“My happiness was with him.”
“Such a life is meant for no one. He knew that, I think, and that is why he wished for you to be returned.”
Wasn’t that a choice she should have made on her own? The world out here had wounded Captain and taken so many things from him. If he wanted nothing to do with a life out here, neither did she.
Felton sat beside her once more. She sensed that he might have reached for her hands again, but he must have lacked courage because he only stared down at them. “I will talk with Lord Gillingham and make him aware of the situation. We shall keep this from happening more than once.”
“It already has.”
“What?”
“Happened more than once, I mean. Mrs. Eustace saw a man by our carriage on the Sunday of her wreck. I imagined someone had caused it purposely, as if to hurt her—but I fear it was me they wished to hurt. Indeed, if not kill.”
“I’ll not let them.” Felton’s eyes bored into hers. “I brought you here and have every intention of keeping you safe.”
“But why should anyone wish me harm?”
“Why do you think?”
A ghastly flash of the beast entered her mind, clawing, roaring so loud she almost shook her head against the sound. Who else would taunt her?
He’d stayed in her mind so long. The one who had murdered her mother. The one who had terrified her every dream.
She should have known he would come out of the darkness one day.
She should have known he would want her dead.
“Is she asleep?”
“Not yet.” Papa one-handedly fidgeted with the top button of his banyan outside of his wife’s chamber. “Dear me, can you do this, Son? The buttons they make these days.”
Felton grabbed the candlestick from Papa, set it on the hallstand, and popped the velvet button in place. “Sleeping in the guest chamber again?”
“It makes your mother more comfortable. Besides, all the coughing and such is a bit rough to sleep through.”
“She will recover from it soon.”
Papa raised one brow but did not argue. He only smiled. “Off to Bedfordshire with me, then. Goodnight, Son.”
“Goodnight.” When his father had taken the candlestick and headed downstairs, Felton slipped into his mother’s dim chamber.
Only a candle burned, the glow as weak and feeble as the white-faced woman in the bed linens.
He sat on the edge of the four-poster bed. “How goes it, Mamma?”
A smile brightened her watering eyes. “Well, I see you have avoided any fights today.”
“How is it you know that?”
“No bruises.”
“Perhaps I am a good dodger.”
She chuckled, coughed, and turned her face into a damp pillow. “Another letter arrived from our Hugh. Won’t you be a good boy and read it to me?”
“Didn’t Papa already?”
“Yes, but a mother likes to go to bed with such things. It is in the drawer.”
