Page 74 of Duke of Myste
Jane lay crumpled beneath a large oak tree, her riding habit torn and muddy, her beautiful dark hair fanned across the grass like spilled silk. She was utterly still, her face pale as porcelain, one hand flung outward as though reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
“Jane!” Richard bolted forward and fell to his knees beside his wife with complete disregard for his clothing or dignity.
She was breathing—shallow, rapid breaths that spoke of unconsciousness rather than sleep, but breathing nonetheless. Richard’s hands shook as he gently touched her face, searchingfor signs of injury while his heart hammered against his ribs with a force that threatened to consume him.
The hair at her temple was matted, and when Richard touched the spot, his fingers came up stained with blood.
“Harriet! I’ve found her!” he called, not taking his eyes off her still form. “Tell the footman to fetch Dr. Whitmore immediately!”
“Richard, is she—” Harriet’s voice broke as she knelt on Jane’s other side.
“She’s alive,” Richard said, the words carrying more prayer than certainty. “Help me get her to the carriage. Carefully now—we don’t know the extent of her injuries.”
Working together with infinite care, the siblings lifted Jane’s limp form. She felt impossibly fragile in Richard’s arms, like a bird with broken wings, and the fierce protectiveness that had surged through him then was so intense that it left him momentarily breathless.
As he carried her to the waiting carriage, her head lolled against his shoulder, and he caught the faint scent of lavender that always clung to her hair. The familiar fragrance, so achingly normal amid this terror, nearly undid him.
“Please,” he whispered against her hair, knowing she couldn’t hear him but needing to speak the words anyway. “Please be all right. Please come back to me.”
The carriage had never felt smaller or less comfortable than it did during the journey back to Myste House. Richard held Jane carefully against his chest, monitoring every breath, every flutter of her eyelashes, every minute change in her condition. Harriet sat across from them, her usual chatter replaced by a silence that spoke volumes about her fear.
“What do you suppose happened?” she asked quietly as they neared home.
Richard’s jaw tightened as he considered the possibilities. “Most probably something spooked Pandora—probably a snake, given how panicked she was. Jane must have been thrown off the saddle and hit her head on something. A rock, perhaps, or a tree root.”
The simple, clinical explanation did nothing to ease the self-recrimination that was eating at him from the inside like acid. If only he had been more aware of her that morning, he could have reassured her about the gossip columns before she had a chance to work herself up into such a state. If only he had been there to insist she take the carriage. If only he had gone after her immediately instead of waiting.
“This falls on my shoulders,” he said quietly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Richard, don’t be ridiculous,” Harriet huffed, but he shook his head.
“She was distressed because of me. She thought I would be angry with her because of the papers. If I had handled the situation differently, if I had been there, she would never have felt the need to flee to Lydia’s for reassurance.”
“If you continue down that path,” Harriet said with gentle firmness, “you could make anything anyone’s fault. The important thing now is that she’s safe and you’re here to take care of her.”
Richard looked down at Jane’s pale face, noting the way her dark lashes fanned across her cheeks, the soft curve of her lips that had spoken tender words to him just the night before. The thought that he could lose her—lose this fiery, challenging, wonderful woman who had become so essential to his very existence—made him feel physically ill.
“I love her, Harriet,” he murmured quietly. “I love her more than I thought was possible. The thought of losing her…”
“You haven’t lost her,” Harriet asserted, reaching across to squeeze his arm. “Jane is stronger than she appears. She will recover from this, and when she does, she will need you to be strong for her.”
As the carriage drew to a halt before Myste House, Richard gathered Jane more securely in his arms, preparing to carry her inside.
Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever recovery would be needed, he would face it all with her. Because somewhere between their wedding day and their spectacular waltz at Vauxhall, Jane Brandon had transformed into Jane Riverstone—not just in name, but in every way that truly mattered.
She was his wife. His soulmate. His heart walking around outside his body. And he would move heaven and earth to ensure that she recovered completely from this accident, which should never have happened in the first place.
The front door of Myste House opened before he could reach it, Mrs. Winter’s efficiency evident even in crises.
“The physician has been sent for, Your Grace,” she reported, her calm barely concealing her distress at seeing Jane’s condition.
“Prepare Her Grace’s chambers,” Richard commanded, already moving toward the stairs. “Fresh linens, plenty of hot water, and have Cook prepare some light broth in case she wakes up.”
“Whenshe wakes up,” Harriet corrected gently, following close behind. “When she wakes up, Richard. Not if.”
As Richard carried his unconscious wife up the stairs, he clung to his sister’s certainty like a lifeline.
Jane would wake up. She would recover. She would open those brilliant brown eyes and smile at him with that samecombination of affection and exasperation that had become so dear to him.
