In the disturbingly quiet room, their elevated breaths made a strange symphony. Fury radiated from him in palpable waves, and Imogen knew she was the cause of it.
“I know what just happened vindicates what you’ve been warning me against all along,” she relented. “But don’t say it,” she pleaded. “Please, not yet.”
He said nothing, remaining unnaturally still as she gently and efficiently worked to stop the bleeding so she could stitch him closed. The duke would get his wish, she thought with a defeated sigh. She’d need to empty her house of its desperate occupants. It was no longer safe for those who sought refuge here. With all haste, she’d move them to one of the other residences she’d acquired, even though they might be overrun. Gwen and Heather, a bevy of maids, and a few mothers seeking refuge with their children in the East Wing would have to be relocated. It would create instability, but something had to be done until blood ceased staining her doorstep.
The silence stretched until she felt her nerves would break. She handed him a dry cloth with which to clean the blood from his blade.
Finally, he asked, “Are you not … horrified at what I’ve done?”
She should be. She knew that. But …
“Those men were evil. They thought nothing of prostituting children and beating a woman half to death. They deserved what you did to them, and worse.”
His shoulder jerked as a sharp exhalation of amusement left him. “And here I thought you nothing but a bleeding heart with a sharp tongue. I didn’t realize how fierce you were, my lady.”
“There is much you do not know about me,” she challenged gently. “Even the moon has an entire side we never chance to see.”
“The dark side.” His words were quiet and smooth as velvet.
“Indeed.”
“I didn’t think you acquainted with darkness.” Though she couldn’t see him, she heard the humorless smile in his voice. “I’m beginning to find that I was wrong.”
“I know the darkness all too well,” she admitted as she blotted at the blood that was beginning to slow. “I know there’s a place, a solitary place deep within. One where you, alone, can go and carry those thoughts, fears, and memories you can share with no one. Even you rarely visit, because it is a place from which it is difficult to return…”
He shifted on the bench, his hand curling into a fist. Less, she realized, from the pain in his shoulder and more from the impact of her words. “I lived in that place while they…” He broke off and the tendons in his jaw flexed. “Sometimes I fear I never escaped it. That this reality is a construct and I’ll wake to find myself back in prison.”
Swallowing a lump in her throat, she checked to find that the bleeding had been sufficiently controlled for her to stitch. Turning away from him, she silently threaded the needle and then returned to apply it. He sat motionless as she pierced his flesh and pulled the thread through, bringing the edges of the wound back together. He’d need at least seven stitches, maybe more. While she worked, Imogen glanced often at his profile. Jaw tight, veins twitching at his temples. The hair at his nape was damp, though whether from a recent bath, exertion, or pain, she couldn’t tell.
“What happened to you in Constantinople?” She whispered the question that had haunted her for nearly three years. The moment she blurted it, she wanted to take it back. She was already causing him physical pain. Must she pick at his mental wounds as well?
Something told her she had to know. That he needed to share. That whatever torment had turned her gentle lover into this hard, compassionless man was worth unburdening.
His voice was deceptively light as he answered. “If I told you, you’d never sleep quietly again.”
“I don’t sleep quietly now,” she confessed.
Air compressed out of him in a scoff. Though whether amused or bitter, she couldn’t tell without seeing his features.
“You are nocturnal, then?”
“I suppose you could say that.” Imogen hesitated, and then decided that perhaps a revelation about herself would help him along. “The sun goes down and my mind seems to come to life. Sometimes for the better when I’m filled with artistic inspiration and can paint until dawn. And other times, I’ll construct scenarios and anxieties that are pure foolishness. I’ve taken up brooding of late, usually whilst raiding the kitchens or the liquor cabinet. The Brontes would be very proud.” She paused. “About the brooding and the drinking, not the snacking.”
“What does a woman like you brood about, I wonder?” he asked, with no little interest.
“Oh, lots of things. My mother’s health, my sister’s future, and the women I’m trying to protect. The recent murder in my garden…” The secrets I’m keeping, she thought to herself.
“Not the past, then?” he stated tonelessly. “Not a man?”
Only you, she wanted to say.
“Sometimes, I see light burning at Trenwyth at all hours,” she hedged, not wanting to discuss the past, lest she confess something she was not ready to reveal. “And I know that we are awake together, and I’ll sip my gin and wonder if you are drinking, as well.”
“Gin?” This was the first word he’d said with inflection, and it was that of distaste. “You can afford the best sherry, port, wine, and brandy money can buy and you sip gin?” He turned his head to spear her with a dubious look.
She shrugged, careful not to tug unduly at the stitching in her hand. “I know it’s not considered in good taste for our class, but I’m a little fond of it, all told.”
“Can’t imagine why,” he muttered, facing forward again.
“This is going to sound silly, but it’s the juniper, I think. You know that delicious smell of a freshly cut Christmas tree? Juniper reminds me of that, a little, and so gin makes me feel like I’m tasting Christmas.”
He let out a grunt, though she again had a hard time telling if it was born of amusement, derision, or pain as she pulled yet another stitch through his arm.
“I drink Scotch, mostly,” he said after a time. “Ravencroft’s is a particular favorite, though I had a valet who turned me on to fine Irish whiskey, as well.”
“O’Mara?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a cheeky sort.”
“You have no idea,” he commiserated. “Keep him away from your maids.”
“I have my hands full keeping him away from my sister.”
“God help you.” The irony in his voice was laced with a thread of humor, and Imogen’s heart lifted a little.
“Well,” she ventured, now that some of the tension had dispelled. “Now that we’ve established we’re both nocturnal creatures, if you ever need a conspirator with which to brood or to drink, I’ll offer my excellent company in both regards. If I’m not mistaken, you can see my kitchen light from your study.”
The suggested impropriety of her rash invitation worried her almost as much as the danger of his increased proximity posed to her secrets.
“You would not welcome my company when I am in such a state.” The shadows had reclaimed him, and Imogen mourned.
“Do you revisit that place in your nightmares?” she queried, feeling both concerned and bold. “Is that why you do not sleep?”