Page 8 of Spellbound
By the time she was finished, her hand was aching from the exertion but her eyes were finally dry. Getting up from the table, Bella retrieved a bottle from the shelf and transferred the mixture to it, adding some oil as well and then a small crystal. With the bottle full, she walked to the door and opened it to the chilly air. The rain was falling in heavy sheets, but that did not deter her as she sprinkled the mixture over her doorway while chanting ancient words. It wasn’t even a spell, rather, it was more a blessing. She did it every week as a way to keep negativity—her own or others—out of her home. In that moment, she was doing it to give herself strength, to keep her from going to him and pleading with him to—what? To love her? To want her? Desperation and pride rarely went hand and hand and her pride was something she valued too much to sacrifice it so easily. Oncecould be classified a mistake, a simple error in judgement. To do so again would be a willful and foolish choice.
Heedless of the rain, she stood in her open doorway, taking in the growing storm in all its power and glory. The wind whipped at her skirts, tugged at her hair and sent it tangling about her face. The elements in all their fury had always appealed to her. Thunder rumbled in the distance and there was a brief flash of lighting in the sky. She could feel the charge of it and for just a moment, she let it course through her, wiping away all the doubts and fears that had been circling in her mind. It calmed her in a way nothing else had. And it was that calm which allowed her other senses, those that were unique to her and the other women of her family, to stir.
She couldn’t say what it was that actually alerted her, but the feeling of not being alone was too intense to simply ignore. Staring through the rain, she blinked to clear her vision. But it didn’t dissipate. The vision was no simple vision at all, not some spectral image crafted by her own mind. A terrifyingly familiar masculine figure lay slumped against the side of her outbuilding, drenched through.
“Desmond,” she breathed. Fear knotted in her gut. What was he doing there?
Injured.The word simply appeared in her mind. It wasn’t simply a thought or even a question. It was a knowing. One that went bone deep.
Was she too late?
Moving forward without any thought for herself, she stepped beyond the threshold of her small cottage and into the slashing storm. The cold rain was a shock as it landed on her flushed face. The heat inside her little cottage as she’d built up the fire to work on her potions was quickly forgotten. Traversing the small yard to where he leaned against her shed, her heart pounded furiously in her chest, the frantic pace a result of her quickeningfear. As she neared him, Bella breathed a sigh of relief. She was close enough to hear the soft groan that escaped him. He lived.
Another flash of lighting, allowed her to see much more clearly why he was slumped over in her garden. There was a wicked gash near his hairline, dark bruises forming around it already and blood still seeping into his dark hair from the wound. Kneeling in front of him, heedless of the rain and mud soaking her clothes, Bella touched his face. “Desmond?” There was no response. More forcefully, she all but shouted, “Desmond, you must awaken!”
Slowly, with great effort, his eyes opened partially and he looked at her. Dazed and barely conscious, his confusion was apparent.
Struggling to find words, she finally managed, “You’ve been injured and somehow you’ve wandered to my home. I need to get you inside but I cannot do so without your aid.” Again, only confusion greeted her in response. Explaining more plainly, she added, “You are too heavy for me to carry or even drag you without doing further injury to you.”
He didn’t say anything in response, but he remained awake. Crouching beside him, Bella draped his arm about her shoulders and together they struggled to their feet. It was a difficult journey, short though it was, beset by stumbles and weakness from his injury. When at last they reached her door, Bella was beyond relieved. Her muscles were quivering under his added and considerable weight. Not that he was fat. Good heavens, he was anything but. Still, he was a very large man, towering over her even as he slumped forward. Those broad shoulders, and the thick, heavy chest that she admired so, were something of an inconvenience at the moment.
Leaning him up against the wall, Bella grabbed a drying cloth from the cupboard and attempted to dry him off. It was a pitiful effort. His clothes were entirely sodden and had been for sometime. With no other hope, her only option was to strip him. “Do not give in to the darkness. I cannot do this alone.”
“How did I get here?” He whispered the question weakly.
“I do not know. When I left the clearing, you were well enough, but I’ve no notion what happened after or how it is that you wandered here” she replied. “How did you find your way to my cottage in this state? How is it even possible?”
Desmond frowned. “He was watching… in the woods. Watching us. Watching you.”
Bella shivered. “Who was watching?”
He tried to shake his head but let out a grunt of pain and slumped forward. It was all she could do to catch him.
“Nevermind about all of that,” she said, stroking his cheek in a soothing manner. “Just help me get you out of your coat and then we’ll tackle the rest with you sitting or lying down.”
It took both of them. The fabric was wet and stubborn, not to mention very well fitted. It was clear in trying to remove the wet garment that he had to have a valet. As well fitted as his clothes were, se’d never dress himself without the aid of one. When the coat finally fell to the floor, he leaned back against the wall, trembling with the effort.
Leaving him there, Bella grabbed a straight backed chair from her small table. He sank onto it, the wood groaning beneath his weight. Kneeling before him, she began tugging at his boots.
“Why would someone want to hurt you?” The question was uttered softly, his words slightly slurred but no less astute for it.
She looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were open wider now, more alert, though there were stark lines bracketing his lips and his skin was unnaturally pale. Still, the power of those deep blue eyes was somewhat astonishing. Bella felt pinned to the spot beneath that gaze, even as she answered him as honestly as she could. “Because I am different from them. Because I amsomething they do not understand. And it is because you have gotten close to me that they have hurt you. I should never have agreed to meet with you today. You are wounded and it is entirely my fault.”
He stared at her for a moment longer, trying to formulate a response—an argument against her assessment of the situation. But his injury got the better of him and he slipped once more into unconsciousness before he could speak.
EIGHT
Bella was breathless with exertion, her lungs heaving and her muscles quivering with strain. It had taken no small amount of effort and ingenuity to maneuver his large form to the narrow bed which had been hers as a child. Toward the end of her life, Amarantha had been nervous about traversing the narrow stairs and they had switched rooms. Thinking of how difficult it had been just to get him from the yard into the house, she shuddered. Had she been required to get him upstairs—well, she’d have failed and likely injured them both in the process.
Staring down at him, his large form filled the much too small daybed, his shoulders well past the edges of the mattress on either side and his feet hanging over the end. And his clothes were drenching the bedding beneath him. He would catch a chill. Bella knew the next step would be to get the remainder of his wet clothing off him. It would not be an easy task.
Carefully, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and then, blushing furiously all the while, unfastened his trousers. By the time she was done stripping the clothes from him, she was winded from her efforts. Rolling him back and forth on the bed, no mean feat given the small amount of space that was available, all the whilepatiently working the layers of clothing off one by one—she was utterly exhausted from the task.
Now, standing by his bedside examining him for other injuries, Bella attempted to keep her composure. It was impossibly difficult. She wasn’t certain any man had ever been put together quite so perfectly. Even in repose, the strength of his body was evident in the heavy muscles of his chest and shoulders, his long legs with well muscled thighs and calves. But her inspection wasn’t simply to ogle him. There was a much more practical reason for her examination.
He had no other injuries. Not a scratch. The only mark on him, from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes, was the gash on his forehead.It was no mere accident. It simply couldn’t be.If he’d fallen, if he’d been struck by a carriage on the road there would be something else, surely!
It wasn’t as if she’d presumed it was an accident, but a part of her had hoped that it was. Accidents happened to everyone. But as the only mark on him was the gash at his hairline, it was quite clear that what had happened to him had been quite deliberate. Someone, she thought with a chill, had tried to kill him.Because of her.
