It was not the brutal truth that she could have died or that she’d survived yet another attempt on her life from her enemy. It had not been the sight of the sticky red wetness splattered all over the sleeve of her gown, either.
But somehow, as never before, the threat had become almost unbearably real. What if it hadn’t beenhergown? But Jo’s? What if it had been Simon?
In that moment, her path had become clear.
The warm milk soothed her as she took a sip, sighing in pleasure. It always managed to make her feel better. After another sip, Belle wished she’d never attended the blasted ball, the one where the sickening fragrance of her nemesis had alerted her of his return.
Would it even have mattered?
The fatigue of her body tugged at her and it had begun to become difficult to keep her eyes open. Nothing a relaxing bath would not fix. Finishing her milk, Belle moved to stand, only, her feet refused to move. She glanced down at them with a frown.
“Move feet,” she muttered their way.
Still, they remain rooted to the ground.
Her eyes flicked to the bath and then back down to her unmoving limbs. “It isn’t very far.”
Wait, why am I talking to my feet?
Her knees buckled the same time she reached forward, arms outstretched towards the rim of the bath. She fell to the ground with a thud, the glass tumbling from her grasp.
What was wrong with her?
Panic rose and she tried to drag her body back up the bed. Her movements were slow, drowsy even and her legs wouldn’t move, though her arms still worked.
A tingling sensation crawled from her shoulders down to her fingers, leaving numbness in their wake. Her breathing became labored. Had she been poisoned? Her eyes darted to the empty cup in horror.No.
She tried to call out Simon’s name, but no sound escaped her lungs. With resigned regret, Belle rested her cheek on the cold floor. Fighting the poison would only make it worse. She must preserve her strength to give her maid time to find her, and hopefully, save her.
From her angle on the ground, Belle could see the blasted cup on the floor, mocking her.
Black spots filled her vision.
It was then that she saw the door open. Feet paused in the doorway, seconds before they rushed to her. Strong hands lifted her into even stronger arms.
“Belle?”
She heard her name as if from a distance—a bittersweet sound. The eerie sensation of weightlessness engulfed her as she was lifted from the ground and deposited on the bed.
Shutting her eyes, she drifted away on the peaceful lure of sleep.
Simon cursed when Belle lost consciousness. He urgently felt for her pulse, nearly collapsing from relief when the steady, rhythmical beat beneath his fingers signaled life.
“What the bloody hell did you give her?” He heard St. Aldwyn’s incredulous voice behind him.
“I cannot say,” Simon muttered in a grave tone. “I bought it from a gypsy.”
“You did what?”
“He assured me it was safe and would only put her to sleep.”
“Laudanum would have done the trick.”
“She’d have tasted it in her milk. The concoction the gypsy gave me was sweet.”
St. Aldwyn shook his head, “Nothing says I love you like ‘my apologies for almost killing you, dear, while attempting to kidnap you and force you into matrimony.’”
“Shut up.”
