For abodylay prone on the other side of the reeds, clad in plain shirtsleeves and dark trousers. In a horrific echo of what Bridget had once witnessed here, that body was Mary’s, dressed in a man’s shirt and a plain black skirt, dark blonde curls tumbling out across the sandy shore. The body did not move, and she was convinced that she saw a splash of blood beside it.
No… it could not be. Was it Mary’s ghost, there to torment her?
Bridget nearly fell from her horse in shock, her breath quickening at the sight. She was fully convinced that it was a spirit— a figure so like her best friend could not be lying there on the shore unless some dark force was hard at work in torturing her. Finally, she dismounted and took a stumbling step toward it, her hand over her mouth.
The body, she realized then, was breathing.
Bridget rushed forward as the scene began to make sense—for this was not the late Mary Barnet, butGraham. There was, however, a splash of blood in the sand. Bridget threw herself to the sand beside him, so close to the water that her skirts fell from the sand and across the surface. His feet were submerged as if he had fallen asleep at the water’s edge, his shoes discarded beside him. She could smell brandy on his faint breath, and she grasped his shoulders as she lowered her face to his.
“Graham,” she murmured, hoping to wake him gently.
He did not respond.
And where had that blood come from?
She was starting to panic now, and dared to delicately run her fingers through his hair in case he had fallen from his horse and been wounded. She did not see his steed anywhere—how had he even gotten there, and when? Graham was cold and pale, his lips blue as if he had spent the night outdoors.
“Graham!” she cried. She could not lose him, too, especially not here. “Please, wake up!”
But while he breathed, he did not move.
CHAPTERTWENTY
Though the night had left him heartbroken, Graham, at least, was having lovely dreams.
He had ridden out toward the lake, thinking himself some kind of constable, ultimately stumbling to a seat on a rock, pulling off his boots and stockings and plopping his sore feet down in the water. He had not discovered anything, other than the fact that he had ridden too hard and too long, and that he was well and truly drunk.
At some point, he must have passed out like that, his shoes on one side and a flask of whisky on the other.
And now, he supposed, it was morning. And he was not alone.
Delicate hands grasped his shoulders, the smell of lavender and rose-water engulfing him. Graham groaned, fully convinced he was still dreaming as he reached for her.
For that scent could belong to no one but Bridget Sedgwick.
His eyes popped open to find green irises staring back into his, her eyelashes fluttering as her eyes filled with tears. She took a sharp breath, and her brows shot up as he cringed in the light.
“Bridget?”
“Your Grace!” she gasped, jerking backward. The movement took her too close to the small ledge over the water, though, and Graham could not stop her backwards momentum as she lost her balance.
With a splash, she plunged right into the lake.
Graham was up and moving in a heartbeat, his head swimming as the booze from last night came back to bite him. He had meant to catch her, but she was already out of reach, and his slight hangover sent him into the drink as well.
The cold water snapped some sense into him, engulfing him completely and turning out to be deeper than expected. It had been nearly a decade since he’d last swam there, so he did not remember the terrain of the lake. It shocked him to find how very cold the water was.
He surfaced a moment later, throwing his head back and spraying cold droplets behind him. As he blinked his bleary eyes, he realized he had just sent a shower of water flying across Bridget’s face where she was treading water just a few short feet away. She didn't seem offended, despite being soaked.
In fact, she was laughing.
A loud and merry laugh bubbled from her chest, immediately lifting his spirits. Whereas Graham had gone to sleep the night before with only thoughts of gloom, her presence broke him out of that mindset in an instant, reminding him that there was good in the world after all.
He almost forgot she was to marry another man.
Almost.
Graham laughed with her, hoping to banish the shadows once again and to build up a store of enough goodwill to carry him through the rest of this turbulent time. Eventually, he found he could touch the stone-covered bottom of the lake, his bare feet gripping the stones. He was quite a bit taller than Bridget, though, and he knew she was still treading water. He imagined she would soon get out and leave him alone once again, but she stayed.