She shook her head, hard, trying to banish the thought, and her sudden dizziness increased. She couldn’t bear it. She’d borne everything else, but this was too much—she had to wipe it from her brain. She began to sing beneath her breath, the effort of remembering the words occupying her mind enough to keep her sanity in place. It was an old song—“Come Haste to the Wedding”—and she sang it without thought, all the verses, quickly changing over to a sturdy hymn, “Come Thou Almighty King” as she poured the cold water into the bowl, on to a silly children’s song as she scrubbed between her legs, drowning out conscious thought, memory, the stretching and the unexpected glory of something she’d always hated. She wasn’t going to think about anything. She started on “Bonny Light Horseman” but when she got to the line, “in the war he was slain” she stopped, her voice breaking. Life would be so much better for her if he’d died of his injuries, if she’d never met him at all, but there was no way she could wish it. She had survived things no woman should ever have to face. She could survive this as well.
When she finally stepped away from the washbowl she was shivering. The fire had gone out, she was wet, bedraggled, and she could still feel him inside her. Scrubbing wouldn’t help. Nothing would, nothing but time.
She pulled the rough linen sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her, then sank down in the chair and closed her eyes. It will be all right, she told herself, the words she had used to soothe herself. She’d come across an old prayer one time, written by an ancient English nun. All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
She said those words over and over again, pushing everything out of her mind, as a hard-won calm descended. All would be well.
It just might take time.
Chapter 22
It was cold as a witch’s tit, Brandon thought numbly the next morning, staring out across the countryside. The Hawk and Cock was deserted, a waystation on a heavily travelled road, but most people had had enough sense to stay home. He should go back into the taproom and grab his greatcoat against the bitter chill, but at that moment he would rather freeze his bollocks off than face Emma Cadbury, and chances were she’d be down any minute.
What a monumental idiot he’d been! What a complete arsehole, treating her like garbage and then offering to buy her sexual services. Even worse, he’d taken her, losing his self-control so completely that he’d ignored his semi-noble determination to bring her pleasure and just gone at her like a lust-maddened dog. He’d even come inside her, an act of stupidity that rivaled few others.
For the first time in his life he’d lost that little bit of control he’d always held onto, but she’d felt so good, so warm, so tight that he could no more break away from her than he could fly.
He’d called her by name. By his name for her—he remembered that much, and he cursed beneath his breath. It was out in the open now, and a good thing. He’d acted like a school boy, throwing a tantrum, treating her like one of the punching bags his father had set up in the abandoned cheesery.
And what terrible thing had she done? Saved his life in that little hospital, held his hand when he’d been frightened of death, forced him back from its beckoning shores. So she’d left him without a word, abandoning him in that miserable place until he could stand it no longer and sent word to his family. There were worse things. She’d kissed him, and he’d done all sorts of wicked things to her in his mind while he lay there, slowly getting stronger, wicked things he had every intention of doing the moment he had the chance.
But she hadn’t come back. And then, to compound her guilt, she’d looked him straight in the eyes less than a week ago and pretended not to know him, making every word, every gesture a lie.
Who was he to sit in judgment? It mattered not that he felt betrayed and abandoned—in truth she owed him nothing, and yet he’d stormed and railed like a petulant child, compounding his wretched behavior by offering to pay her for sexual favors. He’d just meant to anger her, but she’d already been angry, and it hadn’t been his fault entirely, though he bore the brunt of the blame. She’d taunted him, deliberately—she’d fought back, and he’d made it worse still, until they’d goaded themselves into bed. He still had no excuse.
Tillerson was leading the carriage out into the courtyard, Noonan was stomping around, looking like the wrath of God, the horses were fresh and restless in the cool morning air. If his mare was equally . . . Jesus fucking Christ, why hadn’t he made that connection before? He’d named his horse Emma. The only creature he loved and trusted without reserve, and he’d named her Emma.
“You all right, m’lord?” Tillerson had come up to him, and Brandon realized he’d shaken his head rather violently at the unbidden thoughts that were flying at him like poisoned darts.
“Fine,” he said shortly. “You and Noonan already had something to eat, I assume?”
“We have indeed, my lord. Very kind of you to ask.” Tillerson said mildly. “They’re all set and ready to go. Is the whore ready?”
Brandon hit him. Without thinking he slammed his face into Tillerson’s face, and the man went flat on his arse, looking slightly stunned.
“Do not ever let me hear you refer to Mrs. Cadbury in such terms again,” he snapped.
Tillerson scrambled to his feet. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” he said hastily. “I misunderstood the situation.”
Brandon cursed again, under his breath. Of course Tillerson had—he’d heard all the stories and he’d watched and listened as Brandon had treated her as less than dirt beneath his boots. Tillerson wasn’t the one who needed hitting—he was.
By that time Noonan had joined them. “Here, now,” he said sternly. “What’s all this about?”
“Nothing,” Tillerson mumbled, looking sheepish. “I’ll go finish checking the traces.”
Noonan looked up at Brandon, his eyes beady with anger. “You’re the one who needs to be horsewhipped, you young idiot. What did you go hitting Tillerson for? The man’s a fool, but he’s older and smaller than you. Despite your behavior this week, I thought better of you.”
He’d thought better of himself. He had two choices—tell Noonan it was none of his damned business or appear an even greater fool by telling him the truth. “He insulted Mrs. Cadbury.”
He expected Noonan to say something equally bad, but the old man just looked at him, and then he sighed. “You hurt the lass?”
Guilt swept over him. “Of course not! What kind of man do you think I am? Don’t answer that—you’ve already told me. No, I did not hurt Mrs. Cadbury.”
“So she just went to your bed on her own accord? That don’t seem likely, me boy.”
He didn’t bother to wonder how Noonan knew what had happened last night. He’d never been able to hide anything from the man. “If you’re thinking I’d force her. . .” he began.
“You’d also be flat on your backside in the mud if I even suspected such a thing. I’m not too old to give you a beating when you deserve it, and I’m thinking now might be the time.”