Page 15 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 15

Unexpected

T he basket’s weight pulled at Marguerite’s arms as she and Betty crossed the tenant farm’s muddy yard. Her boots sank into the soft earth with each step, the leather already stained despite her attempts to pick a clear path. Behind her, wagon wheels had carved deep ruts in the ground, marking where deliveries of grain and supplies had passed.

Mrs. Hayworth emerged from the cottage, wiping her hands on her apron. “My Lady! We weren’t expecting you today.”

“The supplies for the barn couldn’t wait.” Marguerite shifted the basket, her fingers aching from its weight. “How is Mary’s cough?”

“Much improved, thanks to his lordship’s medicines.” The farmer’s wife hurried forward to take the basket. “Though I must say, we never expected such kindness from—” She broke off, color rising in her cheeks.

“From the mad Viscount?” Marguerite’s voice held no censure. “I imagine many things about Lord Guildford prove unexpected.”

Mrs. Hayworth’s expression softened. “He’s changed since your engagement, My Lady. Why, just this morning, he stopped by to check on our roof repairs. Insisted on inspecting the work himself, though the rain was starting.”

Marguerite glanced at the slate roof, noting the new tiles. “He’s been here today?”

“Left not an hour ago, saying something about checking the far pasture.” Mrs. Hayworth gestured toward the barn. “Though with this weather coming on, he might have sought shelter.”

As if summoned by her words, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the hills. Marguerite felt the first heavy drops strike her face.

“Let me see these supplies stored before the weather worsens.” She reclaimed the basket from Mrs. Hayworth. “No need for you to leave your chores. Betty, help Mrs. Hayworth take down the laundry before the rain starts in earnest.”

“But My Lady—”

“Is perfectly capable of walking to the barn.” Marguerite was already moving across the yard. “Please, return to your work. I'll be back soon.”

The barn doors creaked as she pushed them open with her shoulder. The familiar scents of hay and horse greeted her, along with blessed dryness. She picked her way between stacked bales, the basket’s contents clinking with each step.

A sound caught her attention—something between a gasp and a whimper coming from the back of the barn. She set the basket aside, moving deeper into the shadowed space.

She found Tristan in the hayloft, sprawled across loose straw as though he’d merely meant to rest for a moment. His coat lay discarded beside him, his cravat loose around his throat, but his expression stopped her—features twisted in distress, hands clenching against invisible enemies.

“No,” he muttered, his voice raw. “God, no. Not again.”

Marguerite’s skirts rustled against the ladder rungs as she climbed. Her feet found a perch on rough wood as she pulled herself into the loft.

“Tristan?” She kept her voice soft, remembering how he sometimes startled at sudden sounds. “My Lord?”

He didn’t wake. His head thrashed against the straw, sweat darkening the hair at his temples despite the cool air. She moved closer, close enough to catch the words he mumbled between harsh breaths.

“Can’t…the music…make it stop…”

The nightmare held him firmly in its grip. Marguerite knelt beside him. She’d heard stories of men lost in such dreams—how they might lash out, mistaking friend for foe.

“Tristan.” She inclined her voice louder, though she didn’t touch him. “You’re dreaming. You’re safe.”

His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling in sharp movements. One hand rose, fingers curled as though reaching for something—or someone.

“Henry,” he gasped. “The ballroom…have to…”

Thunder cracked overhead. Tristan’s whole body jerked, a sound like a wounded animal escaping his throat. Before she could think better of it, Marguerite caught his reaching hand.

“You’re safe,” she repeated, lacing her fingers through his. “You’re in the Hayworths’ barn. The war is over. You’re safe.”

His fingers tightened around hers with bruising force. She didn’t pull away; instead, she used her free hand to brush sweat-dampened hair from his forehead.

“Listen to my voice,” she murmured. “Feel my hand in yours. This is real. The rest is a memory.”

His eyes snapped open. He stared at her without recognition for a moment, his gaze haunted by whatever horrors he’d revisited in dreams. Then awareness flooded back, along with shame.

He tried to pull away, but she maintained her grip on his hand. “Don’t.”

“Marguerite?” Her name emerged rough, disbelieving. “What are you—” He broke off, throat bobbing as he registered their position, their joined hands, the evidence of his weakness.

“Delivering supplies,” she said matter-of-factly. “Though I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“You shouldn’t…” He pushed himself upright, though he didn’t release her hand. “That is, I was merely…”

“Seeking solitude?” She shifted to sit beside him, her skirt brushing his leg. “Or hiding from the memories?”

Color stained his cheeks. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“Why? Because it proves you are human rather than the unfeeling creature you pretend to be?”

His free hand raked through his hair, destroying what remained of its order. “Because it proves everything they say about me. The mad Viscount, lost in his personal demons, unfit for—”

“For what?” She tightened her grip as he tried again to pull away. “For society? For marriage? For basic human compassion?”

“For you.” The words escaped him like bullets, sharp and devastating.

Thunder rolled again, closer now. Rain throbbed against the barn’s roof, creating a beat that matched Marguerite’s pulse.

“I believe,” she said softly, “that I am perfectly capable of deciding what I’m fit for.”

He barked out a short sound. “Are you? When you don’t even know what manner of monster—”

“The only monster here is the one you’ve invented in your mind.” She reached up, letting her palm rest against his cheek. “The one that tells you nightmares make you weak. That memories make you unworthy.”

He leaned into her touch despite himself. “You don’t understand.”

“Then allow me to.” Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone, catching the lingering dampness there. “Tell me what haunts you. Let me help carry this weight you insist on bearing alone.”

His eyes met hers, and she glimpsed the inner struggle behind them—need against fear, trust against instinct. His hand rose to cover hers, resting against his face.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted quietly.

“Then we’ll figure it out together.” She shifted closer until their shoulders touched. “Starting with this moment, in this barn, where no one exists except us.”

The rain continued its steady percussion above them. Neither moved, neither spoke, yet something loosened in the space between one breath and the next.

A beginning. Or perhaps an ending.

Or a moment of grace amid the storm.

Rain pattered against the barn’s roof in irregular beats. Hay rustled beneath them as Tristan leaned towards her, his shoulder pressing more firmly against hers.

“It was a ball,” he said, at last, his voice barely resounding above the storm. “In Madrid. We received intelligence about French movements, but the embassy insisted on proceeding with their celebration.”

Marguerite remained still, hardly daring to breathe lest she break this fragile moment of trust.

“The music started.” His fingers tightened around hers. “A waltz, like the one we danced at the fair. Everything seemed perfectly normal until—” He stopped speaking mid-sentence.

“Until?”

“The explosion.” The words came out broken. “The ballroom…there was fire everywhere. People screaming. Henry—Lord Hoffman—he was closest to the doors. I tried to reach him, but the flames…”

Understanding spread slowly in her heart. “That’s why you avoid gatherings. Why music affects you so deeply.”

“Among other reasons.” He caressed her palm without seeming to notice. “The physicians called it battle fatigue. Said it would pass with time.”

“Has it?”

“Some days.” He stared at their joined hands. “Other days, the memories ambush me without warning. A piece of music. A crowd’s laughter. The smell of smoke from a hearth fire.”

Marguerite turned her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “Is that why you sought solitude here?”

“I meant to check the pasture fencing.” His mouth twisted. “But the weather reminded me of that night. The thunder…sometimes it sounds like…”

“Like the explosion?”

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes. “I thought if I rested here for a moment, gathered my strength…” A harsh laugh escaped him. “Instead, I proved myself every bit the madman they claim.”

“Stop.” She shifted to face him fully, her free hand turning his face toward her. “You survived something terrible. Something that would break lesser men entirely. These memories don’t make you mad—they make you human.”

“A rather inconvenient humanity.” But some of the tension had left his shoulders. “Especially for a man meant to be planning his wedding.”

They both considered what he’d said. Marguerite forced herself to release his face, though she maintained her grip on his hand.

“Our arrangement needn’t continue,” she said softly. “If you truly wish to end it—”

“Is that what you think I want?” His voice roughened. “To end this? To return to my solitude and watch you marry Lord Edgecombe?”

“Then what do you want?”

“Things I’ve no right to want. Things I can’t possibly deserve.”

“Why?” She leaned closer, catching his familiar scent. “Because of your nightmares? Because you bear scars from surviving horror?”

“Because I’m not the man you deserve,” he said almost desperately. “Because every time you look at me with understanding rather than judgment, I want—” He couldn’t continue.

“Want what?”

Instead of answering, he disentangled their hands, but before she could mourn the loss of contact, his fingers settled against her cheek.

“Want to believe I might be worthy of that understanding.” His thumb brushed across her skin.

Thunder cracked overhead, but this time he didn’t flinch. His entire focus remained on her face as though memorizing every detail.

“Then believe it,” she whispered. “Because it’s true. Stop fighting whatever exists between us and simply—”

His lips brushed hers so softly she might have imagined it. A touch like a question, tentative and uncertain. Then he started to withdraw, and something inside her rebelled.

Her hands caught his face, holding him still as she returned the kiss. She felt his sharp intake of breath, the moment of tension before his arms wrapped around her, drawing her closer.

Time stretched like honey, passing in heartbeats rather than minutes. The rain’s steady percussion faded beneath the sound of their breathing, the rustle of hay as they shifted closer. When they finally parted, Tristan rested his forehead against hers.

“We shouldn’t…”

“Probably not.” She smoothed her hands down his chest, feeling his heart race beneath her palm. “Though I find myself remarkably unconcerned with should or shouldn’t.”

His lips lifted ever so slightly at the corners. “Even with your reputation at stake?”

“My reputation?” She laughed softly. “I believe we thoroughly destroyed that the moment I agreed to our arrangement.”

His arms tightened around her. “I never meant—”

“I know.” She pressed closer, letting her head rest against his shoulder. “Just as I know, you’re far more than you pretend to be.”

He didn’t deny it. His cheek settled against her hair as the storm raged beyond their sanctuary. She closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat beneath her ear. His fingers traced patterns against her back.

“What happens when the memories return? When the nightmares prove stronger than my control?”

“Then we overcome them.” She lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Unless you’d prefer to continue hiding in barns alone?”

His lips curved faintly once more. “I believe I prefer your company to solitude.”

“Good.” She settled back against his chest. “Because I’ve grown rather appreciative of your company as well.”

They remained there as the storm gradually passed, wrapped in each other and the understanding that their arrangement had evolved into something neither had anticipated.

Something real.

Something worth fighting for.