Page 35 of The Dove
“Bloody fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath as he reached Fairchild House and tossed aside the spent stub of his cheroot.
He needed a few tumblers of brandy and a good night’s sleep, if he could manage it. In the morning, he’d be able to think clearer.
The front door opened, and instead of the butler that had come with the residence, Niall hovered in the gap. Adam’s heart plummeted into the depths of his stomach as he took in the man’s haggard appearance—cravat removed, shirt askew, hair mussed, eyes bloodshot. He looked as if someone had jammed a knife into his heart.
His feet propelled him swiftly up the front steps, and Niall backed away from the door to let him in.
“What happened?” he demanded, slamming the panel behind him.
The figure of a woman appeared at the top of the stairs, and he watched, openmouthed, as Maeve descended, hands clenched in front of her, her face as tortured as Niall’s. She had been crying, he could see, her cheeks splotchy and moisture still pooling in her eyes.
His heart seemed to stop beating, his vision swimming as he tried to grapple with what her sudden appearance in London must mean.
Something was terribly wrong.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as she reached the vestibule. “What the bloody hell is going on?”
Sniffling, Maeve avoided his gaze, as if she were afraid to look him in the eye. “I did not know what else to do, Master. She’s been so despondent the past few days … and then … I only turned my back for a moment … there was glass … it all happened so quickly …”
He shoved past her, his chest aching as he barreled up the stairs, not bothering to ask where she was. He knew Niall well enough to realize where, so he went there now, his long legs carrying him up two flights of stairs and down the corridor to the room he had claimed as his own. The master suite.
Throwing open the door, he gazed around the dimly lit room, his mouth going dry and his entire body tensing, bracing him for what he would find.
Olivia lay in his bed, one of her prim nightgowns covering her willowy body. She looked worse than he’d seen her in some time, her eyes seeming overlarge in her gaunt face, the dark circles beneath them telling him she hadn’t been sleeping. His gaze dropped to the hands resting in her lap—the slender forearms covered with clean, white bandages. He released his breath on a tortured sigh, the evidence of what had occurred at Dunnottar in his absence tearing him through him like the slash of a dagger.
He approached the bed slowly, not wanting to set her off if she was still in a fragile state. It had been years since she’d hurt herself. And even though he’d known she might never be whole again, he had hoped it meant she had gotten better—not cured, but perhaps well enough that she did not need to be watched every hour of every day.
“Ah, butterfly,” he whispered, sinking onto the mattress at her side. “What have you done to yourself?”
She glanced up at him, not bothering to fight when he reached out to take hold of her hand, pulling her arm taut and carefully unwinding her bandages. Remaining silent, she simply blinked, a lone tear rolling down one cheek. As he reached the linen closest to her skin, he paused, his throat constricting as he found the telltale bloodstains. His breathing accelerated, his eyes stinging with tears he knew he would be unable to shed.
He hadn’t wept in five years … his heart and soul finally scarred over from all the hurts.
Pulling away the last layer of linen, he revealed her forearm and the series of deep, ugly cuts she’d gouged into them. Maeve said she had used glass, and he could see that Olivia had sunk it deep, as if she’d been trying to tear something loose.
As if she had wanted to spill her own blood until there was nothing left.
A sound akin to a sob came from him, and he lowered his head, clinging to her slender arm.
“Why, Livvie?” he rasped, his chest and throat burning as if he might weep. Yet, the tears would not come, the emotions compressing in his middle with so much pressure, he thought might explode.
“Why?” he repeated, leaning in to rest his head on her shoulder, to gather her close, to try to hold her together in his arms. He did not think he’d ever be strong enough.
She fell limp against him, eerily silent for so long, he feared she had retreated back into the state she’d been in upon first returning home from the asylum. She hadn’t spoken for days, and when she’d first opened her mouth, her words had been broken, senseless fragments that he and Niall had been forced to piece together themselves. It had taken her weeks to form coherent thoughts again.
Finally, she spoke, her voice muffled against the fabric of his coat.
“The laudanum … it takes everything away … all the feelings.”
He nodded. “Aye, butterfly. I know.”
She shook her head, her hair tickling his jaw. “I just wanted … I wanted to feel again, Hart. I couldn’t feel anything.”
Drawing back to look down at her, he considered her words. The physicians had told him that the laudanum seemed to be the only thing bringing her peace. Over the years, it had been the only way to stop her tears and screams, to help her sleep when terrors plagued her dreams. Yet, the more she drank it, the less effective it became, and the more of it she needed to function.
Had he and Niall done this to her? Made it to where she was drinking so much of the stuff that she could no longer feel a thing? They’d meant well, but perhaps they had been pushing her toward her death. If she’d cut herself any deeper … if Maeve hadn’t discovered her … if …
“No more laudanum,” he declared. “Not unless you truly want it.”
