Chapter 11
Sounds filtered through the darkness.
Bonnie had been floating for years, or possibly moments, the world a confusing mix of red and yellow and black. There’d been voices—yelling, pleading, praying—and the terrible scent of burning paper likely coated the inside of her nose and mouth forever.
And always—always—the pain.
Part of her was aware enough to recognize the feel of the medicine someone poured down her throat, and she welcomed the oblivion. The water helped as well, and sometimes there was soup, the squash soup she’d liked so much.
But that was likely a delusion, wasn’t it?
As was his voice, reading to her from her own book.
But now, slowly, she realized all she heard was…silence. It was dark, and the sharp pain in her head and leg had faded to a dull, constant throb. And everything was silent.
She opened her eyes.
At least, she thought she’d opened her eyes, but all she saw was darkness, still. She took a breath, pleased to discover it didn’t hurt as much as she’d feared. She’d been in the fire, hadn’t she? She remembered reaching the case with her manuscript, but then a beam had fallen, blocking her escape…
And the fire had reached her.
But now she could breathe without coughing, which seemed miraculous. She was lying on her back, and…
Gently, her right hand patted the area around her. She was in a bed, the blankets pulled up to her chest, but her arms were free.
And her head…
The pain wasn’t as sharp as it had been. Slowly, worried about jarring her body more than necessary, Bonnie lifted her hand to touch the bandage around her forehead. She barely managed to contain her hiss of pain, and she jerked her fingers away.
In doing so, she snagged the cloth which had been laid over her eyes, and grateful to learn the cause of the darkness, pulled it away.
The light was near blinding, but in a relieving sort of way. Squinting, so the tears which had formed wouldn’t overwhelm her all at once, Bonnie tried to learn where she was.
The ceiling above her was familiar.
Why?
It wasn’t the ceiling of the room at the Oliphant Inn where she’d grown up. It wasn’t the ceiling of her room at the boarding house, or the guest room at Blabloblal where she often stayed.
It is Oliphant Castle.
She was staring up at the ceiling of the room she’d stayed in previously at Oliphant Castle.
The memories came crashing back: the kiss she’d shared with Lyon in Inverness, the things he’d told her about losing his first wife, the way he’d reacted when she’d finally convinced him he was worthy of love.
You told him you loved him.
And then she’d left him, plunging into the fire to save her manuscript.
Blinking now, she was able to see more of the room. But why was it so silent now when she’d heard his voice for so long? He’d spoken to her and about her. Or had it just been a fever dream where she’d heard his voice reading her book out loud?
There was nothing for it; she was going to have to move her head, wasn’t she?
Gritting her teeth, Bonnie stiffened her neck, trying her best to lift her head up off the pillow as she turned it, but still the bandage dragged, and the pain was blinding.
Whimpering softly, she gave up on the movement, ending with her head cocked only slightly to one side.
It was enough.
From this angle, she could see everything she needed to see. There, on the bedside table, was a cup of water and a stack of books. All sorts of books—engineering, fairy tales, history—and papers she’d recognize anywhere.
Her manuscript.
Even better than knowing it had survived the fire was what sat beside the table. Or rather, who.
Lyon didn’t appear to be asleep, but it was hard to tell. He sat forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his forehead in his palms. His fingers dug into the short hair of his scalp, and she longed for the strength to reach for him and run her own fingers through those shorn locks.
He’d come to Inverness for her. He’d left his castle, cut his hair, and dressed like a gentleman, because he thought that’s what she wanted.
But she loved him for himself, and that included the barbaric beast he’d shown the world.
A flick of her eyes told her he was at least wearing his kilt again, thank goodness.
“Lyon,” she whispered. Or tried to at least. Her lips had parted, but no sound came out more than a breath. She dragged her tongue across her lower lip and tried again.
“Lyon?”
This time he jerked, almost comically. His left elbow fell off his knee, and he would’ve pitched forward had his head not snapped up.
“Bonnie!” His eyes were wide as he braced his palms on his knees and steadied himself. “Ye’re awake?” Then before she could answer, he shook his head wryly. “Of course ye’re awake; ye’re looking at me, are ye no’? How are ye feeling?”
Good heavens, it was wonderful to hear his voice.
“I…hurt.” Even speaking hurt her throat, but it was worth it.
His expression softened, and he scooted his chair even closer to the bed. She tried not to wince at the sound of the chair’s legs against the floor, but she must’ve failed.
“Oh, love,” he whispered, reaching for her hand, which was lying on top of the blankets. He squeezed it softly. “I ken ye hurt. I’m sorry.”
“I am…sorry too.” Her whisper was gravelly.
He was watching her with some concern. “Do ye remember what happened?”
Most of it. She started to nod, then remembered her injuries when the movement caused a shooting pain in her head. This time she did hiss and lifted a hand to her bandages.
“Nay,” he cautioned and caught her hand before she could touch anything.
Instead, he brought her fingers to his lips.
“Yer head was badly burned, love. When I found ye, yer bonnet and skirts were aflame. The doctor says the wounds to yer leg will heal, and ye’ll be able to walk without a limp in a few months, but the burns on yer head were more serious. ”
Her eyes had widened during his recitation, and she resisted the urge to pull her hand from his and try to probe at the injuries again. He must’ve noticed because he winced and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Bonnie. I shouldnae have told ye all that.”
“No,” she rasped. “I want…to know.”
Dear God, what if her brain had been injured or something?
He took a deep breath, his eyes studying her, before finally nodding. “Aye, if I were in yer place, I’d want to ken as well. Are ye seeing alright? Hearing alright?”
She began to nod but remembered in time to stop herself. Instead, she whispered, “Yes, I think so.”
“Good. The doctors think the burns were all superficial, but ye’ve lost most of yer hair, and what was left they had to cut away to treat ye.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, love. Yer bonnet, then yer hair, seemed to trap the flames close to yer skin.”
That explained the intense pain in her scalp at least. But…it didn’t sound insurmountable. She knew Lyon’s hair didn’t grow easily on the burn scars on his cheek. Would she never be able to grow hair on her head again?
She was surprised to find tears pricking at her eyelids.
Why did she care? She’d never been particularly attached to her hair—although it had been attached to her! Oh dear, the laudanum was making her daft.
“Och, dinnae cry, lass,” he whispered again, apparently seeing the tears.
She blinked and squeezed his hand. “The house?”
It seemed to take him a moment to understand what she was asking, but then his expression cleared.
“Och aye, the publishing house. It’s…” He shook his head and exhaled.
“I’m doing plenty of apologizing, but I’m sorry for that too, Bonnie.
The building is gone, the presses are just hunks of ruin now. Mr. McCaffey said they were insured?”
Her dream was…gone. Grimm and Sons publishing was gone.
“Yes,” she croaked. There’d been insurance, but that meant finding new presses to buy, and a new building, and the supplies.
Right now, the pounding in her head made it all seem so hopeless.
The tears were threatening again, so she tried to focus on the amazing things Lyon had said. “You…saved me?”
“Of course,” he said simply, shrugging. “I kenned I couldnae lose ye, Bonnie, so I went after ye. But I’m just sorry I wasnae faster. By the time I found ye, in the smoke and confusion and flames, ye were almost too far gone.”
Her eyes cut to the manuscript on the bedside table. “My book?”
He nodded, one corner of his lips curling upward. “Aye, ye found it, love. Ye’d found the case, but I guess the smoke overcame ye, because I found ye lying on the floor, wrapped around it.”
On fire.
She remembered the coughing, the smoke burning her eyes and her lungs, knowing she’d never be able to take in a full breath again.
She remembered the triumph of finally grasping the case with her life’s work in it, but even as she did so, cursing herself for her stupidity at giving up her new dream.
Her dream of a life with Lyon.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, trying to memorize the feel of his hand in hers.
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat, love,” he whispered, lifting her fingers again to brush his lips across them.
“No, I am…” God help her, her voice was so weak. “Sorry I tried to leave you.”
The way his lips curled sadly, wryly, told her he remembered what she’d said to him about Rose. Lyon lifted one hand and gently brushed his fingertips across her cheek, resting them on her jaw.
“Ye tried to leave me, Bonnie, but I went after ye. And if ye try to leave me again, I’ll respect yer decision, but ye damn well ought to ken I’ll go after ye again and again.”
Oh.
“Because we belong together?” she rasped, her throat aching now from the effort of speaking.
His smile softened. “Because we belong together. Do ye want some water?”
Her relief must’ve shown on her face because he huffed slightly and reached for her.
“Slowly, lass. I’m going to sit ye up, alright?”
It was agony to move her head, but he was there to support her. She decided it was worth it when he moved to sit on the bed beside her, his arm around her and supporting the back of her heavily bandaged head.