Page 4 of The Butterfly
The Gaelic endearment from his lips stilled her in an instant, and her eyelids fluttered open. Her gaze was unfocused for a moment, and she seemed to stare straight through him instead of at him. He never knew where her mind went when her eyes glazed over, the pupils dilating so wide, the dark brown of her irises appeared black. He wondered if she thought of the past, of stolen kisses in the stables, and whispered conversations behind closed doors where no one could disturb them. His insides roiled as he wondered whether her mind traveled back to her time locked away in an asylum for unwed mothers, or giving birth while screaming in pain, or lying underneath the bastard who’d ruined her and gotten her with child. His hands clenched tight, shaking as he fought to get his temper under control. The things Olivia had been through haunted him daily, just as they did her. A constant reminder of all the ways he’d failed her.
“Niall?” she whispered after a while, her eyes clearing a bit as her gaze shifted to him.
“Aye,” he replied, his hand falling heavy on her head, fingers curling in her mussed hair. “It’s me.”
She had been unconscious upon arriving in London and likely had no idea where she was. Closing her eyes, she sighed, relaxing under his touch.
“Where are we?”
Relief flooded him at the evidence of a clear mind. A full sentence, coherent words … signs that she was completely and fully with him. This could last for hours or days before she retreated again, losing herself in a world only she seemed to see. One of ghosts and tortures that kept her from healing after the things that had been done to her.
“London,” he told her. “Don’t ye remember? Maeve brought you here after …”
She shifted a bit, coming upright in the bed and staring down at her bandaged arms. Her chin trembled, and a lone tear trickled down her cheek. He left his chair, moving to perch on the edge of the bed beside her.
“Ye scared us half t’ death,” he told her, trailing a finger over the white linen wrapped around her arms. “It’s my fault. I knew better than t’ leave ye. It willnae happen again.”
Shaking her head, she met his gaze, another tear wetting her face and trailing down her neck. “You cannot be with me every hour of every day.”
“I can, I have, and I will.”
With a sigh, she placed a hand over his, stilling his absent caresses against the bandages. He had changed the linen himself while she slept, the ugly wounds making bile rise up in the back of his throat. If she’d dug into her skin just a bit deeper with that glass, she would have been lost to him forever.
“Did ye want to die,mo gradh? Is it yer wish to leave me?”
His throat constricted as he dreaded hearing her answer. This would not be the first time she had hurt herself, each incident seeming like an attempt at escaping life, getting away from the torture inflicted upon her by her mind. So much time had passed since the last occurrence, he had begun to hope she’d decided to fight, to cling to life.
She reached up to touch his face, her fingers stunningly soft against the slash of his jaw and the prickle of two days’ worth of stubble. “No … Niall, look at me.”
He lifted his eyes, which stung with tears that would not shed. He’d wept for her so often over the past five years, he did not think he had another tear left in his body.
“I was not trying to escape you,” she declared. “I did not want to die. I only …”
He inclined his head, studying her, trying desperately to understand. She still presented a mystery to him, even after all these years, even as he realized he knew her better than anyone else.
“Only what, Livvie?” he prodded.
She shook her head, brow furrowed as if she tried to put her muddled thoughts into words. “I went numb. After so many years of constant pain and fear, it all went away.”
He frowned. “I dinnae understand. That’s a good thing, eh?”
“No,” she replied, her hand falling back into her lap. “Pain and fear are better than numbness. They are better than nothing. It was like the early days, Niall. When I couldn’t even put my thoughts into words.”
He stiffened at the reminder of the weeks following her return to Dunvar House in Edinburgh, after Adam had rescued her from the asylum. He’d been far too late to save her from the madness, from the demons that seemed to plague her constantly. In those first days, she’d been unable to form complete sentences, her words coming out as disordered as he assumed her thoughts must have been. It had taken her weeks to communicate with them, her listless gaze worrying the entire household to no end as she’d stared across the room without so much as a sound.
“I know you do not understand,” she went on. “But I needed to feel again … even if it were pain. Even if it killed me.”
He edged closer to her on the bed, taking her face in both hands.
“And now?” he urged, his thumb stroking her cheeks, swiping away the remnants of her tears. “What do ye feel now?”
“Pain,” she whispered, closing her eyes and causing a fresh flood of droplets. “It hurts.”
His chest ached, the deep twinge caused by knowing he could do nothing to alleviate her suffering nearly unmanning him. “Where,mo gradh?Where does it hurt?”
Reaching up between them, she pressed her first finger to her forehead, indicating her head … or rather, what lay inside her head … a mind riddled with torment.
“Here,” she whispered. “It hurts here.”
