She had not cried at all. Not when she had held Darcy’s unconscious body. Not when she had lied to the Prince’s face. Not even when she had come home to find her bedchamber blackened and her maid vanished and her father only dismayed that she had returned so soon.
But now—
Now the silence gave her no more space to run.
Her shoulders trembled. Her breath caught. And the tears came—not sobs, not loud or messy—but quiet, steady rivers that would not stop. She buried her face in her hands and let them fall.
Chapter Thirty-One
Darkness.Andheat.
His throat was a ragged thing, scratched dry, his skin too tight across his bones. Something crusted at the corners of his eyes. He turned his head—no, tried to—and the world spun sideways.
The ceiling was there. That blasted cobweb in the corner he had always meant to clean. It stared back. Mocking him.
He was cold. Or hot. His hands trembled as he groped for something—cloth? The pitcher? Had he left it full?
Fingers found the tin cup, and he lifted it with a shaking arm, sloshed lukewarm water over his chin. Enough got in his mouth to swallow. He coughed, gagged, drank again. He would live another hour. Perhaps.
Blankets twisted around his legs like vines. He kicked. Or thought he did. Everything was so heavy.
Elizabeth.
The name pulled him under again.
They were running. Always running. Her hand in his. He could feel it—warm, firm, trembling. She was behind him, her skirts catching on branches, and he turned, lifted her over the fence, pressed a kiss to her temple before she could even speak.
Safe. Just keep going.
He mumbled her name. Again. Again.
Then cold. The floor. Hard beneath his cheek. Had he fallen? No—he was lying down. He must have made it to the couch. Or the bed. He tasted blood. No—iron. Water staled from the kettle, from the tin. It always tasted like that.
He curled tighter, groaning.
The corner of the room swam with shadows.
She was there. No, she—she had been. He had kissed her. Her lips were real.
And then he had walked away.
Fool. Heaven above, what a fool.
The room flickered. Light. Day. Then dark again.
Something in his stomach shifted. Hunger? He could not remember eating. He forced himself upright, staggered to a pantry. A door. There—hardtack, dry and stale—some haversack left by Richard. He chewed. Gagged. Swallowed. The corner of the counter bit into his hip.
Back to bed. Cold floor again.
He closed his eyes, and she was there. Always. Gold gown. Laughter. Blood on her hands. His hands. Crawling under the floor, the weight of her body shielding his. Her voice at his ear, whispering his name—“Fitzwilliam.”
Was she real?
He did not know.
Time lost all shape.
Sometimes the door rattled in his dreams. Sometimes the wind screamed her name.
