch from Finch’s.

“Don’t you dare to bother her.”

Finch nodded frantically.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” he squeaked, still nodding feverishly.

“Good.” Patrick turned, and started down the hall once more, but then he remembered something. He turned back, and Finch reflexively pressed himself against the wall once more.

“I’ll need you to run a note to Ella for me in a few minutes.”

“Of… of course.” He nodded again, his features reflecting not fear for his own safety, as they should, but concern for Patrick, instead. Patrick shook his head.

He truly didn’t deserve Finch’s unwavering loyalty. Especially not on a day like today.

ChapterNine

When Rosalyn woke, every inch of her body ached from sleeping on the hard floor. Her shoulders popped and cracked as she stretched. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, slowly sitting up. Fabric slithered off her shoulders to puddle in her lap. Her robe. Patrick must have come in while she was sleeping and covered her. He hadn’t even woken her.

She looked around quickly to be sure he wasn’t still there. He wasn’t, but something else caught her eye. A book sat on the table beside the chair. Perhaps an instruction manual on how to be a better whore? Of course not. It might be exactly what she deserved, but he would never do anything so unkind. On top of that, she didn’t feel like she was his whore, even if she had behaved as one.

Shaking the memories aside, she pushed herself to her feet. She wrapped the robe around her and walked to the table. A Christmas Carol. It was in pristine condition. She ran her hand over the leather spine. Clearly, it hadn’t been as well loved as her copy. Patrick knew she’d never see hers again, though, so he’d given her his own. She’d done nothing to earn his kindness, and yet he gave it anyway.

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