Page 41 of Duke of Myste (Braving the Elements #3)
Please let it not be blood . Please let it not be ? —
“Boot prints, Your Grace,” the coachman said, pointing to a clear impression in the soft earth beside the road. “Small ones, like a lady might wear. And see here—something disturbed the undergrowth.”
Richard knelt beside the tracks, his trained eye reading the story they told.
Jane’s boots had left deep impressions here, as though she had been walking quickly, or perhaps stumbled.
The surrounding grass was flattened in a pattern that suggested she had been thrown clear off the road, perhaps landing hard enough to roll several feet.
“The trail leads toward those oak trees,” Harriet observed, having approached quietly while Richard examined the evidence. Her voice was carefully controlled, but he could hear the fear beneath her composure.
He rose, following the disturbed vegetation with growing urgency. Every broken branch, every flattened patch of grass brought him closer to answers he desperately needed and simultaneously dreaded.
The trail was becoming clearer now—Jane had definitely left the road, whether by choice or by the force of her fall. Richard’s mind raced with possibilities, each more frightening than the last.
Had she been thrown immediately when Pandora spooked? Had she managed to maintain her seat initially, only to be unseated when the horse tried to navigate the underbrush?
“Jane!” Richard called, his voice carrying across the small, wooded area. “Jane, can you hear me?”
Silence answered him, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the afternoon breeze and the distant din of traffic on the main road.
His chest tightened with each step that brought no response to his calls.
“Richard, over here!” Harriet’s voice carried a note of alarm that made his heart stutter.
He found his sister standing beside a large oak tree, her face pale as she pointed toward something behind the massive trunk. His heart stopped entirely as he followed her gaze.
A single, torn piece of blue fabric—the same shade as Jane’s riding habit—was caught on a low branch, fluttering like a banner of distress in the air. The ground beneath showed clear signs of impact, and there were scuff marks on the bark that suggested something had hit it with considerable force.
“She’s here somewhere,” Richard said, his voice hoarse with emotion he could no longer contain. “She has to be close. Keep looking!”
The search began in earnest now, Richard’s careful examination of evidence abandoned in favor of desperate urgency, though each step felt like an eternity.
Every shadow might conceal Jane’s fallen form, every rustle of leaves might signal her attempt to call for help. His hands shook as he pushed aside undergrowth, and his breathing became labored with fear rather than exertion.
“Jane!” he called again, louder this time, his voice cracking on her name. “Please, darling, if you can hear me?—”
Then, he saw her.
Jane lay crumpled beneath a large oak tree, her riding habit torn and muddy, her beautiful dark hair fanned across the grass like spilled silk. She was utterly still, her face pale as porcelain, one hand flung outward as though reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
“Jane!” Richard bolted forward and fell to his knees beside his wife with complete disregard for his clothing or dignity.
She was breathing—shallow, rapid breaths that spoke of unconsciousness rather than sleep, but breathing nonetheless. Richard’s hands shook as he gently touched her face, searching for signs of injury while his heart hammered against his ribs with a force that threatened to consume him.
The hair at her temple was matted, and when Richard touched the spot, his fingers came up stained with blood.
“Harriet! I’ve found her!” he called, not taking his eyes off her still form. “Tell the footman to fetch Dr. Whitmore immediately!”
“Richard, is she—” Harriet’s voice broke as she knelt on Jane’s other side.
“She’s alive,” Richard said, the words carrying more prayer than certainty. “Help me get her to the carriage. Carefully now—we don’t know the extent of her injuries.”
Working together with infinite care, the siblings lifted Jane’s limp form. She felt impossibly fragile in Richard’s arms, like a bird with broken wings, and the fierce protectiveness that had surged through him then was so intense that it left him momentarily breathless.
As he carried her to the waiting carriage, her head lolled against his shoulder, and he caught the faint scent of lavender that always clung to her hair. The familiar fragrance, so achingly normal amid this terror, nearly undid him.
“Please,” he whispered against her hair, knowing she couldn’t hear him but needing to speak the words anyway. “Please be all right. Please come back to me.”
The carriage had never felt smaller or less comfortable than it did during the journey back to Myste House.
Richard held Jane carefully against his chest, monitoring every breath, every flutter of her eyelashes, every minute change in her condition.
Harriet sat across from them, her usual chatter replaced by a silence that spoke volumes about her fear.
“What do you suppose happened?” she asked quietly as they neared home.
Richard’s jaw tightened as he considered the possibilities. “Most probably something spooked Pandora—probably a snake, given how panicked she was. Jane must have been thrown off the saddle and hit her head on something. A rock, perhaps, or a tree root.”
The simple, clinical explanation did nothing to ease the self-recrimination that was eating at him from the inside like acid.
If only he had been more aware of her that morning, he could have reassured her about the gossip columns before she had a chance to work herself up into such a state.
If only he had been there to insist she take the carriage.
If only he had gone after her immediately instead of waiting.
“This falls on my shoulders,” he said quietly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Richard, don’t be ridiculous,” Harriet huffed, but he shook his head.
“She was distressed because of me. She thought I would be angry with her because of the papers. If I had handled the situation differently, if I had been there, she would never have felt the need to flee to Lydia’s for reassurance.”
“If you continue down that path,” Harriet said with gentle firmness, “you could make anything anyone’s fault. The important thing now is that she’s safe and you’re here to take care of her.”
Richard looked down at Jane’s pale face, noting the way her dark lashes fanned across her cheeks, the soft curve of her lips that had spoken tender words to him just the night before.
The thought that he could lose her—lose this fiery, challenging, wonderful woman who had become so essential to his very existence—made him feel physically ill.
“I love her, Harriet,” he murmured quietly. “I love her more than I thought was possible. The thought of losing her…”
“You haven’t lost her,” Harriet asserted, reaching across to squeeze his arm. “Jane is stronger than she appears. She will recover from this, and when she does, she will need you to be strong for her.”
As the carriage drew to a halt before Myste House, Richard gathered Jane more securely in his arms, preparing to carry her inside.
Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever recovery would be needed, he would face it all with her. Because somewhere between their wedding day and their spectacular waltz at Vauxhall, Jane Brandon had transformed into Jane Riverstone—not just in name, but in every way that truly mattered.
She was his wife. His soulmate. His heart walking around outside his body. And he would move heaven and earth to ensure that she recovered completely from this accident, which should never have happened in the first place.
The front door of Myste House opened before he could reach it, Mrs. Winter’s efficiency evident even in crises.
“The physician has been sent for, Your Grace,” she reported, her calm barely concealing her distress at seeing Jane’s condition.
“Prepare Her Grace’s chambers,” Richard commanded, already moving toward the stairs. “Fresh linens, plenty of hot water, and have Cook prepare some light broth in case she wakes up.”
“ When she wakes up,” Harriet corrected gently, following close behind. “When she wakes up, Richard. Not if.”
As Richard carried his unconscious wife up the stairs, he clung to his sister’s certainty like a lifeline.
Jane would wake up. She would recover. She would open those brilliant brown eyes and smile at him with that same combination of affection and exasperation that had become so dear to him.
She had to. Because he was only just beginning to understand what it meant to love someone completely, and he refused to accept that their story might end before it had truly begun.