heart had always belonged to Ian. But Ian had not wanted her heart.
He had abandoned it.
Sweat broke out on her skin and she closed her eyes. God, she hated this part. The moment when she realizedhow much she needed her medicine. Especially at the mention of the past. “You make too many promises.”
He blanched.
It was a cruel thing for her to say and her heart cried out at the way she could wound him now. Her savior.
“Do you wish to talk of him?” he asked, despite the tension marring his face.
Eva licked her lips. Her hands were beginning to tremble. Not a propitious sign. “Who?”
“Hamilton,” he bit out. “Do you wish—do you wish to know how he died?”
“No,” she whispered, averting her eyes. “I have no wish to speak of him.” How she wished tears could sting her eyes. But she didn’t cry at the past anymore. She couldn’t think about it. Or she would drown. “Or anything else.”
“Should I restrain my comments to the weather?”
She opened her eyes, no mercy left in her soul, not even for her savior. Not when she was unraveling so quickly. “Do you wish to talk about the war? Do you wish to tell me about the people you killed?”
His lips pressed into a hard line and then his hands balled into fists. “No, Eva.”
“The weather,” she said evenly, forcing herself to form every word perfectly even though she longed to let her head loll back against the cushions, “is a very fine topic.”
Then she closed her eyes against his questions.
Against the past.
She wasn’t mad. At least he prayed she was not.
She certainly was unstable. Of course, even if she were as sane as Plato, that place would have addled her brain. She was definitely fading in and out of laudanum-induced thoughts.
That would end. Never, absolutely never would he seethat filth cross her lips again. It would be a long road through her withdrawals, which would not even begin until every last drop of laudanum was burned from her stomach. And then . . . then she would be driven wild with need for days, if not weeks.
Ian tried to relax against the coach seat, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He’d found her. He’d freed her. But now what?
How could he tell her about the circumstances of Hamilton’s death? Should he even try, given her state? How could he explain now that he’d failed his friend so utterly and, in turn, had failed her? She wasn’t ready to hear that she would have to live on. Even if her son and husband were dead.
And he would have to live with his dark secret, a dream that would never leave him peace. A truth that rang in his head with such vicious repetition that he would never hope for redemption. Though he would never have peace or forgiveness, at the very least he could make amends.
Ian lifted a hand to his face and rubbed it over his eyes. God. Mary had killed that keeper, but blood had slicked Eva’s hand, too. It didn’t bear imagining, the way she had had to fight for her freedom.
The keeper had deserved his brutal death. No question. But such things couldn’t be done without affecting Eva’s beautiful, battered soul.
In the last five years, he’d killed. Blood was on his hands, and they would never come clean. He’d borne witness to things he never would have believed possible. It would be unimaginable for him to judge Eva if she had killed Matthew, but for a jury of men? She’d swing for it.
A vision hit him of her small body swaying at the end of thick rope knotted about her slim throat. With howlight she was now, she’d be lucky to die in five minutes. Would he be able to have done as he’d seen others do for their loved ones—pull on her feet to help her strangle all the faster?
Thank God Mary had claimed the blame. And he prayed that she was indeed too important to be harmed or given over to the authorities.
A heavy knot formed in his throat. He swallowed quickly before letting his attention wander
He had abandoned it.
Sweat broke out on her skin and she closed her eyes. God, she hated this part. The moment when she realizedhow much she needed her medicine. Especially at the mention of the past. “You make too many promises.”
He blanched.
It was a cruel thing for her to say and her heart cried out at the way she could wound him now. Her savior.
“Do you wish to talk of him?” he asked, despite the tension marring his face.
Eva licked her lips. Her hands were beginning to tremble. Not a propitious sign. “Who?”
“Hamilton,” he bit out. “Do you wish—do you wish to know how he died?”
“No,” she whispered, averting her eyes. “I have no wish to speak of him.” How she wished tears could sting her eyes. But she didn’t cry at the past anymore. She couldn’t think about it. Or she would drown. “Or anything else.”
“Should I restrain my comments to the weather?”
She opened her eyes, no mercy left in her soul, not even for her savior. Not when she was unraveling so quickly. “Do you wish to talk about the war? Do you wish to tell me about the people you killed?”
His lips pressed into a hard line and then his hands balled into fists. “No, Eva.”
“The weather,” she said evenly, forcing herself to form every word perfectly even though she longed to let her head loll back against the cushions, “is a very fine topic.”
Then she closed her eyes against his questions.
Against the past.
She wasn’t mad. At least he prayed she was not.
She certainly was unstable. Of course, even if she were as sane as Plato, that place would have addled her brain. She was definitely fading in and out of laudanum-induced thoughts.
That would end. Never, absolutely never would he seethat filth cross her lips again. It would be a long road through her withdrawals, which would not even begin until every last drop of laudanum was burned from her stomach. And then . . . then she would be driven wild with need for days, if not weeks.
Ian tried to relax against the coach seat, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He’d found her. He’d freed her. But now what?
How could he tell her about the circumstances of Hamilton’s death? Should he even try, given her state? How could he explain now that he’d failed his friend so utterly and, in turn, had failed her? She wasn’t ready to hear that she would have to live on. Even if her son and husband were dead.
And he would have to live with his dark secret, a dream that would never leave him peace. A truth that rang in his head with such vicious repetition that he would never hope for redemption. Though he would never have peace or forgiveness, at the very least he could make amends.
Ian lifted a hand to his face and rubbed it over his eyes. God. Mary had killed that keeper, but blood had slicked Eva’s hand, too. It didn’t bear imagining, the way she had had to fight for her freedom.
The keeper had deserved his brutal death. No question. But such things couldn’t be done without affecting Eva’s beautiful, battered soul.
In the last five years, he’d killed. Blood was on his hands, and they would never come clean. He’d borne witness to things he never would have believed possible. It would be unimaginable for him to judge Eva if she had killed Matthew, but for a jury of men? She’d swing for it.
A vision hit him of her small body swaying at the end of thick rope knotted about her slim throat. With howlight she was now, she’d be lucky to die in five minutes. Would he be able to have done as he’d seen others do for their loved ones—pull on her feet to help her strangle all the faster?
Thank God Mary had claimed the blame. And he prayed that she was indeed too important to be harmed or given over to the authorities.
A heavy knot formed in his throat. He swallowed quickly before letting his attention wander
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