Chapter Twenty-three
The world tilted violently, chaos exploding around her in a deafening cacophony of shattering glass, splintering wood, and shrieking metal.
Genevieve barely had time to react before she was thrown forcefully against the padded door, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs in a brutal expulsion of air.
Pain reverberated through her ribs, sharp and immediate, but there was no time to register it fully before the carriage lurched again, tossing her like a rag doll through the collapsing interior.
She desperately tried to brace herself, hands clawing at anything that might steady her against the relentless momentum.
Gabriel tried to warn me...
The thought flashed, fleeting and fragmented, before agony erupted through her skull as something hard struck her temple.
Stars burst behind her eyes, brilliant and blinding, before dissolving into suffocating darkness.
The last fragmented image in her mind was Gabriel’s face, filled with anguish. Then, there was nothing.
***
From a concealed vantage higher up, hidden deep in the thicket, two rough-looking men watched the wreckage settle.
Gregory Thomas glanced at his partner, George Goode, who was wiping sweat off his brow.
Their faces remained impassive as they observed the scene below.
He watched the struggling horses, the injured outriders, and the ominous stillness of the overturned carriage.
Neither man spoke. Their task had been completed.
Judging by the appearance of the wreckage, the ruin was indeed of a far greater extent than their master had desired.
This had never been about an interception.
There would be no ransom, no bargaining.
Their instructions had been clear from the very beginning, ensure the message was delivered without arousing any suspicion.
The wreckage spoke for itself. Without further acknowledgment, they exchanged brief nods and melted silently back into the woods, vanishing among the trees.
***
In all his years serving as Lord Mountwood’s footman, Francis Grant had never seen anything so horrific as the wreckage of the countess’s carriage.
It took him several long moments before he could peer over the edge on which his mistress’s carriage had become stuck and tumbled into the abyss below.
He was sure of what he would see down there, and he wished to delay the discovery as long as possible.
What was seen could not be unseen, and he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Especially knowing it was his fault for not having protected Lady Mountwood during her travels as was his duty.
When at last he made his way down the slippery slope that had claimed his mistress’s vehicle, his heart was beating impossibly fast. He got close enough to see the true extent of the damage, and he inhaled sharply, freezing once more.
Inside the shattered carriage, Genevieve lay terrifyingly still, her delicate frame half-buried beneath debris.
A dark pool of blood spread rapidly beneath her head from a deep gash at her temple, staining her golden hair and silk gown a deep crimson.
The vivid contrast upon the pale fabric was remarkably striking, and indeed, rather ominous.
Her left arm lay twisted at an unnatural angle, revealing that the bone had clearly been broken.
The only sound within the wreckage was the fading echo of the disaster, the slow, agonizing creak of the carriage settling into ruin.
There was no indication that the countess was breathing, and her motionlessness told Francis why.
She is dead, he thought, swaying on his feet as he stared at her stilled body.
Outside, the horses continued to whinny, their frantic distress ringing through the air.
No one answered. No one would. The world was frozen, and Francis was helpless to heed any call.
***
The library felt suffocating. Gabriel paced the length of the room, his movements restless, and his pulse hammering in his throat.
The crackling fire did nothing to ease the chill gripping his chest, nor did the muted glow of candlelight soften the gnawing unease that had settled deep within him.
He could not focus. Genevieve's fury, and immense pain lingered in his thoughts, as did her insistent determination when she stood before him, refusing to yield.
He could still hear the echo of her voice and the sting of her accusation.
“You do not trust me,” she had said. The words carved themselves into his mind, reverberating with sharp precision.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
He had let her go. He had not wanted to let her out of his sight.
But she had hurt him deeply with her words, and he did not want her to think him the heartless beast everyone else said he was.
And yet, as he glanced toward the tall windows, his gaze landing on the darkening sky beyond, a foreboding weight sat heavily his chest.
She will be quite well, he thought, trying to reassure himself. The escort is strong.
The reassurances sounded hollow. His eyes flicked toward the clock.
The hands moved agonizingly slow. Suddenly, something sharp and cold twisted in his stomach.
It was a sensation he had felt far too many times during the war.
Something was amiss. He knew it in the marrow of his bones.
He tried to rationalize away the premonition, but it clung to him with relentless force.
Then, the library door burst open. James strode inside, his composure dissolved and his face was stark. Gabriel stilled immediately.
James’s voice was tight and urgent when he spoke.
“Word has just reached me,” he said. “A former sergeant at the coaching inn sent word.”
Gabriel did not move.
“What word just reached you?” he asked, each word feeling more impossible to say.
James inhaled sharply, forcing himself to deliver the report.
“There has been a terrible carriage accident,” he said. “It is Genevieve.”
The information struck Gabriel like a physical blow, shattering his composure, vaporizing every justification. His vague premonition crystallized into ice-cold certainty.
I allowed her to go alone, he thought as the room spun. I knew better, and I still allowed her to leave.
Agonizing regret crashed over him, nearly drowning him—but desperation surged faster. His voice cracked as he roared orders.
“Get my fastest horse,” he said.
The pounding of hooves against the earth reverberated through the evening air, a relentless rhythm matching the frantic beat of Gabriel’s heart.
He urged Apollo forward, pushing the stallion to his limits, heedless of terrain, heedless of exhaustion.
The world blurred around him, but none of it mattered.
The only thing that existed was the stretch of road ahead and the maddening need to reach Genevieve.
The silence of the ride was deafening. He could hear nothing but his own ragged breathing, the furious hammering of his pulse, the blood roaring in his ears.
Even James and the half-dozen footmen riding alongside him were nothing but shadows in his periphery, their presence irrelevant to the singular purpose driving him forward.
She will be fine. She must be fine. She is strong, Sophia said as much herself.
The reassurances burned like vile poison.
He had told himself she would be safe, that her departure was necessary, that allowing her to go had been the right choice.
He had made his decisions with logic, with cold calculation, with the unwavering certainty that control was the only safeguard against disaster. But none of that mattered now.
“There was a terrible accident,” he kept hearing James say. The words had struck like a blade, gutting him with merciless precision, stripping him bare. His justifications evaporated; his certainty reduced to ash.
I allowed her to go alone, he thought again, feeling more anguished than the first time he had reminded himself.
The regret was suffocating. The thought of Genevieve crushed beneath the wreckage, bleeding, broken, terrified.
Or worse. His grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles turned white.
He could not lose her. The road twisted sharply ahead, cutting through dense woodland, narrowing as they crested the final rise.
The moment they reached the summit, the scene below unfolded in devastating clarity.
The carriage was shattered, lying in ruin against the embankment.
Splintered wood, twisted metal, and remnants of wreckage were strewn across the narrow passage.
One of the footmen stared dumbly down at the horror, not even noticing when his master arrived.
The sheer brutality of the devastation obliterated any lingering doubt. This was no accident.
Gabriel’s breath stopped. Cold fear, stark and absolute, clenched around his ribs.
He spurred Apollo recklessly down the slope, the stallion skidding against loose gravel, his hooves kicking up dirt as they barreled toward the wreckage.
He barely registered James shouting behind him or the dangerous angle of the descent.
Nothing mattered except reaching her. He reached the wreckage and flung himself from Apollo’s back before the horse fully halted, his boots hitting the ground in a near-stumble as he tore forward.
His hands found the shattered remains of the carriage, the sharp edges biting into his palms as he ripped through the debris with bare hands. He shoved splintered wood aside, barely aware of the way jagged fragments tore into his skin, drawing blood.
“Genevieve,” he said, yelling as though his loud voice would suddenly undo the rubble. His voice cracked, raw with terror, with desperation.
Another piece of wreckage was torn away, then another, until finally, through the twisted remnants of ruin, he saw her.
Everything inside him froze.
She lay amidst the wreckage, pinned beneath a heavy trunk, terrifyingly still. Blood matted her golden hair and streaked heavily across her pale face.
Her limbs were bent at unnatural angles. Her body was half-buried beneath debris. She did not move. She did not respond. The stillness was agonizing. Gabriel inhaled sharply, but the air refused to fill his lungs. This was not battle or war. This was worse. This was ruin.
This is what Charles had planned all along, he realized.
A terrible, ragged cry tore from Gabriel’s throat, raw, broken, and carrying more than desperation.
It carried love, terror, and guilt, more complete than words could ever express.
It ripped through the wreckage-strewn night, obliterating any remnant of control, shattering the protective distance he had so ruthlessly maintained.
None of it mattered now. Nothing but the sight of her, lying there still, silent, and terrifyingly fragile amid the destruction.
Please do not leave me, he begged silently.
The thought slammed through him with suffocating force, a plea, a desperate prayer, a command issued to a universe that cared nothing for his demands.
He lunged forward, trembling hands reaching, grasping, and tearing splintered wood away.
James was already beside him, working with sharp efficiency, his face grim, barking orders to the footmen who scrambled to assist. But Gabriel barely heard him.
The only thing that existed was Genevieve, pinned beneath the wreckage, her golden hair stained crimson.
His fingers were slick with both his blood and hers.
He ignored the sting, his body driven by something far deeper than pain.
They freed her slowly and carefully. Once she was clear of the debris, Gabriel did not wait.
He gathered her limp, broken form against his chest, instinct overriding caution, and his arms closing around her with fierce, infinite gentleness.
James said something about restraint and warned against further injury, but Gabriel did not listen.
I cannot lose you now, he thought.
“Genevieve,” he said. “Genevieve, please, wake up.”
His voice cracked as he whispered her name, again and again, choked with grief, with desperate hope.
She did not stir. Soon, the stillness became unbearable.
James was issuing clipped commands to the footmen, assessing injuries, demanding bandages, preparing what little aid could be mustered.
But Gabriel saw only Genevieve. She was so very still and silent, and lost, perhaps forever. All because of his own damnable fear.