He wanted her awake. He wanted to look at her and know it was a woman he was looking at and not a young gentleman.
Chapter Twenty-six
Hetty lay some minutes in half consciousness before she opened her eyes. In those few precious moments before her mind told her that all wasn’t well with her body, she looked about her, her thoughts clear and alert. She saw herself, foil in hand, jumping suddenly forward, catching Lord Oberlon’s blade at its base. She felt the shattering impact as his foil whirled from his hand to the ground. She clearly saw herself standing in front of him, her arm extended its full length, the tip of her blade against his chest. She saw his face, the clear darkness of his eyes, she felt the fearlessness in him, the odd questioning, though he’d said nothing. He’d waited, not moving. Why? She gasped, remembering how she couldn’t bring herself to be his executioner.
“Hello,” came a deep familiar voice from just beside her. She turned her head ever so slightly. He was leaning over her, his dark eyes intent on her face. He was whole and she wasn’t. Surely there was no justice in that. But why was he here? What the devil was going on?
“You? Can it truly be you? I don’t understand.”
“How do you feel? Can you see me?”
“Dear God, I must be dead and in hell since you’re here. Why are you here? That makes no sense. I wanted to kill you.” Without warning, pain that she’d never imagined pierced through her side. She cried out against it, her arms hugging herself, but it didn’t help.
“I know your pain is great. I’ll try to help you.” She heard his words, yet her mind refused to let her understand them. Her eyes were clouding and in but an instant he blurred into the shadows.
“No, dammit, no. I don’t want to lose to you, no.” She tried desperately to keep control, but it was slipping from her and there was nothing she could do about it. She flung out her hand to ward off the pain that was deep inside her, to ward him away from her. She felt strong fingers close over her hand.
The pain intensified. Her back arched. She twisted sideways, anything to lessen the agony that was making her an animal, without thought, without intelligence, without control. He was lifting her, tilting her head back. His voice was quiet and soothing, the sounds just that, sounds, with no meaning to her. Her mouth was forced open, and she choked on bitter-tasting liquid. She struggled against him. She hated him touching her. Was he forcing poison down her throat? She tried to fight him but the pain was too great and she was too weak. He was holding her very firmly, and she hated it, but she could do nothing about it. She hit at him, but he didn’t move, didn’t release her or loosen his hold on her. On and on it went. She was crying, knowing that it was so because she tasted her tears in her mouth, salty and hot. The arms went suddenly about her shoulders, pressing her firmly onto her back and holding her there so that she couldn’t move against the pain. She tried to draw her knees up to somehow ease the ferocious burning that was ripping through her side. But there was a weight on her legs and there was naught she could do but dwell within herself, within the pain, and know he was there.
Suddenly, the agony grew less intense, like a leashed monster pulling its fangs out of her flesh. She heard an odd sound, pathetic, low ugly sobbing, a sound of utter hopelessness, and she knew it was from her. She was making those animal sounds.
Gradually, his face became clearer above her, his words now distinct. She heard her own name sounding over and over in her ears, low and gentle, but insistent, calling her back into herself. “Henrietta, can you hear me? Come now, speak to me. Is the pain less now? Hetty?”
She managed to focus on that dark face above her. It seemed important that he understand. She said, “I’m not Lord Harry Monteith. Do you understand me? If I die, I want you to know that I’m not Lord Harry. You must tell my father and my brother, else they won’t know what happened to me.”