Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Benedict jumped before anyone could stop him.
“Sophia!” Her name tore out of him.
He hit the water hard. Cold closed around his body with enough force to steal his breath, but Benedict barely felt it. The current seized his coat immediately, dragging at the heavy wool, pulling him sideways. He fought against it.
“Sophia!”
Nothing was heard, only dark water, foam and broken branches twisting past. For one horrifying second, Benedict saw no sign of her at all. The world narrowed into something primitive and terrible.
Find her.
Nothing else existed, not the servants shouting from the bank, not Marjorie screaming, not the cold.
Sophia.
Then pale fabric flashed beneath the surface several yards downstream. Benedict lunged toward it. His boots found no ground. The current carried him sideways, but he threw himself forward, caught a handful of soaked cloth, lost it, then caught her arm.
Sophia broke the surface with a choking gasp. Benedict dragged her against him.
“I have you.”
He did not know whether she heard. Her body was frighteningly cold beneath his arms, her hair plastered across her face, her gown pulling at them both like an anchor.
“I have you,” he said again.
Perhaps he was speaking to himself.
Sophia coughed violently. Her fingers clutched at his coat. That small movement nearly destroyed him.
She was alive.
Benedict wrapped one arm around her waist and fought toward shore. The stream seemed determined to keep them. Every step slipped beneath him. Water struck his hips and chest, dragged at Sophia’s skirts, and tried to wrench her from his grasp. He tightened his arm.
No.
He had spent days pushing her away. He would not let the river do it for him.
A servant waded toward them with a rope secured around his waist. “Your Grace!”
Benedict reached for him. Hands caught his arm. Another servant came from behind. Together they dragged Benedict and Sophia through the final yards until his knees struck mud. He stumbled. Someone reached for Sophia. Benedict turned his body away.
“I have her.”
“Your Grace, let me—”
“I said I have her.”
The servant stopped. Benedict carried Sophia up the bank. Only when his boots found solid ground did he see Marjorie. She stood wrapped in two blankets beside the carriage, soaked hair clinging to her face. She was sobbing.
“Uncle Benedict.”
Benedict stopped. The sight of her struck him almost as hard as Sophia disappearing beneath the water.
“Marjorie.”
She ran toward him.
One of the footmen caught her gently before she could collide with Sophia in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” Marjorie cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head wildly.
“Marjorie, look at me.”
She tried. Her face crumpled.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Benedict drew a breath that shook despite every effort to steady it.
“Good.”
“I only wanted to find Sophia.”
“I know.”
“I thought if I brought her back—”
“I know.”
His voice softened. Marjorie stared at him through tears.
“Everything will be all right,” he told her tenderly.
“But Sophia—”
“Everything will be all right.”
He said it with the authority of a duke issuing an order, as though the world might obey if his voice were firm enough. Marjorie nodded because she believed him.
One of the servants tucked the blankets more securely around her shoulders.
“Take her back to the house,” Benedict ordered. “Get her warm. Send for the physician immediately.”
Marjorie shook her head. “I want Sophia.”
“So do I.”
The words escaped before he could stop them. Marjorie went still. Benedict did not correct himself.
“Go,” he said more gently. “I shall bring her home.”
The girl nodded. A servant lifted her into his arms. Marjorie looked over his shoulder as she was carried toward the carriage.
“I’m sorry!”
Benedict watched her go. Then Sophia moved faintly against his chest. His attention returned to her at once. A servant placed a blanket around her shoulders and attempted to tuck another around Benedict. He barely noticed.
“Sophia.”
Her eyes opened. Benedict had never seen anything more beautiful.
“I’m all right,” she whispered.
He stared at her. Water ran from her hair over the blanket. Her lips were almost colorless, and she was trembling so violently he could feel it through his coat.
“You are not all right.”
“I am.”
“You were beneath the water.”
“Only for a moment.”
Only.
Benedict began walking.
“Benedict.”
He did not answer. The carriage stood nearby, but Rivermere was visible beyond the trees, its lamps glowing in the darkness. He could walk faster than the carriage could be turned around on the narrow track. So he walked.
Sophia shifted in his arms. “You cannot carry me all the way.”
He kept moving.
“Benedict.”
Her head rested against his shoulder. He could feel her breath near his throat. Each breath became something he counted without meaning to.
One.
Two.
Three.
Alive.
“I truly am all right.”
His jaw tightened. He did not trust himself to answer.
Because if he spoke, he might say something he could never take back.
He might tell her what it had done to him when she vanished.
He might tell her that for one terrible second he had understood exactly what a world without Sophia would feel like.
And he had discovered that every defense he had built against such pain was useless.
He thought distance would protect him. But distance had not protected him when she disappeared beneath that water. Rules had not protected him. The arrangement had not protected him. Nothing had.
He loved her. The knowledge was there now, terrible and complete.
Sophia shivered. Benedict pulled the blanket tighter around her.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He looked down sharply. “For what?”
“For frightening you.”
His steps faltered, then he continued.
“You need not apologize.”
Her eyes opened slightly wider.
“You went into that water after Marjorie.”
“She was afraid.”
“You could have died.”
“So could she.”
Benedict held her closer. He wanted to be angry. Anger would be easier. He wanted to lecture her about risk and foolishness and the impossibility of protecting someone who seemed determined to walk directly into danger.
But every argument collapsed beneath one memory, of the water closing over her head. He had seen death before. He knew the abrupt obscenity of absence. A person was present one moment, and gone the next.
Loss never asked permission. And Benedict had spent years convincing himself that if he cared carefully enough, if he loved from far enough away, he might somehow escape its reach.
Sophia had proved the lie of it without even trying. Because when she’d disappeared beneath that stream, Benedict had not thought: This was only an arrangement. He had thought: Not her. Anything but her.
The house grew nearer. Servants came running from the terrace carrying lanterns. Their voices reached him indistinctly.
“Your Grace!”
“Bring towels!”
“The physician has been sent for!”
Benedict kept walking. Sophia had gone very quiet. At first, he was grateful for it. She had stopped insisting she was unharmed. Then something about the silence changed. Benedict took several more steps.
“Sophia?”
No answer. His heart stopped. He looked down. Her head had fallen heavily against his arm, and her eyes were closed.
“Sophia.” No reply. Benedict stopped so abruptly that the servant behind him nearly collided with him.
“Sophia.” He shifted her higher against his chest. Her face was terribly pale. “Sophia, open your eyes.”
She did not. Panic struck with brutal force.
“Your Grace?”
“She has fainted.”
Someone reached toward her. Benedict tightened his hold instinctively.
“No.”
“Your Grace, we can carry—”
“No.”
He started forward again, faster. The terrace steps were only yards away. She remained limp against him. Benedict climbed the steps two at a time. His wet boots struck stone. Water ran from both of them, leaving dark trails behind.
Servants opened the doors. Heat spilled from the house.
Benedict barely noticed. He held Sophia so tightly that somewhere in the distant, rational part of his mind he knew he ought to loosen his arms. He could not. He had spent days forcing himself not to reach for her. Now every instinct in his body rebelled against ever letting her go again.
“Fetch the physician,” he ordered.
“He is already coming, Your Grace.”
“Then send someone to meet him.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Benedict carried Sophia through the hall. Her wet hair lay against his arm. Her face rested against his chest. Benedict tightened his hold around her and hurried toward the stairs, terrified by the limp weight of her body and by one simple truth he could no longer deny.
He had already lost too many people he loved. He could not lose her, too.