Page 39 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter thirty-seven

Mira

A fterward, I lay spent in Baird’s arms, my body still humming with pleasure that lingered like an echo in my skin.

My head rested at the center of his chest, his arm draped loosely across my upper back—warm, steady, anchoring.

I took a breath and began my questions again, careful now, my voice low.

I didn’t look at his face. Somehow, keeping my eyes away felt like the only way to hold on to my equilibrium, to keep the emotional tide at bay—at least for a little while longer.

“Can you tell me about Agnes?” I asked softly, finally ready to hear the truth.

Baird was quiet for several long moments before he answered.

“She was the loveliest thing I’d ever seen when we met,” he said, voice low. “So young—just twenty-one. Not even twenty-two yet when we married a few months later.” He paused, eyes far away now.

“I was thirty-seven at the time. Old enough to be settled with a wife, but somehow I had avoided it until then. Her father was one of my biggest clients here—shipping abroad their fine wool fabric from the mill. After I left the Royal Navy, I started a shipping company with a partner. We sailed first out of Glasgow, then later from here in Edinburgh.”

He drew in a breath, then continued, slower now. “I was friendly with her older brother, Aillig—he worked as his father’s bookkeeper. One night, he invited me to dinner, and I accepted. She lived with them, just up the road. Her mother had died when she was very young.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I knew it was a setup the moment I walked in. But she was so beautiful, I didn’t care.”

He looked down at his hands for a long moment. “She wasn’t the kind of woman I’d been drawn to before. Agnes was quiet…demure. The type who was content to let others decide things for her.”

I lifted my head, just briefly, eyes searching his face. “What kind of women had you been drawn to?” I asked, unable to hide the curiosity in my voice.

He gave a crooked grin. “Decisive. Assertive. Smart-mouthed.”

I caught the edge in his tone. That was directed at me.

“Agnes made me feel needed,” he said after a moment. “And I liked that, I suppose. In some ways, she reminded me of my younger brother, Edan. He died in a hunting accident when we were just children. He looked up to me. Always wanted my guidance.”

He swallowed hard, gaze distant again.

“Maybe I was trying to prove I could protect someone. I thought…that’s what a husband was supposed to do. She was fragile. She needed me.”

This was harder to hear than I’d expected.

Listening to him talk about Agnes, everything shifted—his grief, his guilt, the way he carried it all so quietly.

Suddenly, it made sense. Whatever this was between us, I couldn’t pretend she wasn’t part of it.

The loss of Agnes had branded him, shaped him, molded him into the man lying beside me now.

“I was still traveling then,” Baird said, voice distant. “To France, ports in England, Denmark, the Netherlands—trying to secure new contracts. My absences were hard on her, but I didn’t understand how hard. I thought she knew what it took to grow the company…for our future.”

He let out a long, slow breath. “We married six months after we met that night. And shortly after we returned from our honeymoon, I left again—for a month. We were having a ship built near Amsterdam.” His eyes flicked to mine, not quite meeting them.

“I’d ordered a three-masted vessel with a new design—pear-shaped hull, wide at the bottom, narrow on the deck.

Since ships were taxed based on deck size, it was a way to reduce operating costs. ”

He paused, his voice softening. “But we ran into issues with the shipyard. Delays. And that pushed my return back further than I’d planned.” His gaze dropped. “I wrote to her every week. I missed her so.”

He went quiet, his hand gently stroking my hair in silence. I wasn’t sure who he’d paused for—me, to give the weight of it all a chance to settle…or himself because continuing was too painful.

“I was anxious to return to her,” Baird said eventually, his voice low.

“But when I did…I didn’t recognize the woman I’d married.

” He swallowed hard. “She was in the library when I arrived—her hair unwashed, her skin so pale she looked like a ghost. Aillig’s wife, Mary, was with her, trying to get her to eat something, bathe herself.

But Agnes just sat there, staring out the window, rocking softly. ”

He looked down. “She barely even acknowledged me. I thought she was punishing me for being gone so long. And at first…I was angry.” He paused, then continued, quieter. “Mary told me the truth. That Agnes suffered from what they called melancholia back then. I’d had no idea. Not until that moment.”

“I confronted her father. And he confirmed it. Said he’d had a specialist treat her before—someone who’d helped her greatly. I was desperate, so I sent for the doctor immediately. ”

He took a breath, as if bracing himself. “He resumed the treatments. That’s what he called them. Treatments. But some of them were…brutal. Inhumane. They submerged her in tubs filled with ice water multiple times a day. Her screams echoed through the halls. She fought them—every time.”

His voice cracked. “I felt powerless to help her.”

There was a long silence before he continued. “After months, she started to improve…at least outwardly. She began trying to resume her routines. Some days she was animated and lively again, and I thought— I thought I had my wife back. ”

He shook his head. “But it was a rollercoaster. Her moods would shift without warning. Up and down…up and down again. If she were alive now, I’m sure she’d be diagnosed with bipolar disorder—or something similar. But back then, there were no medications. No lasting treatments.”

He looked away. “Her brother finally told me that the doctor had once recommended marriage as a possible cure. That perhaps being a wife and eventually a mother might focus her, take her mind off her sorrows. But marrying a man who was constantly away…it only made her worse. I see that now.”

His next words came out as a whisper. “I was helpless. And it hurt to see her like that. I hired a full-time nurse. Mary visited daily. And I—” His voice broke.

My heart ached for him, listening to the quiet sorrow in his voice as he retold the story. It wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a lesion that could never heal, one that had altered the course of two lives.

He took a deep breath and continued. “I started spending more and more time away from Edinburgh. On business. Just to escape the pain of watching her disappear.”

“I left again for a few weeks,” Baird said, quieter now, “and when I returned…the woman who met me at the door was someone I hadn’t seen in a long time.”

He smiled faintly, eyes distant.

“She told me we’d been invited to a ball. Said she’d had a new dress made—fine silk, the color of whisky.” He lifted his hand and gestured toward the room down the hall. “That dress, the one in the trunk—it’s the same.”

His gaze drifted as he recalled the moment. “She was so excited. The night of the ball, she was radiant. Luminous. I let myself believe her troubles were behind us. Foolishly, maybe—but God, she looked so happy.”

He paused again, voice thickening. “We danced all night. I couldn’t keep my hands off her. Every man in the room looked at her with envy.”

His jaw tensed. “But there was a man there that night. French, dark-haired, slim. I noticed him watching her.” Baird’s eyes clouded, the memory growing heavier. “Later in the evening, I found her on a terrace overlooking the garden. She was speaking with him. Just the two of them.”

His lips pressed into a line. “When I approached, he smiled. Said I had a lovely wife. Kissed her hand.”

He paused again—then shook his head. “When I turned to ask his name…he was gone.”

It hurt— unbelievably —to hear the love in Baird’s voice. The pain. The memory of someone he’d lost, something he still carried like a wound that refused to close.

My heart broke for him.

But it broke for me too .

For the foolish hopes I hadn’t even realized I’d begun to entertain. The fragile, beautiful things I hadn’t yet imagined might be possible between us.

So foolish.

Baird traced slow, absent circles on my back with one finger. I’m sure he meant it to comfort me. But each touch only deepened the ache in my chest. It didn’t feel like affection anymore—it felt like a memory. A gesture shaped by someone else. Someone he had truly loved.

And I?

I felt like an impostor.

“I took Agnes home that night,” he said softly. “Throughout our marriage, she never denied me. But I don’t think she ever enjoyed lovemaking—not the way I did.”

He paused, his voice lowering just slightly.

“But that night was different.” He stared ahead, not looking at me now. “She was like a woman possessed. I noticed, over the next few weeks, she seemed…stronger,” Baird said, his voice distant. “More passionate with me. There was a gleam in her eye I’d never seen before.”

He hesitated, thumb absently rubbing along my spine.

“She told me she had a surprise for me—something she wanted to give me before I left on my next voyage. One night, she handed me a red leather box. Inside was the portrait.”

Now I understood. The portrait—it had been for him. A link in a chain of events that bound Agnes and Baird…and now, inexorably, me to them both. Created by the painter, the one still pulling the strings. A chill crept through me as the puzzle pieces fell into place.

“She was wearing the same silk dress she’d worn to the ball.

Her eyes gleamed. She looked exactly as she had that night—cheeks flushed, alive, happy for once.

It was an exquisite likeness. I asked who had painted it.

” He dropped his hand from my back, freeing me briefly from the quiet ache of his touch.

But without it, I felt suddenly unmoored. Unanchored.

Then I saw his other hand, clenched tightly in the sheets.

He was fighting his way through the memories, just as I was trying to find my footing inside them.

“She said it was the French gentleman from the party. Bastien Bethune. ” The hatred in his voice when he said the name filled the room like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore. It clung to everything, lingering in the silence that followed.

“I was leaving again, just for a few weeks. The ship we’d commissioned in Amsterdam was finally ready to launch for her maiden voyage back to Edinburgh. But when I returned…Agnes was in a state I’d never seen before.”

Despite the sting of it, I lifted my head to watch his face as he spoke. The love he still carried for Agnes was written there, plain and unguarded, and though it bruised me deep inside to see it so raw, it was the thought of him reliving that pain that unsettled me most.

“She was bedridden. Mary and Aillig stayed with her ’round the clock. She rambled incoherently. Refused to eat. Couldn't sleep. She kept saying she had to get away…that he was coming for her.”

“I asked who she meant.” His jaw clenched. “She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. The doctor prescribed a sleeping draught. We dosed her regularly just to keep her calm. After weeks of this, she regained some clarity and begged me to take her to the cottage on Arran.”

He looked at me then, a shadow behind his eyes. “You know it’s a humble place. But she seemed…at peace, at first. Just to be away from Edinburgh.” He paused. “But then one night, she started panicking again. Then there was a knock at the door. ”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “When I opened it, it was him . The artist.”

He stared straight ahead, as if seeing it all again. “I believe now she knew what he was. But I didn’t. I thought he was just a jealous lover. I accused her of being unfaithful.”

His breath trembled. “She dropped to her knees and begged me to believe her. She screamed…” A pause. “That he wanted to take her soul .”

“I came at him with my blade drawn,” Baird said, his voice hollow, “but he moved with a quickness that defied logic. He threw me across the room like I was nothing. A doll . I’d never seen a man with such strength.”

He swallowed hard. “I got up. Came at him again. And he struck me—across the face. My head cracked against the stone floor.” His hand trembled slightly where it gripped the sheet. “I drifted in and out of consciousness. But I heard him speak.”

Baird’s voice dropped. “He said I was a man just like his father—always believing a blade could solve anything. Always underestimating him.”

A long pause.

“He said he wanted me to see how wrong I was.”

Another breath. A ragged one. “He drained me. Almost dry.”

He closed his eyes.

“And then he made me watch …as he killed Agnes.”

What followed wasn’t just silence—it was weight, pressure, like the air had turned to stone.

“Then I heard him— Bastien —telling me to drink. He sliced his wrist and held it to my mouth. I was out of my mind with pain—physical, emotional. I was fading away. I was disgusted by the thought of drinking blood, and what little strength I had left, I used to resist him. But he enthralled me, controlled my actions. And I drank. ”

His voice broke around the next words. “He said…he wanted me to understand.” Baird shook his head slowly, broad shoulders slumped. “But I didn’t know what he meant.”

Suddenly—shamefully—I needed to get away.

I couldn’t take any more. I couldn’t breathe under the weight of it, the story unspooling in my mind like a film I couldn’t pause: the fragile woman who wore my face—the one from my visions, my nightmares—meeting a brutal, bloody end, and the good man beside me now, forced to watch her die, only to suffer the final, exquisite cruelty of having his own humanity torn away.

The story was too vast, too impossible. My mind reeled, overwhelmed, unable to take in another word. I pushed away from him, hands trembling, my entire body screaming for it to stop—for some space, some silence, anything to make it bearable again.

“Please,” I whispered, then louder, begged , “I can’t take any more right now. I need some time. I won’t leave. But I just… can’t. ”

The sob tore from my throat before I could swallow it down. I grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed, wrapped it tightly around myself like armor, and fled down the hall.

Baird didn’t say a word.

He let me go.