NINE
Alistair had no memory of how he came to be standing at the edge of the excavation site. The words Mrs. Newton and accident had sent him racing from the castle without a hat or coat.
What had occurred?
He needed to see Chris. He needed to understand what had happened.
Pushing through the gathered workers, he finally comprehended the situation.
Chris lay at the bottom of the excavation trench, a pile of stones and mud atop her legs. A trickle of blood ran from her temple onto her cheek, a stark slash of crimson against the dirt and pallor of her skin.
Odd, he would ponder later, how a single moment could clarify one’s heart.
Chris was hurt. His Chris.
And it was unbearable.
Rushing down the steps his workers had cut to access the trench, he yelled at McIntosh to summon the doctor before joining the other workers in shifting the rubble off Chris.
“We broke through tae the entrance tunnel proper,” one of the men said to him as they worked. He pointed to the rectangular opening behind where they stood.
It was indeed an entrance tunnel, perhaps four feet high and scarcely more than two feet wide, all capped by enormous cut stones bearing the weight of the mounded earth above it.
“Mrs. Newton stepped forward tae inspect the tunnel, but we hadnae stabilized the surrounding walls yet. They broke loose,” the worker continued, indicating stones and earth near the entrance. “We couldnae do anything tae stop it afore Mrs. Newton were buried.”
Chris whimpered softly as they lifted the largest stone off her legs.
Instantly, Alistair moved to crouch beside her, taking her filthy hand in his.
“I’m here, lass,” he murmured. “I have ye.”
“Alis,” she whispered, eyelids fluttering, her fingers tightening around his.
He wanted the fast hold of her hand to be a promise, he realized. He wanted it to be a beginning.
“The tunnel—” She winced as the men moved the last of the dirt and rubble off her body.
“Can ye tell where ye might be hurt most?” Alistair rasped.
“What about the tunnel?” she asked instead. “We need to investi—”
“Devil take it, Chris! Ye nearly crushed your wee head, and ye still be on about the tunnel?!”
Her eyes blazed with life. “We broke through!”
“Aye, and it’s been here for thousands of years. I ken it can wait another day or three afore feeling the scrape of your razor trowel. Where are ye hurt?”
Chris shifted a wee bit. Relief poured through him as her legs moved easily beneath her mud-caked skirts. Her spine appeared uninjured.
She moaned and winced again. “My left ankle is afire.”
“We need to get ye back to the castle as quickly as possible.” Gently, Alistair slid his arms under her back and knees, lifting her into his arms.
“I can try to walk,” she protested as he staggered upright. “Or let the men fetch a litter to—”
“Nae, lass,” he said gruffly, shifting her in his arms. “Let me carry ye.”
She stopped arguing, not mentioning the tunnel or protesting his touch. Instead, her head sank into his shoulder as she gave her weight over to him. All of which only ratcheted Alistair’s alarm.
If she were not truly injured and hurting, his fierce, independent Chris would insist upon walking, upon investigating the tunnel further instead of being carried away.
Carefully, he tucked her against him and climbed the steps out of the trench, striding toward the castle. She was far too light in his arms, only reinforcing his worry over her underfed frame. Her shoulders trembled, her body likely descending into shock.
He quickened his pace.
How many years had it been since someone had watched over this woman?
And if he wished that person to be himself, what would it take to convince her?
Chrissi sagged into the heat of Alis’s chest.
Her ankle pulsed with a blinding pain that set stars to sparking behind her closed eyelids.
She didn’t want to find comfort in his arms. It felt too much like home, and she feared for her heart if she permitted herself to bask in it.
Love held too much risk. His love, in particular.
Forgiveness, as well, felt out of reach.
But . . . she hurt. In her soul, in her body. In her ankle, throbbing in time to her heartbeat.
And she hadn’t the strength to fight.
How she had missed the smell of him—his cologne, yes, but also the scent of his skin, sun-warmed and delicious. It called to mind lemon trees in bloom and lazy summer afternoons cuddled in his arms after a hearty pranzo of linguine and bistecca alla fiorentina.
She must have drifted off at that point, her mind awash in memories that buzzed as pleasantly as honeybees along the surface of her mind . . .
The shock of cool sheets at her back awoke her with a start—Alis laying her atop the bed in her room.
Time passed in a blur.
Mrs. Craib appeared and, with the help of a housemaid, stripped Chrissi of her muddy clothing and gently washed the worst of the grime from her skin.
Then a doctor arrived, sure hands feeling bones and testing bruises to see where she hurt most.
“A severely sprained ankle, I should think. Nothing feels broken. Some lightly bruised ribs and several cuts. And perhaps the slightest concussion,” he pronounced.
“All in all, you are most fortunate not to have suffered worse, Mrs. Newton. When the wall came down, the mud at your back and the volume of your skirts appeared to have cushioned your bones from more serious harm.”
The doctor prescribed a drop of laudanum for her pain and copious amounts of rest.
Chrissi sensed rather than saw Alis hovering nearby.
Now what? she thought, drifting in a haze of aches and twinges, laudanum slowly overtaking her senses.
The thrumming pain in her body made it clear she would not be crouched with a trowel in hand anytime soon. And the archaeological excavations could scarcely continue without her presence. Moreover, it was hardly fair to expect Alis to house and feed her throughout the duration of her recovery.
How bitter to have reached this point in her excavations only to be forced to abandon them. To never know what lay at the end of the tunnel.
And Alis . . . to leave him so soon. Already her heart trembled at the prospect.
I’m not prepared to depart. Let me have a little while yet.
Sleep tugged at her senses.
Tomorrow.
She would deal with it all tomorrow.
Voices murmured just outside the edge of her understanding . . . Alis, speaking with someone. The doctor, perhaps?
The rumbling timbre of his bass lulled and soothed.
My favorite sound, whispered through her mind.
A strong hand wrapped around hers, lacing their fingers together.
And as she slipped into sleep, soft lips pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles.
Chrissi awoke to sunlight shimmering against her eyelids and dull pain pulsing through her ankle.
Squinting, she blinked into the bright daylight for a full ten seconds before memories of the previous day rocketed through her brain—
The euphoria of breaking through to the entrance tunnel of the cairn.
A shout of warning.
The pummeling force of dirt and rocks tumbling over her.
Truthfully, she was lucky to have escaped with only a concussed head, a sprained ankle, and what felt to be an impressive collection of bruises.
A sound had her turning her head in time to see a maid slip from the room.
In a mere blink, Alis took the girl’s place, the bedchamber door ajar for propriety’s sake. Had he set a watch upon her?
“Good morning,” he said, a smile on his lips and warmth in his eyes.
Chrissi remembered that warmth well. Like everything else about him, it evoked their months together and a thousand exchanged glances.
It didn’t help that he looked more like her Alis this morning—hair still damp around the edges from a bath, cravat slightly loose, coat unbuttoned.
She stared.
He sank into the chair at her side.
“How are ye feeling, lass? As poorly as last night?”
Wincing, she struggled into a sitting position.
“My ankle pains me yet. And . . .” She paused, surveying her body. “. . . my head aches and perhaps my ribs?”
Why it came out a question, she couldn’t say.
“Would ye like more laudanum?”
“No.” That answer was simple enough. “The pain is bearable for now.”
“Excellent.” His grin was far too open and charming for Chrissi’s peace of mind.
It lit a fluttery flame in her chest that she valiantly attempted to smother.
“How fares the excavation site?” she asked, changing the topic. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“Nae. My men are building scaffolding at the moment to shore up the entrance channel to the tunnel. We don’t want any more accidents.”
They both turned as a maid entered bearing a tray of breakfast fare. The scent of baked bread, sausage, and coffee filled the room.
Leaping up, Alis took the tray from the girl with a nod of dismissal.
And then he busied himself with ensuring Chrissi was comfortable. He set the breakfast tray on the counterpane beside her hip and elevated her sore ankle atop a cushion. He adjusted and fluffed the pillows at her back.
And with each kindness, each accidental brush of his hand, each lungful of his cologne . . . Chrissi felt herself tensing and resisting the depths of his care. Terrified to sink into the comfort of being cherished and treasured.
It was simply too much—a bellows fanning the flame of her love into a roaring conflagration.
She simply couldn’t do this . . . to risk placing her heart into his hands once more.
Fear tightened her chest.
And so, when Alis returned to his chair, gesturing at her to eat, Chrissi merely stared helplessly at him instead.
“Eat, lass,” he said on a laugh, pointing to the tray. “I won’t be accused of starving ye.”
It was such an Alis thing to say and so she loosed the thought.
“That is such an Alis thing to say.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Is it not odd to you . . . that we know one another so well, and yet not at all? Not anymore.”
He certainly didn’t know her . . . not the things she had done to survive. Things he would rightly condemn.
He stared at her for so long, Chrissi nearly squirmed, worried that perhaps he would pluck her sins from her brain.
She reached for a bap instead, the bread still warm from the oven.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he sat back in the chair. “What if I said I wished to know ye as ye be now?”
Chrissi froze, butter knife in hand poised to spread jam on the bap.
He appeared . . . serious.
Her heart kicked off, drumming in time to the ache of her ankle. Moisture evaporated from her throat.
“What of your Miss Rollins?” she countered.
“She is not my anything.”
Chrissi’s eyes narrowed as she pointed the butter knife at him. “Have you clarified that point with Miss Rollins herself? Because I am quite positive that—”
“Ye be avoiding my question, Chris.”
She set her bap and knife down and matched his pose with arms crossed over her chest. As if that could protect her from the onslaught of memory.
Of him. Of everything that had broken between them.
Of her own actions that he did not yet know .
. . actions she would have to tell him if he continued to press this issue.
She couldn’t live with herself otherwise.
“Why?” The plaintive word tumbled from her lips, a world contained within.
Why me? Why now?
Why do you wish to revisit what we once were?
And, as usual, Alis immediately understood. Their minds, as ever, attuned.
It was why Chrissi knew from the beginning what the heartbreaking outcome of this conversation would be.
“Can we not try, Chris?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Having ye here . . . seeing ye hurt yesterday and feeling so helpless. Angry, too.”
“Angry?”
“Aye. Angry with myself. That I didn’t pursue ye nine years ago. That I let ye leave without truly attempting to reconcile our differences. That I didn’t write ye, that—”
“You betrayed me, Alis.”
He at least had the decency to flinch. “Does it help to know that I have regretted my actions ever since?”