Page 62 of The Dove
“I do,” she repeated. “I always will.”
He reared away from her as if he’d been burned, sucking in a sharp breath as he fell against the back of his chair. He seemed to war with himself, fighting whatever forces did battle inside of him.
“I do not expect that you feel the same,” she added, turning away to stare at the ceiling. She could not bear to look him in the eye and have him reject her. “You owe me nothing, and I would understand—”
“But I do,” he interjected. “I owe you everything.”
She couldn’t help looking at him again, finding him standing over her now, arms folded over his chest. “Adam, don’t …”
“I must,” he declared, reaching down to stroke her hair. “You see, when you fell with that bullet in your shoulder, I had a moment of clarity.”
She stared up at him, her brow furrowed, her heart pounding as she tried to understand what he was saying, where this might lead.
“The gun I’d brought to kill Bertram with lay right there, right within my reach,” he continued. “And I almost picked it up. I almost left you there to die so that I could be the one to end his life. I’d earned the right … it wasmy right.”
She nodded in understanding, understanding his conflict. “Yes.”
He shook his head in response. “But when it came time to choose, to let him go and save you, or get what I wanted and let you die … I found there was only real choice. You, little dove. I chose you.”
Another sob wracked her, this one from joy, and she leaned into his hand, resting her cheek in his palm and finding comfort there. She had not thought he would choose her if forced to decide, and he’d just proved her wrong. Perhaps it had been all right to hope …
“And now, I am going to choose you one last time,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek, his eyes still caressing her face.
And she realized what he was about. He’d been looking at her this way to commit her to memory, to soak her in one last time before he walked away.
“Don’t,” she begged before she could think of her pride. “Adam, please …”
To her surprise, he smiled down at her, then bent at the waist to kiss her again, just at the corner of her mouth. “I have to, little dove. You see, keeping you was for me. It was selfish, and I no longer have the right … well, at any rate, you’ve earned it. You saved me, so now, I am saving you.”
“Don’t,” she cried. “I do not want to be saved. I want … I need …”
Shaking his head, he kissed her one more time, then straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “I will never say I regret any of it. But now, I must do what is right when it comes to you for the first time. You never need to fear that I will disrupt your life again, little dove.”
He turned away from the bed, and she lurched upward with a strangled cry, the pain in her body trying to impede her. Yet, nothing would stop her from leaving the bed, from stumbling barefoot in his wake and reaching out to clutch the back of his shirt.
He swiveled, catching her up just before she collapsed, her body weaker than she’d realized after days without anything more than water, broth, and laudanum.
“You’ll tear your stitches,” he admonished, remaining surprisingly calm given that he’d just ripped out her heart. “Get back into bed.”
Shaking her head, she clung to him, not caring that she must look like the worst sort of fool. Desperation had stolen all her pride, all her rationale. She somehow knew that if she let him walk out of that door, she might never see him again.
“You cannot do this,” she cried, burying her face against his chest and wetting the front of his shirt with her tears. “Not after you made me love you … you made meneed you.”
His hand was on her chin, tipping it up, making her look him in the eye. All the turbulence had left the depths, turning them a calming amber, the green flames settled into cinders for once. As if this decision felt right to him, bringing him peace. But, how could he be at peace when she was falling apart, the pain in her shoulder nothing compared to the pain in her heart?
“No,” he argued. “You are stronger now. You do not need anyone, and now, even I will not stand in your way. The cage is open now, little dove … go and fly. Be free.”
He lifted her gently and deposited her back into bed, tucking her in with all the care of a nurse before taking his leave.
As she turned her head to sob into the pillow, his long strides took him from the room. The door clicking shut behind him tore through her like a dagger to the heart, and she feared she might never be able to pry it loose.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Six weeks later …
aphne stood before the hearth in a drawing room of Fairchild House, holding her hands toward the blaze for warmth. She had just arrived home and needed to ward off the chill of the outdoors. Spring was fast approaching, and she would be grateful when it banished the last of the cold. It agitated her shoulder, which, even though the doctor had declared it to have healed nicely, plagued her when the weather grew cold and damp. Her black bombazine skirts rustled as she shifted to warm her back, the ugly, shapeless garment annoying her to no end.
Yet, one must skirt propriety and dress in mourning attire on the day that one’s brother faced the gallows … even when one did not plan to mourn said brother for a single moment.
