Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter

once. The pain from her body seared through to her mind, unleashing the unshed tears for her father. They coursed down her cheeks, burning tears that had not touched her face since her father, with grim resolution, had put his pistol to her pony’s head, and pulled the trigger. Years of stoic discipline, of scorn for such despicable weakness, were stripped from her.
    The earl loomed above her within an instant of her headlong plunge. It is becoming quite a habit with me, he thought almost inconsequentially as he knelt down beside her. Her gown was grimy and rent with small jagged tears; blood welled up and spread, blending into and encrusting the black material. He knew with an uncanny sense that the deep rending sobs were not from her fall; nor, he guessed, did tears come easily to her. He did not attempt to speak to her or soothe her. Rather, with a sigh, he grasped her about her waist, hauled her upright, and swung her into his arms.
    She went rigid and he thought wearily that she would lash out at him again. He tightened his grip and strode on, not looking down at her.
    It did not occur to Arabella to fight him. She had tensed with shock at the touch of a man’s hands. No one save her father had ever before held her. She felt the strength of his arms, and for a fleeting instant sensed an inner strength in him, a calm self-assurance that heightened the stark emptiness deep within her.
    The earl halted a moment at the edge of the front lawn, staring thoughtfully ahead at the bright candlelit mullioned windows.
    “Is there a staircase to your room through the west entrance?” He felt her nod against his shoulder.
    As the earl turned to skirt the front doors, they were suddenly flung wide and Lady Ann waved to him. She looked frantic.
    “Justin, thank God. You have found her. We’ve been distraught with worry.
    Bring her here, quickly, quickly.”
    He leaned his face close to Arabella’s and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there seems to be no hope for it. I would have spared you if I could have. But she is your mother. I would never disobey a mother. I’m sorry for it, but there it is.”

    She said nothing at all, but she was as still as a board in his arms. He called out, “Yes, Ann, I have found her. I’ll bring her to you.” Lady Ann did not shriek or fall into hysterics. Her blue eyes fastened with disbelief on her daughter’s ravaged face. She saw the tear streaks trailing through the dirt and blood down her white cheeks. “Dear God,” she managed, then fell silent.
    The earl felt Arabella clutch at his coat as if she wanted somehow to disappear inside of him. He sensed her deep shame and said quickly, “She isn’t hurt, Ann, merely cut up a trifle from an accidental fall. It is nothing more than that. Is. Dr. Branyon still about? I think it wise that he see her.”
    Arabella gathered remnants of pride and struggled in the earl’s arms to face her mother. “I do not wish to see Dr. Branyon. Mother, I am perfectly fine. It is as he said, I simply took a stupid fall and hurt myself just a bit. If you will please let me down, sir.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” He dropped her to the ground.
    She staggered against him and would have fallen had he not slipped his arm around her waist. She had dignity, she simply had to dredge it up.
    She raised her chin, placed her hand calmly upon his arm, and walked stiffly beside him into the house.

    * * *
    Dr. Paul Branyon straightened over a now clean Arabella and said with his charming smile, “Well, my little Bella, though you were a rare mess to be sure, I can find nothing in particular wrong with you that your bath did not cure. You will be a trifle sore here and there for a couple of days, but nothing of consequence. I do, though, insist that you have a good night’s sleep.”
    This evening the lurking twinkle always present in Dr. Branyon’s brown eyes didn’t draw a smile from her. She adored him, always had, for he had been a part of her life since she was