Page 12 of The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady
In the end, although he could manufacture countless rambling theories on the reason for her attack, he realized the only way he would uncover the truth was to ask her. It was a frustrating epiphany, for he craved the truth so intensely, yet he could not go to her chambers. Not only was she sleeping, but it would be wildly inappropriate.
The more he thought on it, the more it wracked at him, driving deeper and deeper into his brain so that he was forced to take drink after drink, dizzying himself into a whirlwind of drunken thought. The who, what and why bounced off of each other, slamming between the walls of his skull; driving down another drink he let out a growl, tossing spittle from his lips.
He felt like a caged beast, so full of pent-up interest that it turned him physically hot. This was what people talked about when they referred to issues with his temper, and talk they loved to.
There was an animalistic rage that dwelt within that shell of liquor. It was not a violent one in nature; Kenneth would not get foxed and beat on poor souls. Instead he would grow so alive, so hot in the head, and so ready to spring out into the world, that he would often do something ridiculous.
In the army this had kept him alive several times, but now it was a thing he had to mind. The loss of control in public had, indeed, cost him a courtship.
But here in his own home, he cared not, and so he embraced his own wild nature. He tore at the upper buttons on his shirt, freeing his neck, and downed another drink. He laughed out for the world to hear, although the sound was trapped in the large, empty room.
He flung open the glass doors leading outside. Embracing the nipping air, he flung up his arms and took the breeze with gladness. He let out a wild yip, like an excited wolf pup, and laughed at himself before calming down a touch, and turning back inside. He was glowing, and he felt alive.
This is what life is.
* * *
Leah had never been in a bed so comfortable. It is a common misconception that upon laying in the most comfortable bed in one's life, that one will receive the best night of sleep in one's life.
This could not be further from the truth for those such as Leah, whom all their lives have bounced between floor, moldy hammock, a penny house, or beneath a bench.
At first, after she had been settled in the room, she had basked in the comfort of the feather pillows. She had laughed to herself about her turn of fortune, winced at the pain in her ribs, and fallen promptly asleep.
That sleep had not lasted, however. Instead she began to wake regularly in ten-minute intervals, unable to become comfortable because of both the unbelievable softness of the bed and the many bruises she sported.
Normally when one cannot fall asleep, one will adjust the way that they are sleeping incrementally until sleep can be achieved. In Leah's case, this proved monstrously difficult because three of her ribs had sustained fractures, her left eye was black and blue, and her ankle had been badly sprained.
She weathered the pain and discomfort with each slight adjustment, trying to find the right way to lay in the bed that seemed to suck her down into it like demonic quicksand.
She struggled on and on, sweating with the effort, grunting against the feather pillows as they flopped across her.
Why is this so hard?
She began to despair, clawing at the blankets she felt like she could not control, sinking further into the fluffy bed, trying to sit upwards but recoiling from the pain in her ribs.
She thrust her legs out angrily, and her ankle struck one of the bedposts, sending a shock of hurt through that leg.
Leah cried, submitting to the bed's impossible frame. She lay there, defeated, alone, in a strange place, and she could not even manage a blanket. Never had she felt so beaten, so passed over by the world. Leah cried and cried into the pillows, letting all her rage and frustration with Riphook and Nash and Teller seep into the sheets.
She cried until it felt as if she had spent every tear she had, and she found that she suddenly felt a slight better.
How long has it been since I allowed myself to cry?I cannot remember the last time.
Leah grunted and rolled to the other side, accepting that everything she did would hurt, and that she would have to cope. She could manage. It was by no means the first time she had taken a beating, but she meant for it to be the last. She touched her breast gingerly, discovering further bruising all across her torso.
“Bastards bruised my tit.” she chuckled softly with herself, cradling the tear-soaked pillow for comfort. At least there, in that moment, she was safe. She had gambled that they wouldn't follow her through St. James’s Square, and she had lost that bet. Some would say it is foolish to double down, and place trust again in the security of aristocracy, but the manor house of a Duke was far safer than an array of street shops.
As she contemplated how bold Riphook might be in retrieving her, she glanced out of the second-story window. The grounds were brilliantly lit by the moon, and she could feel the radiance of the silver disk.
She caught sight of something then that caused her to look twice. It was the Duke – the man who had saved her – and he was running out into the grass, arms above him.
She heard him make a yip of a noise, and he ran back into the house, swinging his arms widely around him.
Leah smiled to see such a youthful expression of exuberance from the Duke, who was clearly on the other side of five and twenty.
She wondered if he had a wife, and what she made of all this. Likely not, she decided, for that woman before had been his mother.
What does she think of me?What do I think of her, for that matter?
