Chapter 30
Arabella woke to a sound she had not heard since childhood.
Not a gasp. Not a startled breath.
A scream.
Her eyes snapped open into darkness lit only by the faint glow of coals in the hearth. For a moment her mind did not understand where she was, only that Eleanor was beside her, and Eleanor did not scream.
Eleanor was upright in the bed, half tangled in the sheets, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was not looking at Arabella. She was looking toward the door.
A figure stood there.
The shape was wrong for a servant. Too tall, too broad. A hood or mask hid the face, turning the person into something faceless and intent.
Arabella’s heart slammed into her ribs.
“Eleanor?” she whispered.
Eleanor did not answer. She shoved the coverlet aside, already moving.
The figure surged forward.
Arabella’s body reacted before her mind caught up. She scrambled off the bed, feet hitting the floor, cold biting through her stockings.
“Who are you?” Eleanor demanded, her voice sharp with fear and fury.
The intruder did not speak.
He closed the distance fast, arms outstretched.
Eleanor grabbed the heavy candlestick from the bedside table and swung.
Metal struck something solid with a dull crack. The man grunted, staggered half a step, then kept coming.
Arabella’s breath caught. He should have fallen. He did not.
“Eleanor, move!” Arabella cried.
Eleanor did not move back. She moved forward, as if defiance were her only weapon.
Arabella’s eyes darted frantically around the room. There was no bell pull within reach. No poker near the hearth. Only a chair by the window and a small table with a half-burned candle.
She seized the chair.
It was heavier than she expected. Her arms trembled as she lifted it.
The intruder grabbed Eleanor’s wrist, wrenching the candlestick away. Eleanor made a harsh sound, pain flashing across her face, but she did not cry out. Instead she drove her knee upward.
The man cursed, low and furious.
He spoke then. One word. Ugly, rough.
Arabella’s stomach turned.
“Let her go!” Arabella shouted.
The intruder turned his head slightly, as if finally noticing her.
His attention shifted, and Arabella understood with sudden clarity that he had not expected two women.
Good, she thought wildly. Let him be surprised.
She hurled the chair.
It struck his shoulder and chest and knocked him backward into the edge of the dresser. The impact rattled porcelain. Something shattered on the floor.
Eleanor ripped her arm free and stumbled back, breathing hard.
Arabella grabbed her sister’s hand. “Run!”
Eleanor shook her head violently. “No.”
Arabella stared at her. “Eleanor, he is going to kill us!”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed. “Then we do not make it easy.”
The intruder lunged again.
Arabella dragged Eleanor sideways just as his hand slashed through the space where her throat had been.
The air felt sharp. Too close.
“Help!” Arabella screamed toward the corridor. “Help, someone help us!”
No one answered.
Eleanor’s breathing was ragged. “Arabella, the bell. Find the bell.”
“There is no bell,” Arabella snapped.
The man advanced, slower now, calculating. His head tilted as if he were assessing them. Measuring their fear.
Arabella’s hands shook. She forced herself to steady them.
“Who sent you?” Eleanor demanded.
Still no answer.
Arabella’s voice rose, frantic and furious. “Are you deaf? Who are you? What do you want?”
The man moved again, quick as a striking snake.
Eleanor grabbed the small table and shoved it into his path. It tipped, clattered, slowed him for a heartbeat.
It was not enough.
He slammed his forearm into Eleanor’s shoulder, hard enough to drive her backward. Eleanor hit the wall with a breathless sound.
Arabella rushed forward.
She did not think. She did not plan. She only moved.
She seized the nearest object, a porcelain pitcher on the washstand, and swung it.
It cracked against the side of the man’s head.
He snarled.
The pitcher slipped from Arabella’s hands and broke on the floor, water spilling across the boards.
Eleanor pushed off the wall, eyes wild. “Arabella, behind you!”
Arabella turned too late.
The intruder’s hand closed around her wrist like iron. He yanked her forward, twisting her arm until pain shot up to her elbow.
Arabella gasped.
“Let go,” she choked out.
The man’s other hand grabbed a fistful of her night rail and hauled her closer as if she weighed nothing.
Eleanor lunged at him again with the candlestick she had somehow retrieved. She struck his forearm.
He grunted, but he did not release Arabella.
Arabella’s fear flared into something hotter. Anger. The old, familiar rage at being powerless in a house ruled by stronger voices.
She drove her heel down on his foot.
He cursed again, sharp this time, and his grip loosened just enough.
Arabella twisted free, stumbling back. Her wrist burned.
Eleanor moved between them, shoulders squared.
“You will not touch her,” Eleanor said, voice shaking but fierce.
The intruder hesitated.
Arabella used the moment to shout again, louder, desperate enough to tear her throat raw.
“Pritchard!” she screamed. “Mrs. Hargreaves! Anyone? Help!”
Footsteps. Faint. Distant.
Or her imagination.
The intruder seemed to hear them too, because his posture changed. Impatience. A decision made.
He surged forward, aiming for Eleanor.
Arabella grabbed his coat from behind, yanking with all her strength. “No!”
The fabric tore slightly. The man spun.
His elbow drove into Arabella’s chest, knocking the air from her lungs. She staggered.
Eleanor struck him again. The candlestick connected with his shoulder.
The intruder roared and shoved Eleanor hard. She fell to one knee, catching herself on the floor.
Arabella lunged for him again, reaching for anything, the broken edge of the pitcher, the fallen chair, anything sharp or heavy.
She got one hand on the candlestick.
The intruder’s fist met her temple.
White exploded behind Arabella’s eyes.
For a moment there was no room, no firelight, no sound. Only a ringing void.
She fell.
The floor rose too fast, cold and unforgiving against her cheek. She tasted blood, metallic and warm, and tried to blink but her eyelids felt too heavy.
Through the blur, she saw Eleanor move.
Eleanor’s voice cut through the ringing, sharp with terror. “Arabella!”
Arabella tried to answer. Her tongue would not cooperate.
The masked man loomed over them both, breathing hard, and Arabella understood with distant, horrified clarity that Eleanor was still between him and her, even now.
Eleanor’s scream had woken Arabella.
Arabella’s fall might leave Eleanor alone.
“No,” Arabella tried to say.
But the word did not come.
The last thing she saw clearly was Eleanor’s face, pale with fury and fear, and the intruder’s shadow lifting as he moved toward her again.
Eleanor acted on instinct. Every move. Her body simply refused to stop fighting back.
The masked man’s hands were on her again, rough and relentless, driving her backward until her shoulders struck the wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. She tried to scream, but the sound came out broken.
“Help, any –” Eleanor shouted, though her voice wavered.
The man’s forearm pressed across her throat, hard and unyielding. The room narrowed to pain and pressure and the terrible certainty that he was stronger than she was.
Eleanor clawed at his sleeve, nails scraping fabric and skin. She kicked blindly, her heel striking something solid, but it did nothing to slow him.
Her vision began to blur at the edges.
“No,” she gasped. “No, please!”
Her mind fractured into sharp, useless thoughts. Arabella on the floor. Arabella not moving. The sound of her sister’s body hitting the boards replayed again and again.
“James – Arabella –,” Eleanor whispered with what little voice and breath she had left.
The man leaned closer, his weight crushing, his breath hot and sour against her face. Her lungs burned. Her hands grew weak.
She thought, absurdly, of the morning light in the breakfast room. Of James’s hand lingering over hers. Of all the things left unsaid.
Then the door burst open.
A shout tore through the room, raw and furious.
“Get away from her!”
The weight vanished.
Eleanor slid down the wall, coughing violently, her hands flying to her throat as she dragged in air. The room spun. Shapes blurred.
She saw James.
He crossed the room in a heartbeat, tackling the intruder with brutal force. They slammed into the dresser, wood splintering as the impact shook the walls.
Eleanor watched as if from underwater.
James’s face was contorted with something feral. He struck the man once, twice, his fists landing hard against the shadowed mask. The intruder staggered but did not fall.
“Stay down,” James snarled.
The man bucked violently, throwing James off balance. They grappled, boots scraping across the floor, breath and curses colliding.
Eleanor forced herself upright.
“Arabella,” she said hoarsely.
Her sister lay crumpled on the floor, hair spilled across the boards, one arm bent at an unnatural angle. Eleanor’s heart seized.
She crawled to her, ignoring the chaos behind her, her hands shaking as she touched Arabella’s cheek.
“Arabella,” Eleanor said, louder now. “Arabella, wake up.”
No response.
Eleanor pressed her fingers to Arabella’s throat, praying she would find a pulse. Her hands were clumsy, slick with sweat.
“There,” Eleanor whispered, relief crashing through her so sharply it made her dizzy. “She is breathing.”
A violent thud sounded behind her.
Eleanor looked up just in time to see the masked man shove James backward and dart toward the door. James lunged, fingers brushing the man’s coat, but he slipped free and fled from the room, shoving an out of breath Roderick and Mr. Pritchard to the ground as he disappeared down the corridor.
“No!” James shouted.
Footsteps thundered away.
James did not pursue him, but Roderick took flight.
Mr. Pritchard yelled something about contacting the constables, and he too disappeared down the corridor.
James turned back to Eleanor.
She was on her knees, cradling Arabella’s head against her chest, her own breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hands trembled as she smoothed Arabella’s hair back from her face.
“She is breathing,” Eleanor said again, as if saying it might keep it true. “She is breathing.”
James dropped to the floor beside them. “Arabella?”
He checked her quickly, his movements practiced and precise. “She is alive.”
Eleanor’s shoulders sagged. “He hit her. He hit her so hard.”
James’s jaw clenched. “I know.”
Eleanor looked at him, really looked at him, and the sight of him there, alive and solid and real, shattered whatever restraint she had left.
“He was here,” she said, her voice breaking. “He was going to kill us.”
James pulled her into him, careful not to disturb Arabella as he wrapped one arm around Eleanor’s shoulders.
“I am here now,” he said firmly. “You are safe.”
Eleanor shook her head, sobbing. “I thought… I thought we were going to die.”
James tightened his hold. “Not under my roof.”
She clutched at his coat, fingers digging in as if he might disappear again if she loosened her grip. Her body began to shake, the delayed terror crashing through her all at once.
“I screamed for you, for anyone,” Eleanor said, words tumbling out between sobs. “Arabella woke up. She fought him. She fought so hard.”
James’s voice softened. “I know, my dear.”
“I could not protect her,” Eleanor cried. “I tried.”
James pressed his forehead to hers. “You did protect her. You both did so well.”
Servants’ voices echoed faintly in the corridor now. Footsteps approached, hurried and frightened.
James did not let go of Eleanor.
“Everything is going to be all right,” he said again, steady and absolute. “I promise you.”
Eleanor laughed weakly through her tears. “You promised that before.”
“I know,” James replied. “And I will not break it again.”
Mrs. Hargreaves burst into the room, pale and horrified. “Your Grace. Oh my God.”
“Fetch the physician,” James said without looking up. “Now!”
“Yes,” she said, already retreating.
Mr. Pritchard appeared again moments later, his face ashen. “The constables are en route. What happened, Your Grace?”
“We will discuss it later,” James said. “Secure the house.”
Eleanor barely registered them. Her world had narrowed to James’s arms and Arabella’s unsteady breathing.
James shifted carefully, lifting Arabella with practiced ease. “We need to move her to the bed.”
Eleanor nodded numbly and helped where she could, her hands reluctant to let go.
Once Arabella was settled, James turned back to Eleanor.
She stood there, suddenly unmoored, her knees threatening to give way now that she no longer had her sister to anchor her.
James caught her before she fell.
She pressed her face into his chest and cried, the sound raw and unrestrained. All the fear she had swallowed over days and weeks poured out of her at once.
“I thought you were gone,” she sobbed. “I thought you would never come back.”
James held her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head. “I am here.”
She drew back just enough to look at him. His knuckles were scraped. His jaw already darkening with bruises. His eyes were fierce with something she had never seen there before.
“You saved me,” Eleanor whispered. “You saved us.”
James’s voice was low and certain. “No one will ever harm you again.”
Her breath hitched. “You cannot promise that.”
“I can,” he said. “And I will keep it.”
Eleanor’s strength finally failed her. She sagged against him, exhaustion pulling her down now that the danger had passed.
James lifted her without hesitation, carrying her to the settee near the hearth. He sat and pulled her onto his lap, holding her as if she were something fragile and irreplaceable.
She clung to him, her tears soaking into his shirt, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders.
“I was so afraid,” she murmured.
“I know,” James said quietly. “I was too.”
She stiffened slightly. “You were?”
James pressed a kiss into her hair. “I thought I was too late.”
Eleanor closed her eyes, her breathing slowly beginning to steady.
“I am here,” he repeated. “I will not leave you again.”
For the first time since the scream tore from her throat, Eleanor believed him.
And as she lay in his arms, listening to Arabella’s breathing and the steady beat of James’s heart beneath her ear, she knew that whatever came next would not be faced alone.