Didn’t care.
Until he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He swung up and froze, his clenched, bloody fist only inches from Emeline’s face.
She flinched. “Don’t.”
He stared at her, this woman he’d made love to, this woman he’d poured his soul into.
This woman he loved.
She had tears in her eyes. “Don’t.” She reached out one small, white hand and wrapped it around his bruised and bloodied fist. “Don’t.”
Below him, Vale wheezed.
Her gaze cut to her fiancé and her tears overflowed. “Please, Samuel. Don’t.”
He felt, vaguely, the pain begin, both in his body and in his heart. Sam lowered his hand and lurched upright. “Damn you.”
He staggered down the stairs and out into the cold night.
Chapter Sixteen
That night, Iron Heart lay chained in the dank, cold dungeon and knew that he had lost everything. His baby son was gone, his princess wife was in despair, the kingdom stood undefended, and before the dawn, he would be put to death. One word from his lips would exonerate him. That same word would send him back to sweeping the streets and kill Princess Solace. He did not care how his life ended, but he could not be the instrument of the princess’s death. For a strange and wonderful thing had happened in the six years of his marriage.
He’d fallen in love with his wife....
—from Iron Heart
When Rebecca descended the stairs the next morning, she startled two maids. They had been standing, heads bent close together, whispering furiously. At the sound of her footfall, they leapt apart and stared up at her.
Rebecca lifted her chin. “Good morning.”
“Miss.” The older one recovered first, bobbing a curtsy before hurrying away with her friend.
Rebecca sighed. The servants were naturally excited about the events of the night before. Samuel had awakened the entire household when he’d stumbled in the front door with blood streaming down his face. He’d been adamant that she not send for a doctor, but for once Rebecca had overridden her older brother. The blood and his apathy had frightened her half to death. She hadn’t seen Lord Vale, but from bits and pieces she’d gathered from the doctor and the servants, the viscount was in even worse condition.
Rebecca wished desperately that she could tiptoe next door and just talk to Lady Emeline. Sit and commiserate with her. Lady Emeline always seemed to know exactly what should be done in any given situation, and she was the type of woman who could set everything right. Always assuming that this problem could be set right. But Rebecca very much feared that she might never talk to Lady Emeline again. She doubted that there was an etiquette rule that covered this situation. How to approach a lady whose fiancé your brother has beaten into a bloody pulp. It was very awkward.
She wandered into the dining room, her brows knit. Samuel had hardly spoken the night before, and she knew from the servants that he hadn’t stirred from his bedroom this morning. She had the dining room to herself and her worries. Actually, she felt the most lonely since she’d set foot in England. She rather wished that there was someone she could confide in. But Samuel wasn’t talking, and everyone else in the house was a servant.
Rebecca reached for a chair only to find a masculine hand pulling it out for her. She looked up—far up—into the face of O’Hare the footman.
“Oh, I didn’t see you.”
“Yes, miss,” he said as formally as if he’d never talked to her so casually just a few weeks ago.
There was another footman in the room, of course, and the butler lurked somewhere about. Rebecca sat in her chair feeling a bit deflated. She looked down at the tablecloth in front of her and struggled to hold back sudden tears. Now, that was silly! To go weeping like a baby just because a servant didn’t acknowledge one as a friend. Even if one could really use a friend right now.
She watched as O’Hare’s big, reddened hand poured her tea. “I wonder...” She trailed off, thinking hard.
“Yes, miss?” His voice was so nice, with that bit of a burr softening it.
She looked up and met his green eyes. “My brother’s very favorite sweet in all the world is crabapple jelly, and he hasn’t had any in ages. Do you think it might be possible to purchase some?”
O’Hare’s green eyes blinked. He really did have the most lovely, long eyelashes, almost like a girl’s. “I don’t know if there’s crabapple jelly at the grocer’s, miss, but I can go look—”
“No, not you.” She smiled sweetly at the other footman, a bowlegged fellow who’d been watching their conversation with wide, not-too-bright eyes. “I’d like you to go.”
“Yes’m,” the second footman said. He looked confused, but he was well trained. He bowed and exited, presumably in search of crabapple jelly.
Which left Rebecca alone with O’Hare.
She took a sip of her tea—too hot, she usually let it sit for a minute to cool off—and set the teacup down precisely on the table. “I haven’t seen you since our return from the country.”
“No, miss.”
She twisted the teacup a bit. “I just realized. I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s O’Hare, miss.”
“Not that one.” She wrinkled her nose at her teacup. “Your other name. Your Christian name.”
“Gil, miss. Gil O’Hare. At yer service.”
“Thank you, Gil O’Hare.”
She folded her hands in her lap. He stood behind her like a proper footman, ready to serve her anything she might need. Except what she needed wasn’t on the table or sideboard.
“Did...did you see my brother last night?”
“Yes, miss.”
She looked at the basket of buns in the middle of the table. Really, she wasn’t hungry at all. “I suppose they’re all talking about it in the kitchens.”
He cleared his throat but said nothing more, which she took as a resounding affirmative.
She sighed forlornly. “It was rather spectacular, how he staggered in and collapsed in the hall. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood in my life. I’m sure his shirt is quite ruined.”
Behind her, there was a rustle, and then his arm appeared, clothed in a green coat. He reached for the basket of buns. “Would you like a bun? Cook made ’em fresh just this morn.”
She watched as he picked one out for her and put it on her plate. “Thank you.”