Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Benedict recalled little of the three days that followed his whipping, too nauseated and disoriented to discern reality from fiction.
In his hazy, half-asleep state, he heard Eliza. She whispered soft words of love and concern as she tenderly traced the lashes across his spine. At other moments, she spoke with such disgust and venom, laying her ruination and his betrayal at his feet.
Sometimes it was his father who visited him in those shaky, too-hot hours. He’d had nothing but vitriol for Benedict. When Bella appeared, she offered him nothing but reminders of his hateful duty.
When he woke on the third day, back still throbbing, the elder Weston was gently applying honey to his wounds. The sweet caramel scent drew him immediately back to London, to his shabby bedroom, to Eliza’s lips on his.
“Now I’m in agony and sticky,” Benedict griped, pushing away the memory, as the cloying scent rapidly mixed with the copper tang of his own dried blood to form a revolting bouquet.
“We barely staved off infection. You’ll be sticky and grateful for it.”
“Perhaps in a few days. Once I’ve stopped bleeding.”
“Lad…” Weston murmured, his gaze catching Benedict’s with a seriousness he’d rarely experienced from the man. “He— I’ve never seen the likes of this. You’re a right mess, you are.”
“I asked for it,” Benedict muttered, hissing when he attempted to shrug a shoulder.
“What sort of fool notion is that?”
“I wouldn’t fetch the whip when he asked for it. I should have known he wouldn’t let that lie.”
“That’s hardly the same as asking.”
“It’s… It’s who he is. I challenged him. He had to make the point.”
“Like hell he did. But I suppose you’re right. It was inevitable.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a fool, God’s truth. Figured he’d beat you half to hell before you’d leave him. Or Miss Bella. Couldn’t leave either of you.”
“So you stayed to…”
“Fix you right up. I reckon you can leave now—leave him to rot. Once you’re healed up, that is.”
Benedict wasn’t entirely certain this wasn’t another hallucination. But he was so touched by the sentiment, he could hardly bring himself to care. “Weston, I don’t—”
“Not for you to fret over, lad. Just try not to die. Now, can you manage a drink of broth?”
Benedict nodded, and Weston rose and turned toward the door.
Benedict took a moment in his absence to examine his surroundings.
He vaguely recalled this to be West’s room during their youth.
A little table stood beside the bed and a chair by the fire, but few other decorations appeared in the space, bathed in the afternoon light from the window.
Someone, presumably Alice, had set a pile of clothing that Benedict recognized as his own on the chair.
Weston returned, tempting him away from the prospect of clean clothing with a bowl of broth. The man handed it off carefully before leaving Benedict to his supper.
Two days more saw Benedict recovered enough to be irritable.
His back throbbed when he moved from the now scabbed-over lashes, and he ached from laying on his belly too long.
The edges of the wounds had begun to itch something terrible.
He’d slept poorly—more wretched nightmares of his father.
And he hungered for something other than broth.
A perfunctory knock sounded on his doorframe. Weston loomed in the doorway. “Effie mended this,” he said, then set Benedict’s pot on the bedside table with a thunk. “A small miracle—your little flower is on the mend too.”
Benedict groaned as he pressed up onto his elbows to see his perfect violet, a little banged up and missing a petal or two, but well. Effie must have pieced the broken pot together and replanted it.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“’Course, lad. Letter’s arrived for you too. It’s Miss Bella’s hand, Alice says.” The older man set the folded parchment between Benedict and the edge of the bed.
Benedict pushed aside his instinctive annoyance at the sight of his sister’s graceful looping scroll. He shifted with a wince before unfolding the pages.
Benedict,
Father has written. He intends to send men to see out his plan. He indicated they would use “any means necessary.”
I hope you will forgive me for informing him of your failure. I was a fool. I do not know why I thought to hope he would not stoop to such measures again. No matter what their father has done to ours, the girls do not deserve such a fate.
Please, brother, I cannot have this on my soul. I could bear anything but this.
Bella
Benedict’s heart stopped. He re-read the words once, twice, a third time before comprehension penetrated the denial of his mind.
Any means necessary.
And Eliza. His father was going to— No!
Benedict would not, could not allow it. He stumbled from the bed.
“Weston!”
He yanked a nearby shirt over his head, not caring who it belonged to or that it clung to the sticky film on his back..
Weston lurched into the room, tripping over the threshold.
“What the devil—”
“I need the fastest horse we have. Saddled. Have Effie pack a bag. I’m for London.”
“What? Lad. You can’t—”
“He’s planning to have her assaulted.”
“Who? Miss Bell—”
“Eliza—my violet,” he clarified as he shucked his breeches, not caring that the other man was in the room. He yanked up a clean pair before reaching for nearby boots.
“Lad, I—”
“Please, Weston. I need to— I cannot live with myself if she’s hurt.”
“Alright, lad. I’ll saddle the mount. Eat something substantial. Effie will ready the bag. You’ll be off in an hour. I’ll ride ahead and hire the chaise.”
“But—”
“No, you’ll not ride the entire way. You’ll get yourself killed, and for what? A chaise is fastest—even when you’re fit.”
Benedict froze as he laced his boot, feeling the shame well inside him. “I-I’ve not the funds.”
“We do, lad.”
“You do?”
“Aye, Miles treats us proper.”
“I ought to decline. But I cannot bring myself to. I’ll see to it that you’re paid.” He turned back to his other boot and pulled it on.
“Keep your head. That’s payment enough,” the man said, then strode from the room. Benedict donned his coat, listening to the murmurs beyond.
When he stepped into the kitchen, a loaf of bread and bowl of hearty stew awaited him. And nearly forty pounds. Neither Weston nor his wife was present, but Benedict tucked away the coins and bills, ignoring the mortification that came from taking coin from servants in his employ.
Spoonful after spoonful, Benedict consumed the stew without tasting it. When the bowl was empty, he ripped a hunk of the bread off and chewed quickly.
Effie entered the room, a satchel full nearly to bursting in her hand.
“I’ve packed the honey. And a salve too.
It has a bit of laudanum, so use it sparingly,” she explained without a greeting.
“A few bites of bread and cheese as well. And some dried meat. I’m afraid I have nothing else here that will do.
Alice gave me a few shirts and another pair of trousers. ”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Luke didn’t say— Is Miss Bella safe?” she asked, concern settling over her brow.
“I-I don’t think she’s in danger. Just my—just Eliza.”
She nodded, a hint of relief loosening her shoulders. “Your violet, I’ll keep it safe for you.”
Benedict felt a bit of laughter bubble up in his chest, but he tamped it down. How he wished so desperately that the little flower was the greatest of his concerns in that moment.
“Thank you.”
“The horse is saddled. Luke has gone on ahead. He’ll bring Sable back home.”
Benedict nodded. He took the bag from her grasp and strode toward the door.
“Ben? Be careful?”
He turned back to her. A quiet nod was all he managed.
Outside, he found Sable tied to a fence post. Though their barn was meager, the Arabian cross was Blackwood’s fastest stallion. Benedict fastened the bag to his saddle before mounting the horse.
Effie watched him from the door, her lips pressed tightly together. He gave her one last nod before nudging the horse forward.
Benedict forced himself to use restraint. If he pushed Sable to a gallop too soon, the horse would exhaust long before he reached the coaching inn. They settled into a fast trot as Benedict fought every instinct to push the horse.
For miles, over downed tree limbs and mossy rocks, Benedict’s urgency consumed all else. The agony overtaking his back was a distant, unreachable secondary problem.
He could not hear the pounding of the horse’s feet against the ground over the blood rushing through his ears. The only thought in his head—by any means necessary. Over and over. The refrain refused to abate.
Without noticing, he’d pushed Sable into a canter. When he noticed, he forced himself to slow down.
He was grateful for the familiar terrain and navigated the horse over the rolling hills with an ease that came only from years of exploring the area. At last, they were less than a mile from the posting inn, and Benedict gave himself permission to push Sable.
Beneath them, the grass blurred into a great green carpet as they raced over the hill. Within minutes, Benedict was tugging on Sable’s reins at the inn.
He slid off and tossed the reins to the waiting Weston.
“I’ve sent a lad ahead to the next inn. They’ll be waiting for you,” Weston told him.
Benedict caught the man’s hand in his own and shook it in gratitude. Weston pulled him in to clap an arm around Benedict’s neck—careful to avoid his wounds. “Be safe, lad.”
“I… Thank you. Truly.”
A stable boy untethered his satchel and shoved it inside the waiting carriage. Benedict followed, and before he found his seat, the coach was off.
In moments he was back on the road, racing across the countryside.
Hold on Eliza. Just hold on.