CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE #2
No, he thought. No, I cannot lose her. I will not. For he now realized: the thing he had been calling a connection was a budding love, and he had let his fear of his curse come between them.
He finally wrenched away the last piece of the carriage, exposing the bloodied, bruised form of his wife.
A torn cry came from him as he grabbed for her, carefully pulling her free of the worst of the wreckage she was trapped in.
Her dress, her beautiful dress, was covered in blood.
A wound on her head pooled with it, and her face was white, so, so white.
“Amelia,” he sobbed, brushing back her loosened hair as he cradled her in his arms. “My Amelia, hold on. Hold on for me, please, I beg of you. Do not leave me. Do not leave me—not when I shall never have the chance to tell you every damned word I have kept locked up inside of me. Just hold on. Please, my duchess. Forgive me, Amelia. Forgive me, and when you open your eyes, I swear I shall make you the happiest wife alive. Just hold on to see that, please.”
“Graham.” That was Owen’s voice, and Graham looked up at his friend, staggering beneath the weight of his anguish. “Graham, you must let the physicians take her back to Blackthorn.”
“I will not let go of—”
“You must.” Owen’s voice was firm, as two physicians stepped forward, prepared to take Amelia. For a moment, he gathered her to his chest, his eyes wet from rain or tears, he no longer knew.
“We shall take care of her, Your Grace,” one physician told him, nodding solemnly. “Let us assess Her Grace.”
And, reluctantly, Graham gave her up.
***
Servants scurried through Blackthorn House, filing in and out of Amelia’s chamber.
Graham himself paced the corridors, a wild, caged beast forced to remain still and be patient.
Every time somebody approached him, his head snapped up, and he only growled when they passed him with wide, scared eyes as they rushed to get more towels, more hot water, or to empty bloodied bowls.
His heart pounded, and there was a roaring in his head that he could not stop hearing.
It had been hours yet he was still soaked through.
His body had long shut down from the cold but he did not care.
He would pace with stiff muscles if it meant he would soon make it back to his wife’s bedside.
He would run through the rain a thousand times if it meant she awoke.
He could not stop seeing her pale, broken body in the wreckage of the carriage, could not stop thinking of why she had been alone in the first place.
Finally, when the clock in the hallway depicted near three in the morning, Mr. Thornton, the Blackthorns’ personal physician, emerged from Amelia’s room.
Graham was on him in an instant.
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“Your Grace.” The blood on the physician's clothes made his stomach lurch.
“Your wife is in a bad way. She is suffering from a broken arm, several cracked ribs, and a severe blow to the head that has kept her unconscious, even now. It has been a small blessing, for it has allowed me to treat her more minor injuries. Your Grace, the carriage could have killed her. She is very lucky to be breathing. I am going to do everything I can. She has lost a lot of blood, and she is not out of the dark yet, but I shall ensure with everything in my ability that she will recover. Go to her, Your Grace. I have done what I can for now.”
Graham could not bear to hear another word. Each word of his wife’s diagnosis had pierced him right through, and he shuddered as, without another word, he shoved into his wife’s room.
“Everyone out!” he roared, sending servants scattering.
They scurried out without a word, leaving him there standing, breathing heavily, in the center of her room.
The room smelt coppery, like blood, and it was almost too much to bear.
Five years prior, he had endured the scent of his friend’s blood pouring onto his hands, dying out, bleeding out, and he had not been able to save Henry.
What if Amelia could not be saved?
What if he would be left at her bedside, praying and crying out for her?
The thought drove him to fall to his knees at her beside. Her hand was pale and slender, and he picked it up, thumbing over her wedding band. Tears already streaming down his face, he pulled her hand to kiss, right over that band.
“Amelia,” he whispered, the darkness in her room pressing on him. “Amelia, there has always been a beast within me, and it always roars, as if it wishes to feed off my fear and isolation. But now all it is doing is keening in pain. I have never known anything like it.”
In the still room, Amelia’s breathing was shallow yet it was there.
“I kneel before you, my duchess, ashamed and anguished.
I have been a beast but I want to love you—I do love you, and I have done a wretched job of showing you.
I have been afraid for too long, Amelia.
I would never ever wish for a woman that was not you.
My fear tells me to be alone, that I am unworthy of patience or love, yet there you were, offering those two very things that terrify me, and I have never known what to do with it.
I think I grasped at reasons to question you so I did not feel so terrible all the time, but I have always known your heart, your intentions.
“Amelia, please just open your eyes. You are my love—and you must wake up so I can finally tell you. I am learning how to lower my defenses. It has taken me too long, and I have already caused so much pain, but let me reconcile that, my duchess. Part of me is raging that you would not have been hurt had it not been for my careless words. That part proves my curse is right; the other part of me wishes to banish my curse with you, for if I had only been kinder, better, more worthy of you then you would not have ever gotten into that carriage.”
He kissed her knuckles again. “I am sorry for pushing you away. Just open your eyes, dearest Amelia, I shall be the husband you deserve, I swear it to you. Give me the chance I do not deserve and I shall spend my eternity showing you that I will deserve it.”
In the darkness of her chambers, Graham did not dare move an inch. He stayed there on his knees, begging her over and over, kissing her as though that would bring her back to him.