Page 30

“Cannot? Or will not?”

“Both,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t need to be saved, Dr. Redchester. Especially not by a man who proposes out of duty rather than desire.”

“That’s not—” he began, but she was already turning away, her movements unsteady.

“Thank you for your assistance today,” she said, as if they were suddenly strangers again. “The children benefited from your expertise.”

She took two steps toward the house before her legs gave way. Graham was at her side in an instant, catching her before she hit the ground. She felt impossibly light in his arms, a fragile collection of angles and determination.

“Mrs. Welling!” he called sharply. “Your Grace!”

Abigail’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused but still conscious. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Just needed to sit for a moment.”

“On the ground?” he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

“Seemed convenient at the time.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

He checked her pulse—rapid but steady—and felt her forehead. No fever, just exhaustion. Relief washed through him, followed quickly by frustration.

“You impossible woman,” he muttered. “You stubborn, infuriating?—”

“I said no,” she murmured, “and you still caught me.”

The simple observation broke through his anger, leaving something rawer beneath. She had rejected him, yet here she was in his arms.

“Always,” he said quietly.

Whether you accept me or not. Whether you need me or not. I will always catch you when you fall.

CHAPTER 9

Hands closing around her throat. A wall of brick against her back. The sounds of London fading as her vision narrowed to a single point—his eyes, feral and hungry.

“Pretty lady. Fancy lady.”

Darkness closing in. Her lungs burning, starved. The useless scrabble of her fingernails against his wrists.

Can’t breathe. Can’t scream.

A hot, acrid breath against her cheek. “Give it over, or I’ll open you up proper.”

Her legs buckled. The ground rushing up. The world spinning away?—

Abigail jerked awake with a strangled gasp. Her throat felt raw, her pulse thundering in her ears as she clawed at phantom hands.

Warm hands encompassed hers with a firm, but gentle touch.Voices swam through her panic. Familiar, but distant.

“Easy there. You’re alright.” A familiar voice, one that had soothed children and made promises among the laundry.

The low soothing tones washed over her. She blinked against the hazy light, shapes solidifying around her.

“Abigail, dear. You’re safe.” Her mother’s worried face hovered above her, cool fingers brushing damp hair from her forehead.

Another figure loomed behind—broad-shouldered, dark-haired. Graham. His blue eyes were sharp with concern, his expression tightly controlled.

“No,” she rasped as he approached with a small brown bottle. “No laudanum.”

“It will help you sleep,” he said, his clinical tone belying the gentleness of his hands as he measured the dose.