He slumped in an antique, carved-oak chair pulled next to her bed, his chin resting in his cravat, breathing loud enough to be considered snoring.
She ran her tongue over her lips again. The thirst was painful. She was back on the horse, Pike’s filthy arms about her, staring at the water canteen that Lord Livingstone had refused her—
“Dear?”
She must have made a noise, and as Father hurried to her bedside with sleep softening his features, she realized tears streamed to her lips. She mouthedwaterwithout sound.
Father poured a glass, eased it to her lips, and waited until she was satisfied before setting it back to the stand. “Is there anything else? Are you hungry? Warm?”
The downy bed linens seemed to embrace her, chasing away the tremors racing along her spine. She glanced about the room. The bedchamber was high-ceilinged, colored in gold and burgundy, and rather old-fashioned without losing any opulence. Where was she?
As if Father understood, he sat next to her and brushed away her tears in comforting strokes. “We are at Wetherbell Hall, guests of the elder Lord Livingstone.”
A shudder rang through her at the name.
“We shall not speak of it now, but he is not the father of the man who …” Father cleared his throat. “In any event, you are quite safe now, my dear. You need only concern yourself with rest.”
How wonderful it was. To be safe and warm in a room where candles kept back the darkness.Rest.Already, the weight of her eyelids fought her desire to remain awake. The quiet room lulled her. The creaking of the bed. Father’s breathing. The wind on the mullioned windows—
William.The name struck with force so great she lifted her head. “William?”
Father eased her back. “You must not distress yourself, my dear.”
“Where is he?”
“Isabella—”
“Where is William?”
Father’s sigh told her everything. “As soon as he returned you from the mountain, he rode away. Although I would have been grateful for a chance to thank him for his service to us, you must know it is best this way.”
She slid her eyes closed. Not because they were heavy, but because she could not bear to see Father’s face. He had done this to her. He had taken from her the very thing he had taken from Mother.
The chance to love and be loved.
“My dear?”
She did not answer him. She did not know if she would ever answer him again.
Too quiet.William leaned over Duke, the sway of the horse nearly rocking him to sleep again. He had already fallen twice.
During the journey, he had told himself repeatedly that if he could make it to Mr. Abram’s farm, all would be well.
He was not so certain that was true. The old thatched cottage had no chickens clucking in the yard, the red barn doors were shut, and Sunshine did not graze within the small wooden fence.
William dismounted, disgusted by the fact that his weak knees tried to buckle when he hit the ground. He knocked at the door twice. Weariness sagged his shoulders when it did not open to him.
Now what?
Be hanged if he could make it to the village. At least not today. He’d been sleeping on the ground or in the saddle, eating the bread in his knapsack, and, by force of will, remaining lucid against the fever that tried to claim him every evening.
Even if Mr. Abram was gone, William would have that bed and something substantial to eat, if it could be found. The door whined as he threw it open, and frustration mounted as he realized the inside was devoid of furniture.
Except a three-legged stool by the hearth.
William sat and wiped his face. Should this not have been expected? Did anything ever go right for him? What was God doing—sitting upon His throne in heaven and laughing at every new misfortune He placed upon William Kensley?
God had taken Shelton from him.
