Page 83 of Impossible
And he’d nearly hurt Ada. He could never let that happen.
He looked out the window into the dark night as they made their way toward the bridge that would take them to the other side of the river and to St. James’s. “You can’t fix me,” he said softly, agony tearing at his insides. “I’m irreparably broken.”
She cupped his cheek, drawing his head back around to look at her. “I refuse to believe that. You were wounded—arewounded. It will take time to recover, but youwillrecover.”
He looked into her eyes and basked in the fierce devotion she had for him. How had he ever managed to deserve that from her? “You’ve no idea what I’ve done. There’s no coming back from it.” His insides twisted. In some ways, this was worse than any of the pain he’d suffered before. Or it would be, if he told her.
“Tell me,” she said evenly, her gaze holding his with a command he didn’t dare refuse. “I promise I won’t judge you. I could never think badly of you.” She continued to caress his cheek, soothing him, but only superficially. The devastation he felt cut straight to his soul.
He couldn’t look at her, at the inevitable horror that would fill her expression. So he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the squab. He forced himself to breathe, to try to calm the incessant racing of his heart. It hadn’t slowed since the fireworks.
“It was a summer evening like this, three years ago. Lucia—she was my betrothed, and we planned to marry in the autumn. She followed the army, cooking for us, washing, ensuring our camp was as much of a home as it could possibly be.” Max smiled, her face brilliant in his mind. “She was bright and cheerful, hopelessly optimistic even in war.” He cracked one eye open to see Ada watching him intently. “Like you in many ways.”
Ada answered with a soft smile. “She sounds lovely.”
He closed his eye again. “I loved her so much. I envisioned a life for us in Spain after the war, but everything changed that day. She’d made supper for me before going to wash clothes in a nearby stream. This wasn’t unusual or dangerous. She’d gone to that very spot many times before. While I was eating, one of the boys who helped at camp came to tell me she was in trouble, that I needed to go.”
Max swallowed, the memory moving slowly in his mind, ensuring he recalled each detail. As if he could forget. “I got up, fear churning in my belly so that I nearly vomited. I put on my coat and grabbed my hat, then went to saddle Arrow.”
His voice nearly broke as he recalled his beloved horse. Why had he sent him away? Because between what Arrow had seen in Spain and the loss of Alec from an accident on his own horse, Max hadn’t wanted to see the animal again. He thought of Prudence and the way he’d treated her—she couldn’t help who her parents were or how she’d been born any more than Arrow was responsible for the tragedy Max had experienced.
Ada had dropped her hand to his lap, taking his hands between hers. Her gentle stroking gave him ease and…courage.
“I found Lucia near the stream. They’d choked her to death—her beautiful throat was purple already, her ebony eyes staring sightless at the sky.” The pain was both fresh and distant. Max hadn’t allowed himself to remember her like that in some time. In his nightmares, she appeared thus, her gaze accusing him in death of allowing her to die. “They hadn’t just killed her, you understand.” He wasn’t sure if she could hear him—his voice was barely audible, the words so difficult to utter. “Her skirt was torn, her legs splayed—”
She squeezed his hands. “I understand. I’m so sorry, Max. I can’t imagine what that was like for you.”
“Think of the very worst thing and then magnify it by a thousand and a thousand more. Infinity, perhaps.” He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and grimaced against the wave of torment.
“Rage doesn’t begin to describe what I felt. I went in search of them, uncaring how many there were or what weapons they had. I found them not too far away, laughing and drinking, utterly careless as to what they’d done or that there could possibly be repercussions.” The memory was clear as he’d crept upon their encampment. However, from the moment he rushed forward atop Arrow, everything jumbled together—sound, smell, pain, fury.
“I rode Arrow into their camp and cut them down one by one until they pulled me from the saddle. Then I flew at them with my sword and my gun. One of them threw hot water at me—they’d been preparing their meal. That’s how I was burned.” His scarred face and shoulder twitched in recollection. “They shot me and cut me too. I don’t remember any of it, not specifically. I just remember knowing I was going to die and that I didn’t care. It was an honorable death, a necessary death, avenging Lucia.”
Max felt wetness on his fingers. He opened his eyes to see Ada wiping her cheek. She dashed the back of her hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said softly, hating that he was hurting her. “I should stop.”
“No, I want to hear the rest. Obviously, you didn’t die.”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “Lucien came. The boy had told him what happened and that I’d left camp to find Lucia.” The remaining memory was so clouded. It was chaos, really. But he remembered Lucien and his cold fury. “Lucien killed the rest of them. There were eight in total, but he won’t tell me how many I took and how many were his. He says it doesn’t matter.”
“I think I agree with him,” she said quietly, her hands still stroking his—methodically and with great care.
“He shouldn’t have come.”
“It sounds as though you’d be dead if he hadn’t.”
“Precisely. I didn’t want to live without her. What was the point?” He let out a haggard breath and shifted his weight on the seat. “I was severely wounded. It was several weeks before they sent me back to England. By then, my father had died, which I learned before departing. When I arrived home, I discovered my brother had died too.”
“He was thrown from a horse.”
Max shouldn’t have been surprised that she knew that. She’d conducted a rather thorough investigation at Stonehill.
“Is that why you sold Arrow?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t have brought him back to England with me. He is emblazoned on my mind with the horror of that day.”
“You told me you didn’t finish meals because you were interrupted once. It was the boy coming to tell you about Lucia.”
