CHAPTER 43: CHAPTER FORTY THREE

Everything was blurry.

The bright, cheerful colors of the ladies’ dresses, the green of the field, the sharp blue of the sky—it all smeared together, a wet, dizzying painting. Ines lay on her back, the grass scratching at her cheek, and she clutched her chest. It wasn’t a sharp pain. It was a tightness, a heavy, suffocating band, as if a fist were squeezing her heart.

She could hear the commotion. It was a dreadful, discordant sound. The pop of the rifles was gone, replaced by a new sound: women, screaming. It was a high-pitched, ugly sound, like frightened gulls. And under that, a low, pounding roar. Thud-thud-thud. It sounded, she thought vaguely, like running.

My first gathering, she thought, a strange, bitter, and profoundly clear thought in the midst of the chaos. My first real gathering since... forever. And I have ruined it.

A tiny, hysterical chuckle tried to form in her throat, but she couldn’t get enough air. Of course, I did.

She turned her head to the side, her hat crushed beneath her. The sky was so bright. She blinked, trying to make the world come into focus.

She saw them. Two specks. The black and the bay. They were no longer racing. They were just... running. Two dark, powerful shapes, thundering across the field, growing larger. Coming... coming for her.

Then, one speck pulled ahead. It was faster, more desperate. The two specks, the two men, became one single, focused, dark blur.

Her lips, dry and numb, formed his name.

"Carcel?" she said weakly.

But the voice that tore through the air was not his. It was a roar of pure, primal, terrified rage.

"INES!"

She smiled. A small, faint, tired smile.

"Rowan," she whispered.

Her world, which had been a smear of bright, dizzying color, went completely, blissfully, blank.

~ ••••• ~

She woke up to darkness.

Not the terrible, final blackness of her faint, but the soft, quiet, silver-grey of a room at night. A single candle flickered on a distant table, and the moon, a pale, cold slice, was visible through a tall, unfamiliar window.

How long was I knocked out?

She asked herself the question, her voice a silent, scratchy thought in her own mind. The rest of the day was gone. It was night.

She looked around. The furniture was heavy, dark mahogany. The walls were a deep, somber green. This was not her room.

Oh, she realized, her mind slowly, painfully, piecing things together. I’m still at the Clifford’s estate.

Her head hurt. It was a dull, familiar, thudding ache behind her eyes. She shoved the feeling aside. This was nothing. She had experienced far worse pain than this during her past episodes. This was just the dull, throbbing echo of her body’s betrayal.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows. The movement was slow, her muscles stiff. She was in a nightgown. A simple, practical, flannel one. Not hers. It must, she realized, belong to Weston’s sister.

It was then, as she sat up, that she saw him.

He was a dark, rumpled shape, slumped in a chair that had been pulled up to the very edge of her bed. His head was on the mattress, resting on his folded arms, right by her hip.

He was fast asleep.

It was Rowan.

His cravat was gone, his shirt collar was open. His hair, usually so perfect, was a complete, boyish mess, falling over his forehead. He looked exhausted. He looked young. And he had, she realized with a sudden, painful lurch in her chest, been waiting.

A small, genuine, and utterly unconflicted smile touched her lips. He was always there.

She wanted to get off the bed. She wanted a glass of water. She tried to move, to slip her legs over the side of the mattress without waking him.

But the slightest rustle of the sheets, the tiniest shift of her weight, was enough.

He woke up instantly. Not slowly, like a civilian, but like a soldier, his head snapping up, his body tensing for a fight.

His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and for one, brief, terrible second, full of a raw fear.

"Ines..." he said. His voice was a low, hoarse, sleep-roughened rasp.

He saw her. He saw that she was awake, that her eyes were open, that she was looking at him.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t ask a question. He lunged.

He fell forward from the chair, half-kneeling, and threw his arms around her. It was not a polite hug. It was a desperate, crushing, grateful embrace. He buried his face in her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her back so tightly she could barely breathe.

"Thank goodness," he whispered, his voice thick. "Thank God. You are alright."

Ines was startled, her own arms frozen for a second, before she, too, relaxed. She returned the hug, her small hands coming up to pat his broad, strong back.

"I’m sorry, Rowan," she said, her own voice sounding strange and weak. "I’m so sorry. I ruined your fun, and the hunt, and..."

He pulled back, his hands gripping her shoulders. His face was a mask of self-loathing. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice fierce. "This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let you come here. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I knew the sun, the excitement... I am an idiot."

He pulled her back in, his hug gentler this time, his chin resting on the top of her head.

He pulled away again, but his hands stayed on her shoulders. He looked at her, his eyes, still red-rimmed, searching her face. His expression changed. The relief was gone, replaced by that hard look. The look that meant he was interrogating someone.

"Ines," he said, his voice low and serious. "Did someone offend you today? Did someone... bully you?"

Ines was completely, totally, confused. "What?" she asked, her head tilting. "Bully me? At a hunt? Rowan, what are you talking about? Where is this coming from?"

"The doctor," Rowan said, his grip tightening. "Weston called him from town. He has been here. He... he said this was an ’episode.’ But not in the usual way."

Rowan looked away, as if he couldn’t quite say the words. "He said your heart is stable. He said this... this collapse... was caused by... by severe ’emotional stress.’ He asked if you had received a profound shock. Or... or if you had been badly frightened. Or if someone had said something to you."

Rowan’s eyes snapped back to hers, and they were no longer just worried. They were furious. "So I am asking you, Ines. Who was it? What did they say?"