Page 42 of Impossible
He’s wounded both inside and out.
Prudence’s words came back to Ada. She’d seen it herself. Whatever had happened to him in Spain had left an indelible mark. Ada had no idea if he could truly recover. Perhaps he would just have good days and bad. For the rest of his life. Her heart ached for him, but what more could she do? She’d be leaving soon.
Then she’d likely never see him again. It was time to distance herself. Perhaps he realized that too. His behavior a few minutes earlier would certainly make it easier for her to leave. And easier for her to avoid another situation like Jonathan.
Shehadlearned from her mistakes!
Buoyed by this, Ada returned to the house in search of Mrs. Bundle. She found the housekeeper cleaning the front sitting room near the entry hall.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Bundle, but I wanted to share the good news that your two new housemaids will be starting on Monday. Teresa Chapman, who is currently helping Mrs. Kempton, and Mary Wendell.”
Mrs. Bundle wiped her hands on her apron as she stood from cleaning beneath a chair. “I’m familiar with them both, and they’ll be excellent additions. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to have help.”
“They are also thrilled,” Ada noted with a smile. “I think they find moving here to be a grand adventure.”
“And you’ll still be here to welcome them,” Mrs. Bundle said. “I’m so glad you’ll be able to see the fruits of your labor—at least a glimpse of it, anyway. I’m astounded by all you’ve accomplished.”
Ada merely nodded in response.
“I must confess I’m concerned about when you leave. What if his lordship reverts to his old self?”
That was perhaps already happening. Ada hoped not. A thought struck her—was his mood today because she was leaving soon? Was he going to miss her? A happy jolt shot through her, but she tamped it down. What a ludicrous idea. Sheannoyedhim.
But only for three more days. Then she’d be on her way, and he could be free of her forever.
Chapter9
His face was on fire. And his shoulder. The pain didn’t stop or even slow him. He sliced and thrust, wreaking as much havoc as possible amidst the screams. Until they stopped.
Sweat dripped from his brow, down his back. He looked around, but there was no one left to kill. The heat and savagery faded. Now, he stood on a hilltop, the breeze an irritation instead of a balm to his burned flesh. Again, the pain was inconsequential—outside. Inside, searing agony threatened to tear him in two as he looked down at the fresh mound of dirt, the slender wooden cross marking her final resting place.
This wasn’t a memory. Because he’d never seen where she was buried. He’d never seen her again after finding her bruised and broken body.
“Shhh, you’re safe.”
The soft words broke through his torment. He brushed his hand across his brow and met an arm.
Max’s eyes flew open.
Miss Treadway was above him, perched on the bed, one hand on his head and another on his bare, heaving chest. He blinked, and she came more into focus, her blue-gray eyes gazing at him with such concern. And perhaps something else.
Her lips were parted, inviting his kiss. He almost pulled her down.
Instead, he pushed himself into a sitting position, glad he wasn’t nude, not that the small clothes were enough to cover his hardening cock. “Do you station yourself outside my door every night?”
“Er, not exactly.” She’d withdrawn her hands from him when he sat up, and he regretted the loss of her touch. “I’ve been taking nightly strolls.”
“And you just happened to hear me having a nightmare.”
“Tonight, I did. Do you have them every night?”
“No.”
She gave him a faint smile, but it didn’t carry her usual brightness. “Well, I’m sorry you have them at all. If you ever want to talk about them…”
“It’s about the war.” He said the words before he could censor himself. “Something bad happened. I can’t tell you what.” His eyes met hers, and he knew in that moment that he could happily and easily drown in their depths—in the care and understanding he saw in them.
She nodded, her gaze dipping to the bed. “Did you lose someone?” she whispered.
