Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

E leanora had been trampled by a horse. There was no other explanation, she decided as she came awake, to feel as she did. Her left shoulder ached, her skin felt as if it had been drawn too tight, and there was no way she could move that did not produce a sudden stab of pain. Her eyes fluttered open to find herself in an unfamiliar bed, the light snores of her husband ringing rhythmically through the stillness of the room.

He was slumped in a chair, his long legs stretched before him, crossed at his booted ankles, head lolling to the side. His position looked dreadfully uncomfortable, and for a moment, confusion crowded her mind. She couldn't think of why he was here, asleep in a chair. Or what the cause of her agony was and how she had managed to find herself in this mostly undecorated guest room.

"Nando?" she managed, her voice a rusty rasp, her tone desperately dry.

He jolted awake, stunning blue eyes searing hers with their customary intensity. "My love. What is it?"

It was everything. She tried to speak, but her voice didn't want to oblige this second time.

"I'll fetch you some water," he said, shooting to his feet.

She wanted to protest, for there was some instinct deep within her that said she needed him close. But her raspy words either failed to reach him, or he ignored them. He crossed the room to where a pitcher, cup, and other small bottles sat atop a table. The sound of water filling the cup reached her, and then he turned, striding back, his countenance hewn in granite.

Instead of handing her the cup, he held it to her lips. "Drink."

It was just as well that he performed the action for her, because even her uninjured arm felt as if it had been weighed down by lead. It would seem that her entire body was weak, not just her voice. She took a hesitant sip, the water sluicing down her throat.

Instantly, she wanted more—the whole cup.

But Nando withdrew it before she could drain the entire contents. She made a sound of protest.

"You need to drink slowly," he explained. "I don't want you to make yourself ill. If you vomit your water, you'll pull the stitches and be in terrible pain."

His voice was low, soothing. Vague flashes of memory returned to her, that voice at her side in the darkness that had swirled around her, patient, loving hands stroking her hair, a cool cloth at her brow, words of encouragement. Whatever had happened to her, Nando had been here with her, a steadfast presence.

Stitches, he had said.

"W-what happened?" she managed.

His gaze searched hers, and she couldn't help but note the dark circles marring the skin beneath his eyes. "What do you remember?"

She forced her tired mind to think. "There was a man with a pistol. H-he was going to shoot you. Who was he?"

Nando's jaw tightened as he offered her another small sip of water from the cup. "He was the Earl of Levering. On my previous trip to England, I am ashamed to admit that I dallied with his wife. Levering demanded a duel to satisfy his honor, but my brother Maxim offered him a fortune instead, and Levering accepted. I believed all was forgotten, and when I returned to England, I made certain to avoid crossing paths with the countess."

Eleanora savored her small sip of water, swallowing it, but sensed that there was far more to Nando's story than what he had thus far revealed. "All was not forgotten, however?"

"No," he confirmed, grimmer than she had ever seen him. "The fortune wasn't sufficient, particularly when the countess informed her husband that she was with child and he wasn't the father. That…that I was."

Shock hit her with such force that she jolted, the movement causing pain to streak through her. She gasped sharply, stiffening.

"You must remain as still as you are able," Nando cautioned tenderly. "I am sorry to give you such a start. It's not true, Eleanora. I'm not the father of her child. She's clearly taken another lover, and in an effort to protect him, she told Levering I was the one responsible. He went mad with fury and has been intent upon killing me."

Horror replaced the pain, making her hand tremble as she reached for him. "He was the one who shot at you before?"

Nando took her right hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a reverent kiss. "He was, and so you see, my love, everything that's happened…it's my fault. All of it. It's my fault you were shot and nearly killed, and I'll never forgive myself."

Her heart ached for him. "You cannot blame yourself."

His expression was forbidding. "I can, and I must. It was my conduct that caused the association between Levering and myself. Before I left Tierney's town house, he warned me that there was evidence to suggest Levering was responsible for the attempt on my life. But I was selfish and restless, and I wanted you here to myself. I brought you into danger, Eleanora. Don't you see? I am to blame."

"You couldn't have known what Levering was capable of," she argued, wanting to reassure him. "Besides, you saved me, Nando. When he pointed the pistol at me, you attacked him with the fire poker, making him jerk his aim to the side. If you hadn't acted, I would have been shot through the heart instead of the shoulder."

He kissed her knuckles again, smiling sadly. "How like you to believe me chivalrous. I can assure you, your faith is misplaced. You never should have been shot to begin with, and I'll never forgive myself for causing you even a moment of pain."

She was growing weary again. Eleanora didn't like his dour mien or his insistence upon shouldering responsibility for the acts of a madman. But she would argue with him later, when she had more strength. For now, there was only one thing she wanted to know.

"What's happened to Levering?" she asked.

"He's been arrested and taken away to pay for his crimes," Nando said.

Calm crept over her.

"You're safe, then?"

Nando nodded, giving her fingers a squeeze. "And so are you. Levering will never hurt you again."

She managed a faint smile, her eyelids growing heavy. "Good."

And then she fell back into the abyss.

One week after Eleanora had been wounded, Nando found himself grimly pacing the hall once more as Dr. Crisfield examined her. This time, it was a different hall, for she had finally gained enough strength that Nando had felt comfortable carrying her to her own bedroom. His heart was pounding faster than if he had raced up and down the town house's staircase ten times over.

She was going to live. He knew that. At least, he felt that, given her gradual convalescence. Infection had, thus far, been avoided. Each day, she regained more of her strength. The wound she had endured had been deeper than the graze he had suffered at the hands of Levering. Her recuperation was taking longer, given the nature of her injury.

But she would live. Thank the heavens above, she would live .

No thanks to him, and he intended to begin his penance soon. He was going to leave her. In the days that followed her wounding, he had remained at her side, tending to her, scarcely sleeping, helping her to bathe, to eat. When nightmares made her cry out, he slipped into bed with her, tucking her body gently against his, and holding her. Watching her so wan and unlike herself, in so much pain, was akin to a dagger in the heart. And when he cleansed the wound on her shoulder, bandaging it as the physician had taught him, he had told himself each time that he must atone for his sins.

That he was no good for anyone. He was reckless, selfish, greedy, and—worst of all—foolish. He had allowed the woman he loved to be nearly killed. And now, he would give her everything he could to make certain she thrived without the encumbrance of his ne'er-do-well idiocy. The town house would be hers, along with the entirety of his fortune that was his to give.

And an annulment.

It had taken him some time to realize that, much like hasty weddings in England, annulments were nearly impossible. He would obtain one in Varros when he returned. No one would deny Prince Ferdinando of the House of Tayrnes in his own kingdom. There, he could do whatever he pleased.

Not that he was pleased to annul his marriage to Eleanora. The notion made his gut churn. The weeks he had spent as her husband had been the happiest he had ever known. He loved her more than he had imagined possible. And it was because he loved her—truly, selflessly, eternally—that he was going to leave her.

She would be better off without his selfish arse.

The door opened at his back, and he spun about to find Dr. Crisfield, not nearly as grim as he had been one week ago.

"How is she?" he asked, tamping down the thoughts of what he must soon do.

Crisfield smiled—a rarity for such a serious man. "Her wound is healing well. I have every confidence that Her Royal Highness is no longer in danger of contagion and that she will regain full movement of her left arm after the wound is completely healed."

Relief washed over him, quickly followed by dread.

Because Eleanora was well on her way to being whole once again. But Nando would forever be broken without her.

"You are looking well this afternoon," Stasia greeted Eleanora, flanked on either side by Princess Emmaline and Princess Annalise.

Propped comfortably in her bed by a mountain of pillows, clad for the first time since she had been wounded in a true gown, and freshly bathed, Eleanora smiled at the three women who had been paying regular calls upon her during her recuperation. She had come to cherish their friendships greatly.

"Thank you, and the same might be said of all of you as well." She noted that Princess Emmaline was not wearing trousers today, although she had on some previous visits. "A lovely gown, Emmaline."

Emmaline cast a disgusted glance down at her pink muslin. "Dreadfully uncomfortable as well, but I do thank you."

Eleanora had to bite her lip to keep from chuckling at the princess's continued disdain for gowns. "The pink suits you, nonetheless, despite the discomfort. Do have a seat, if you please. I was intending to venture to the drawing room today for tea, but I fear I've been a slug-a-bed, and thus far, I've only managed to dress."

The nature of her injury had rendered proper gowns and undergarments nearly impossible. Today had been the first that she had dared to attempt to don them with her lady's maid's help. Nando had objected each morning, telling her that she needed to allow herself time to heal. However, when he had kissed her good evening the night before, he had told her that he had some calls to make in the morning that would keep him from her side.

Now that she thought upon it, he had been gone for a great many hours. It was afternoon, and she had yet to see him. Her heart gave a pang. He had been such a steadfast presence through her recovery that she had come to take him a bit for granted.

The ladies seated themselves in chairs that had been arranged for the purpose of their visits.

"How is your shoulder?" Stasia asked, concern in her voice.

"The wound is healing nicely."

"It was quite valiant of Nando to intervene as he did," said Princess Annalise, "attacking that vile villain at just the right moment."

There was awe in the princess's voice, and it was matched by Eleanora. Although Nando continued to insist that he was responsible for Levering shooting her, she was simply grateful that he had saved her by ruining the earl's aim with the quick blow from the fire poker. She had no doubt that she would not be here today if he hadn't acted quickly. The memory of Levering's crazed expression, the naked hatred in his eyes, sent a shiver down her spine.

The man had been intent upon murder.

"It was, indeed," she agreed, a fond smile curving her lips as she thought of how he had tended to her, showing her such care. "I'll be forever indebted to him for saving me."

Her ability to withstand his charm had been banished by his attentiveness. Over the last fortnight, he had shown her a side of himself that she had only previously glimpsed. The true Nando, she thought. And he was a man she could love.

A man she was in love with already , if she were brutally honest with herself.

"I am relieved to see that the two of you have parted on good terms, then," Stasia said.

For a moment, Eleanora could do nothing but stare at her friend as her words failed to make sense.

"Parted?" she repeated, frowning in confusion. "Forgive me, but I believe I must have misheard you."

Stasia's brow wrinkled, her expression turning strange. "Nando paid a call upon us before he left for Varros this morning. I've never seen him so somber."

Eleanora felt all the blood drain from her face. It was as if the floor had opened suddenly, and she had fallen through the hole.

Varros? Nando had left for Varros? This morning? How? It was not possible. He had just been with her last night, kissing her softly, lingeringly. Telling her again how sorry he was for what had happened.

Telling her that he would do everything he could to make amends. That vow suddenly seemed far more ominous than it had the night before.

"Eleanora? You've gone pale." Stasia's fretful voice pulled her from her spinning thoughts. "You did know Nando was leaving for Varros, did you not?"

She could not speak.

He had left her.

Nando had abandoned her, and without a word of why or when he would return, if ever. Stasia's words of warning before her wedding returned with potent, searing force.

Between the two of us, I am not certain he has the capacity to be the sort of husband you deserve.

What she had meant, Eleanora had known then, was that she didn't believe Nando had the capacity to be faithful. That marriage, like most of his vices, would grow tedious. That he would become bored and flit away to something—or someone —else.

"Did he not tell you?" Stasia repeated, her tone edged with desperation.

"N-no," she managed, her voice trembling, her gut churning with ominous portent.

All three sisters seemed to gasp in unison.

"I don't understand," Stasia added. "Why would he tell Mr. Tierney and me of his travel intentions and yet not inform his own wife?"

Why, indeed?

Eleanora feared she knew the answer.

Still feeling a combination of numb and ill, she held her friend's pitying gaze. "So that I could not dissuade him, of course."

"Nando detests all manner of conflict." Stasia paused, biting her lip before appearing to collect herself. "Oh, my dear. I am so very sorry."

The naked sympathy on her face was too much. The room had begun to spin, and Eleanora's stomach would no longer be quelled.

She reached for the elegant chamber pot which had been discreetly placed, clean and at hand should she require it, and promptly retched.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

The sound brought Eleanora from the depths of her misery at some point after Stasia, Emmaline, and Annalise had taken their leave. An indeterminate span of time had passed since their call and the terrible realization that Nando had abandoned her. She had denied the aid of her lady's maid, refusing to speak to anyone.

Needing, quite desperately, to be alone so that she could weep in peace.

And weep she had.

She had sobbed. Viciously, hideously, and without end. Until her nose had been plugged, her eyes were swollen, her head ached, her wounded shoulder throbbed, and there was seemingly not a drop of tears left for her to shed. She had dampened five handkerchiefs, one of which had been embroidered with Nando's initials in the corner, and that had made her cry harder.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Sniffling, she sat up in bed, cocking her head to the side, listening. It was coming from the door joining her bedroom to Nando's. For a moment, her heart leapt. Had he returned?

But no.

For then came the distinctive sound of a meow.

"Benvolio," she murmured, utterly astounded at the prospect.

Had Nando not just abandoned her, but his cat as well?

Still feeling weak, her stomach knotted in threat of another violent upheaval, she rose from her bed, making her way across the room to the closed door. Reaching for the latch, she opened it.

With a trill, Benvolio pranced over the threshold.

He had left the cat behind as well.

She knelt, running her right hand over the lush fur on Benvolio's spine. "He's left the both of us then, hasn't he?"

The cat rubbed his face against Eleanora's ankles in response. Her heart ached anew.

And that was when she saw the letter, neatly folded and bearing her name in Nando's elegant scrawl, awaiting her on the table at his bedside. For a moment, she told herself she wouldn't read it, that she would toss it into the fire instead.

But then her feet were moving of their own accord, and she was almost tripping over an eager and lonely Benvolio, who followed along in her haste to retrieve that lone missive. Perhaps it contained what she wanted most—an answer.

Why? Why had he left her this way, so unexpectedly?

She unfolded the letter and found his reasons, neatly enumerated.

Dearest Eleanora,

By the time you read this letter, I will have set sail on La Reina, returning to Varros where I belong and where I can no longer cause you harm or bring you danger. You so very sweetly absolved me of my sins where you are concerned, but I have not been so hasty with myself. You are, as ever, generous, kind, and wonderful beyond measure. I can no longer pretend to be worthy of you, given the evil I have brought upon you.

I alone shoulder the blame and responsibility for what has happened. My past depravities are the reason you were nearly killed. I cannot forgive myself for the pain I caused you. All I can do is make certain it never happens again and that you are free to live the life you deserve without me.

The town house is yours. During your convalescence, I made certain that possession of it and as much of my fortune that I am at liberty to give will belong to you. I will obtain an annulment of our marriage in Varros with ease and haste. Please also watch over Benvolio for me. He has always, quite rightly, loved you more.

Please know that for all my faults, from the moment you first pinned me with a glare, my heart has been, and shall forever remain, incontrovertibly, only yours.

With eternal love and admiration,

Nando

The letter fell from her nerveless fingers, floating to the floor, fresh tears burning in her eyes.

Eleanora knew at once what she had to do.