Claude Everthorne was not a man to feel guilt. He had fought wars, made hard choices, and suppressed rebellions with little regard for consequences.
Standing at the door of the manor, water seeping through his tunic, observing his men carrying Amelia's unconscious form in from the rain, he felt a strange heaviness in his chest.
She was pale-too pale. Her golden brown hair was rain-darkened, clumped against her face, lips blue-kissed from the cold. Blood stained the breast of her riding dress, oozing from a gash at her temple and soaking through the material at her side.
The servants had convened, frozen and subdued. Their eyes did not sparkle at their mistress's arrival with relief but with something graver. Something quieter: a seething resentment.
And it was all directed towards him.
"Take her to her apartments," he barked, his voice sharp, angling a painful knot in his throat.
The guards paused for just a moment before compliance. As they bore her up the sweeping staircase, a piercing look from Claude dispersed the remaining servants. All but one.
Mrs. Thimble, the chief housekeeper, stood tall, her creased face etched with open disapproval. "Doctor Pembrook has been summoned," she told him icily. Then, after a moment, she added, "I daresay, Your Grace, you will be glad to hear Lady Amelia was discovered before the wolves reached her."
Claude gritted his teeth. The words were designed to hurt. He allowed them.
A few minutes on, he was at the edge of Amelia's bed, his eyes following as the doctor pulled off the gory bandages. The physician's scowl grew darker with each inspection, his fingers dancing rapidly but respectfully over Amelia's ribs, leg, temple cut.
"She's received quite the drubbing," Gregor growled. "Bruised ribs, probable fracture. The wound to her side is not deep, but she will hurt there. The worst of it is exhaustion and chill. She was outside for hours, Your Grace."
Claude's fists balled at his sides. He did not need reminding.
Gregor completed bandaging her wounds before standing up. "She'll require rest, heat, and close observation. If she comes down with a fever, have someone fetch me at once." His voice grew stern. "Although I imagine you have plenty of willing hands here to attend to her."
Claude caught the unspoken unlike you.
As the physician departed, silence enveloped the room. The maids moved in quietness, their normal compliance tempered with something more obstinate, more recalcitrant. The message was unmistakable. They blamed him.
And perhaps they had a right to.
The last things he had said to Amelia when she left had been cold. He had thrown her into the storm with his indifference, cut her in front of their friends. He had sent her off without a thought, sure she would be back.
But she almost hadn't.
By the doorway, Isolde stood waiting, white and unsure. "Claude, I—"
"Go."
His voice was low, but with a keen edge that made her jump.
She hesitated for one instant before melting away, feeling as if—for the first time—she was no longer wanted.
Claude faced Amelia again.
She was still in bed, still, her breathing shallow, her lashes a deep brown against her cheeks. The sight of her in this manner, broken and battered, disturbed something within him.
She was always so tough. Even without him, she had kept the estate running, commanded respect. But tonight, because of him, she had come close to being lost.
For the first time in years, Claude felt something perilously close to regret.
He sat beside the bed and breathed slowly.
He would make this right.
Even though he had no idea how.