I tried to slip my hand from his when suddenly he grasped onto my fingers in an iron grip.
Atlas
Something tangible and warm pulled me from the grips of darkness. In my haze, it took me a moment to realize what it was. Soft, delicate skin wrapped in my hand. I tried to blink against the binding over my eyes. But I did not have to see her to know who she was.
My rescuer.
I opened my mouth to speak, but bone-deep fatigue fought against me. Only a moan emitted from my lips.
“There, there. It’s too soon for your medicine. You must sleep a little longer.”
I wanted nothing more than to obey her. Her voice was hypnotic. Sleep, yes.
Wait no . . . I did not want to sleep. I tried to latch on to her voice, but it felt miles away. I tightened my hold on her hand. I wanted to talk to her.
To thank her.
To learn what was happening to me.
To ask why she had saved me.
To beg her name . . .
The dark abyss clawed at my consciousness. No! I couldn’t sleep yet. I had to speak to her.
Her whispers broke through my fragmented thoughts. “God be with you until we meet again, my stranger.”
The last word echoed in my head. Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.
What did she mean? Was she leaving? “Miss . . .” I managed.
I could not be certain, but I thought I caught one last thread of words before I drifted into oblivion.
“I will miss you too.” I felt the slight pressure against my forehead. Like a flutter of butterfly wings and the warmth of a cozy fire—she kissed me.
Chapter 7
Atlas
Six Months Later, Northamptonshire, 1854
It felt good to be home again. I fingered the ruby ring in my hand, an action I had done mindlessly a million times since returning to my health. I had taken to hiding it against my chest on a chain beneath my clothes, but I had removed it to examine during my trip back to London. It had been cathartic to return to the place where I had convalesced for eight long weeks, yet I always mulled over a problem best at Rosemont Court.
I held the ruby up to the natural light streaming through the window in my study, the stone glowing red where the sun touched it. The only clues I had learned as to its owner was that she was an upper-class woman—based on her clothes and speech—who had passed through town briefly—alone. And according to the vicar, Mr. Thornbeck, she had given me all that she possessed to provide for my care.
That terrible day of my attack felt like yesterday and certainly not six months ago. I still suffered the occasional nightmare and wondered constantly if my life had been worth sparing, but I had been true to my word and not stepped inside a gaming hell since that fateful night. I owed much to my Good Samaritan, and the second chance she had grantedme. Heavier than the dark memories or the occasional stiffness in my leg were the unanswered questions: Who had been behind my attack, and who had rescued me? Not knowing either was slowly driving me mad.
“What is that in your hand, Atlas?”
I looked up to see Mother, standing in the threshold of my office. Her light-blonde hair was neatly pulled back at the nape of her neck, expertly hiding the streaks of gray, and she smiled at the sight of me. “Did you bring me back a gift from your trip to London?”
I quickly shoved the ring into my watch pocket. “Sorry, Mother. I’m afraid I did not have time to stop and pick something up for you. Forgive me?”
Her smile slipped into a frown, accentuating the fine lines that grief had etched around her mouth. “I do not know why I assume my only son will think of his poor mother when he is away. When did you return?”
She’d had little joy in her life since Father’s death, and it had taken my attack for me to notice. I wished I had thought to purchase a gift. “I took the early train and arrived not five minutes ago.”
Mother’s brow pinched together as she walked into the room. “What was this trip for again? You never did tell me. Did you decide to sit in on Parliament while you were there?”
