Page 24

Lydia

Lydia dazedly blinked the sleep away from her eyes. Her heart swelled, hope lifting the organ high in her chest. As it had the past two days. She lifted her head from the mattress, pushing up in her chair. And the organ plummeted back down.

Still. Silent. No change.

His cheeks seemed paler now. Though she wasn’t sure if they truly were or if it was the anxiety bleeding into every corner of her person, taking root and causing more worrisome signs to torment her with.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing back the burn. They ached, and a pulsing pain weaved itself deep in her skull. Too many tears, too much tension. Her bones felt brittle, her body sore, and a sharp twinge radiated in her side.

Three days. No change.

“I brought you some broth, my lady.”

Her gaze drifted to Porter. She didn’t bother moving her head. It was too great an effort. Sitting here in the chair by the bedside, whispering prayers and pleas to Malcolm, was all she was able to muster.

A warm mug found her hand, and two solid hands helped her cup it.

“You must eat something, Lady Bentley. You’ll wither away to nothing if you don’t.”

How could she eat? When the man lying before her wasn’t able to? Her stomach rebelled, but she lifted the broth to her lips, the ceramic clattering against her teeth from her trembling hands. Porter helped steady her.

Lydia sighed, squared her shoulders, and took a small sip.

The hot liquid burned and sloshed in her belly.

But she forced another sip. She was of no use to anyone if she fainted from hunger.

She had responsibilities, children, Freddy, who all depended on her.

And as much as her heart screamed at her, demanding she suffer the same as the man lying before her. She knew she had to be strong.

“There you go, my lady. You know Mallie would have my head when he wakes up if he knew I’d let you go on without sustenance.”

Her gaze lifted to Porter’s dark one. He still held so much optimism. Every time he spoke of Malcolm, he was sure the man would wake. She wanted to believe it, too. But as each day passed, a small sliver of that hope drifted away.

Porter took the mug from her. “I’ll leave this on the table here for you. But I want you to finish it, my lady. And I’m going to come back later with solid food. And you’ll eat that, too. He wouldn’t want you to be doing this to yourself.”

She nodded but couldn’t manage any words. Porter’s features softened, his eyes welling slightly. “He’ll be with us again soon.” And then he slipped from the room.

The silence surrounded her, settled over her, haunting. Because even with all other sound absent, she could barely hear his shallow breaths. Shallow breaths that were the sole proof that the man she loved lying before her remained alive.

What she wouldn’t give to hear that soft rumbling brogue. To see those lips curling around her name. Her eyes misted, his unmoving form growing blurry. To have her heart melt at another affectionate “lass”.

To tell him how much she loved him.

She’d said the words, but she’d never explained how much.

Love was too paltry a word. It didn’t encompass all the emotions he’d stirred inside her.

How her heart beat stronger now because of him.

How every time she saw a hellbores flower, her chest lit up.

How the smell of leather was now just as comforting as the familiar scent of her children, a reminder of home and warmth.

Emotion rose in her throat and caught there. Closing it off. Constricting.

She forced it down. Forced a breath from her lungs. Forced herself to hold on to hope.