Page 45 of The Butterfly
He squared his shoulders, steeling himself for what he might find when he returned to Olivia. It had taken so long for her to begin finding her way back, only for Bertram to appear and destroy it in a matter of seconds. Just thinking of it made him angry that he had not finished the job, that he’d allowed himself to be stopped.
Adam’s words came back to him then, a stark reminder of what was at stake here.
Livvie needs you.
Little did Adam know just how much. He hadn’t seen the look on her face when she had noticed Bertram standing in the garden, hadn’t felt the panic radiating from her in tangible waves.
He’d left her in such a state. After so many years of this, Niall knew all-too well how swift and heavy the darkness could fall over her at any given moment. How much more acute would that be now that the object of her nightmares had turned up to disturb her peace?
She needed him right now, which meant the problem of Bertram and Adam’s declaration could wait. Turning in the direction the others had taken, he walked with purpose, his feet moving him swiftly through the house and up the stairs, his heart in his throat. Things had been going so well, he was not certain he was ready to be confronted with a broken and melancholy Olivia again.
He stopped in his own room to make use of the clean water on the washstand—cleansing his hands of Bertram’s blood and using a scrap of linen to bathe his face. Olivia did not need to see him this way. There was no time to change his clothes, his need to see and reassure her propelling him along his way.
Entering her chamber, he pushed the door closed behind him and made a beeline for the bed. Halfway across the room, he faltered, realizing that the bedclothes had been tossed aside and Olivia did not lie among them.
“Livvie?”
He frowned, glancing about the room, thinking maybe she huddled in a corner. Silence greeted him. As he turned in a slow circle, searching out every inch of the chamber, he realized she was not here.
“Where are ye,mo gradh?” he murmured, going to peer back out into the corridor.
Had she recovered and gone off in search of him? No sign of her returning to her room, so he went back inside and crossed to the door connecting her suite to Adam’s. The muffled sounds of him and Daphne arguing came at Niall from downstairs, so he knew they were not inside. Neither did he find Olivia when he threw open the door and swept through the chamber calling her name.
Panic rose up into his throat, swift and burning. He wanted to believe she had simply gone to find him, or even to the nursery for Serena. Yet, he could not brush off this feeling … this premonition causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, telling him that something was terribly wrong.
Raking a hand through his hair, he glanced about the room once more, searching for any clue to where she might have gone. That was when he noticed the door to the dressing room hanging open … and a pair of tiny feet stretched out through the opening.
“Livvie!”
He was across the room in an eye’s blink, the wind knocked from him as if he’d taken a fist to the gut when his gaze landed on her. Splayed across the carpet with her gown twisted about her legs, she appeared half-dead—motionless, pale, her eyes wide open and fixated straight above her. Her limbs appeared disjointed, strewn this way and that, her hair fanned out around her face in an almost picturesque display. If it were not for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, or the sound of her harsh breaths filling the space, he might have thought her dead.
Falling to his knees at her side, he muttered a string of oaths, catching sight of the empty bottle overturned on the floor beside her. The half-empty flagon that had been on her washstand, brought from Dunnottar, had been removed upon Olivia’s request. She’d claimed not being able to abide the sight or smell of the stuff and had not wanted the temptation of it so near. There must have been a spare bottle hidden away he hadn’t known about … and in her state of despair, she’d gone right to it.
“Livvie,” he called out, crouching over her and waving a hand before her face. “Livvie, how much of this poison did ye drink?”
She remained unresponsive, failing to even blink as she stared straight through him and into some place he could not see. He had no way of knowing how much she’d ingested, but he did realize that her usual dose would never have put her into a stupor. However much she’d drunk, it was sure to have beentoomuch. She’d never survive so great a dose.
“What have ye done?” he whispered, his eyes stinging with oncoming tears, his chest so tight, he felt as if it might cave in and obliterate his heart into dust.
He forced himself to breathe, to remain calm, tothink. He had not been gone that long, she couldn’t have drunk it all at once … which meant there was still a chance she could be saved.
“Ye won’t leave me so easily,mo gradh,” he declared, slipping his arms beneath her body to lift her. “I willnae let ye.”
Carrying her back into the room, he glanced about for something … anything he could use to rouse her. Terror threatened to unman him, but he fought against it with every ounce of his will. If ever there was a time he needed to have his wits about him, now would be it. Throwing her none-too-gently upon the bed, he rushed to the vanity table, where a vinaigrette stood amongst the other jars and vials. He snatched it up and went back to the bed, frantically waving it about beneath her nose.
She blinked, her eyelids fluttering for the first time since he’d come upon her. Still, she did not move, did not speak, gave no sign that she was anything close to coherent.
“C’mon, Livvie,” he urged, grasping her shoulders and giving her a shake. “Snap out of it!”
The vinaigrette proved all but useless, so he threw it aside and shook her again, raising her shoulders off the bed and trying to jolt her back to the real world. She simply lay limp in his hold, her head lolling heavy from her shoulders, her breathing still harsh and far too swift.
Cringing, he drew back one hand and gritted his teeth, already hating himself for what he would do next.
“Forgive me.”
He let his hand fall, his palm connecting with her face with only about half his strength. Still, it was enough to create heat between his skin and hers, the sting blossoming against his palm, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the room. She shook, her limbs jerking and her eyes going even wider before beginning to water.
He blinked back his own tears at the sight of her reddened cheek. Still, she was rousing, whimpering and struggling to breathe.
