From some distant part of himself, he felt the cold against his skin, scarcely protected by his thin wet shirt. Dampness came up through the soles of his shoes. Snow melted against his face. But the brandy kept the sensations at bay. He bent his head and, mustering all his concentration, focused on putting one foot in front of the other, one step, another, one step, another, as he lurched with a strange, disjointed purpose down the dark, lonely road toward the village.

  Eva, Eva. Didn't she know, didn't she care, how besotted he was over her, how wretched she had made him? One step, another, one step, another. Steadier steps, now; the air, the exercise, the cold, the concentration . . . the fog that obliterated his mind was parting, and through it, patches of clarity were showing.

  Patches of clarity that brought only pain.

  One step, another, one step, another. Damnation, it was cold. Should have brought the greatcoat after all. Why hadn't he? Ah, yes, the steps. Steps. One step, another. One step, another. He watched his shoes scuffing through the falling snow. Felt the terrain beneath the crusted ground changing, and realized he was no longer on the road. Ah, yes. The bridge that spanned the little inlet. He reached out, grabbed the handrail for support, and skidded back down the other side.

  A strange sound was coming from his mouth. His teeth, chattering with cold. He wrapped his arms about himself and continued on, following the road toward the sea. The wind had stilled, though he could hear the distant roar of the ocean now, the eerie silence of the vast and lonely night.

  He trudged on. From far behind him, back along the road, he heard hoofbeats, and men shouting to each other. Oddly familiar, those voices. Ah, hell. Keep going. He couldn't go back to the house and play host until he had his wife back.

  And then silence, deep, brooding, still, closed about him once more, the only sound, that of his feet crunching along the frozen ground.

  Time lost all meaning. He pressed on, head bent against the snow, his breath frosting the air. He was near the sea now. He could smell it. Taste it. Hear it. Ah, yes. There it was, cold and black, stretching into forever beyond the cliffs.

  He kept going, and then something made him stop and look up. There, melting out of the darkness far ahead, was a figure, leading a pair of horses.

  Lucien stood there, frowning. A sense of anxiety pressed down upon him, but he could not identify its source; desperately, he tried to gather his wits, but they eluded him.

  "Your Grace!"

  The voice was all but obliterated by distance and lingering gusts of wind, but Lucien recognized it.

  Rothwell.

  Inebriation beat a retreat behind alarm.

  Panic.

  "Your Grace!" The figure was running toward him now, slipping and sliding on snow-glazed ice, the horses trotting to keep up. Lucien shook the cobwebs from his head and hurried forward to meet the solitary figure. Rothwell. The coach. Eva. It was all becoming clear to him now —

  "Your Grace, there's been an accident . . . I tried to help her, but I couldn't —"

  Immediately Lucien was sober. More sober than he had ever been in his life. Dread paralyzed him — than he was running toward the groom, his heart pounding, a thousand awful thoughts racing through his suddenly alert mind.

  "Where is she? What happened?"

  "Coach overturned," the groom panted. "She tried to jump out . . . fell . . . down the cliff —"

  "Down the cliff?"

  Lucien staggered back, unable, for a moment, to see past the suddenly blackness that nearly wiped out his vision.

  "I was just coming to get you, Your Grace . . . figured you'd know what to do . . . She's lying partway down the slope just after Taverton Bend — I tried to reach her, but she —" The man's voice choked on a sob. "She wasn't answering."

  Lucien gripped the servant's shoulders. "Listen to me. The duchess's life may well depend upon it! Return to the house at once and call out the staff. Bring as many as you can find back with you, along with blankets, additional horses, and the other coach. Send someone into the village for the doctor, and be quick about it. Move, man!"

  Oh, dear God. Dear God! Lucien broke into a run, heading down the path from which Rothwell had just come. Taverton Bend. Oh, dear God, if she'd fallen there —

  He refused to think about it. Refused to think about the sifting snow, the low whine of the wind, his own rising panic. He pounded on across the treacherous terrain, every cold breath searing his lungs, every thought that entered his mind causing him to find more speed, more stamina, as he charged across the frozen landscape. Eva. Oh, dear Lord, he must reach Eva . . .

  There, just ahead, was the bend, meandering dangerously close to the cliffs. From out of the darkness, Lucien saw the coach, still on its side, the snow already collecting atop its still-open door, the harnesses lying in a twisted, broken heap nearby. He ran to the edge of the cliff —

  And stopped.

  There she was. She lay some twenty feet down, a small, broken doll pinned against a wedge of rock, the snow already covering her body like the first earth thrown onto a new grave.

  The blood rushed to his head and he tipped it back, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut, feeling such agony rising up from his soul that it was all he could do not to give way to the howl of pure animal anguish that threatened to consume him.

  "Eva! Eva, answer me!"

  The snow swirled around her; she did not move, did not raise her head, did not make a sound. She was dead. She had to be.

  His heart constricted. The back of his throat closed up. Lucien set his jaw and mustered every shred of his formidable self-control. He turned back toward the overturned coach, the mangled harnesses, and it was only as he bent down and began working with the automatic motions of the driven that he realized the dampness running down his cheeks was tears.

  I've killed her. His raw, frozen fingers worked to unfasten a buckle, another. I've killed her, and the child with her. She was right. I did not learn my lesson; in seeking to control others I have lost the love of my sister, and now the life of my wife. He fastened two strips of leather together, unbuckled another section, fastened it to the first, the frozen line growing as fast as the tears that leaked, uncontrollably, from his eyes. I've killed her . . . Oh, Eva, you are free of me at last. Free, forever.

  He furiously wiped a hand across his eyes, but the tears would not stop. The harnesses lay in pieces now, stiff beneath his numb fingers; one by one, he shook them out, buckled them together, and at last had a sizeable length of leather. He carried it back toward the cliff's edge, steeling himself for the grim task he must perform, this last husbandly duty to his duchess — to bring her body home.

  He looped one end of the line around the base of a rock, wrapped the other around his wrist, and began the treacherous descent.

  He allowed no feeling to penetrate his wall of icy resolve. No thought, beyond reaching the snow-covered figure wedged down there against the rocks, to penetrate his brain. He had no fear, though he knew that one slip, one misstep, would mean his own death. He had killed her. Life was not worth living without her. He had nothing to fear.

  Slowly, he picked his way down the slope, testing each outcropping to be sure it was solid, checking each tentatively placed step to be sure his footing was secure. The wind howled around him; far below, the sea thrashed, boiling and breaking white against the rocks.

  He was almost there. Stones and chunks of ice, loosened by his progress, skittered down the slope, some of them bouncing off the still, cloaked figure crumpled beneath him before arcing out into space on their journey toward the sea. Lucien winced with each one that struck her, though he knew she was beyond feeling.

  Eight more feet and he would have her.

  Six more —

  And then his foot slipped, pain blazed up his leg, and for a moment he hung suspended by the leather line, heart hammering; then the wind slammed him back against the cliffside.

  He looked down and saw what the fall had cost him. His calf was ripped open, his stocking awash in blood. Lucien deadened his mind against the pain. It was only physical. Nothing like the wound that had torn apart his heart.

  He continued down, cursing, for his ankle would no longer support him. He must have sprained it. Maybe broken it. He no longer cared. All that mattered was reaching his Eva.

  On one leg now, he descended the last few feet, gingerly testing the ledge upon which she rested to be sure it would take his weight. Then, and only then, did he take a deep, bracing breath and, his face expressionless, reach for the cold, stiff body of his dead wife.

  His free arm slid beneath her body, so frail, so tiny in death — and pulled it up against him. Her head fell against his shoulder. The wind blew her hair against his face, twisting the wet strands around his neck, wrapping him in its sweet smell. Eva. Oh, Eva . . . For a long moment he held her against him, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain, the tears that threatened to overwhelm him, the urge to just let go of the leather line and give up, for he had nothing left to lose; he had lost it already.

  Lost it because of his own arrogance.

  He took a deep, bracing breath and raised his face to the falling snow, willing strength back into his will. He could not take the easy way out. He had to bring her home. She was a duchess of Blackheath. She deserved more — he swallowed the ache in his throat — so much more . . .

  Buckling the harness around her body to secure her to himself, Lucien began the slow, dangerous climb back to the road. Wind pummelled his back. His fingers went numb, snow and ice hindered his progress, and his injured leg would not take his weight. He used his knee instead, pressing it against rock in place of his useless foot, letting his good leg do most of the work. Snow sifted against his neck, his face; his frozen hands were raw and bleeding. He paused to catch his breath, letting his cheek rest against ice. Continued on. Stopped to rest once more. At last, he reached the top of the cliff and hauled himself and his precious burden over its edge.

  He collapsed and lay there in the thin snow, cradling his dead wife to his chest and finally allowing the tears to come. Tears that, once started, would not stop, but only gathered force like a river that has broken its dam. Great, hitching sobs locked up his chest and convulsed his body with grief. He crushed her in his arms, buried his face in her hair, and unbuckling her, let the wracking sobs consume him.

  Blackheath.

  At first he thought it was only a product of his tortured mind, his bitter, crushing guilt, that brought the word into his head. He tightened his arms around her. She was dead.

  "Blackheath."

  A ghost.

  "Lucien . . . you — you came for me . . ."

  No ghost. He raised his head, shoved his fingers into her hair to anchor her head, and looked down at her white, white face. At the eyes, half-closed and glazed with shock, that stared up into his. She wasn't dead. She ought to be, but she was not.

  "Eva — "

  "Lucien . . . I hurt. Hurt all over." Her voice was thin, thready. Dear God, he had to get her warm. Had to get her to safety. Had to get her to a doctor.

  He gathered her up in his arms and, slipping on ice, carried her to the lee of the overturned coach, settling her against the undercarriage. He wished he had his coat to cover her. Wished he had a horse. Wished to God he'd set out in search of her earlier, instead of drowning himself in self-pity and despair.

  "Where do you hurt, sweeting?"

  She tipped her head back against the coach, closing her eyes. "It's gone, Lucien . . . gone."

  Immediately, he knew what she meant. His hands shaking, he tried to warm them on his own freezing body, to no avail. Fearing the worst, he carefully lifted her skirts — and felt everything inside him still. She was covered in blood. Her legs were streaked with it, her thighs soaked with it. And it was still coming out of her.

  She began to cry.

  Wordlessly, Lucien gathered her close as her body lurched with great, hitching sobs of pain and grief. He set his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut and rocked her, his own pain so intense he thought he might die from it. Her arms came around him, clinging like a child. She tried to bury herself against him, her tears scalding his neck. Lucien's throat closed with agony. This was all his fault. He had done this to her. To their unborn baby. In seeking to keep his child here in England, he had killed it.

  Killed it.

  "Eva."

  He held her against him, feeling the wind rocking the overturned vehicle against which they rested. Rothwell should have returned by now. Where was he? "Eva, I must go get help."

  "Don't leave me, Lucien — oh, please, don't leave me."

  She was crying again, unable to think, only feel. Gone was her hatred of him; gone was her stubborn, willful pride, her beautiful fire; in its place was only this broken shell to which he had reduced her, this pitiful, sobbing little girl-woman who would die if he did not get her to safety soon.

  "Eva, listen to me," he said, peeling her from his chest and setting her back. He looked into her eyes, but her soul was gone, along with all reason, comprehension, and understanding, and only two empty orbs of pain looked back at him. "Eva — I am going for help. You must stay here, do you understand me?"

  "Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me."

  "Darling, I have to. I will be back for you. You must promise me to hold on, to stay awake, to muster every reason you can think of to hate me, if only to keep fighting, do you understand? Do not fall asleep — do not leave me, Eva. I cannot go on without you." He pulled her close, dropping a long, trembling kiss upon her icy brow. "Don't leave me, because I love you."

  "Don't leave me," she repeated, her words a whisper.

  He loved her. He had said it, but she had not comprehended, for the only thing she knew was pain and shock and grief. Lucien stood up on his one good leg, knowing, even as he surveyed the coach that he had not the strength to push it back over. Oh, hell. Oh bloody, ripping hell. Snow sifted down around him, coating his eyelashes, and his body was shivering uncontrollably. Desperately, he wondered what he could do to shelter her . . . and then realized there might be a rug in the boot.

  On one leg, he hobbled around the overturned coach, managed to get the boot open, and yes — oh, thank God — found a blanket.

  He carried it back to her. Her eyes were closed. Panicking, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her until they opened once more.

  "Don't leave me, Lucien . . ."

  He could not answer her. If he did not leave her, she would die here, in his arms. He pulled her closer to the coach, trying to wedge her between the axle and undercarriage, and tucked the blanket around her to keep out the cold. Then, gently taking her hands, he kissed each palm and tucked them beneath the blanket.

  He got to his feet, resolved on a course of action, cursing Rothwell, who should have returned long before now. Around them, the snow whispered down . . . slow, deadly, silent.

  She looked at him, a flicker of comprehension in her eyes, of panic — before her lids lowered once more.

  Lucien turned on his heel. He tucked his raw, reddened hands beneath his armpits to try and warm them, and, dragging his useless foot, shivering uncontrollably in the cold, began the long trek back to the house.

  Chapter 26

  The riders that Lucien had heard galloping through the night had been no mere drunken hallucination. His brothers, who had set off in immediate pursuit of Nerissa, had found her in Southampton, waiting for a ship to take her to France; now, she was safe in the coach that accompanied them, and her brothers had decided to spend a few days at Gingermere before returning their angry sister to Blackheath Castle.

  Covered in snow and frozen to the bone, they entered the house only to find the place in an uproar. His and Her Graces had argued. His and HER Graces? Charles had expostulated, when his siblings could only stare in shock.

  "He married her this afternoon," explained the housekeeper.

  "They had a blazing row and she left him an hour ago," added the butler. "In the storm."

  And then an extremely distraught young man whose face was blistered with cold had burst in, babbling that the duchess was dead, fallen down the cliff, and that he had met His Grace — who'd appeared to be quite under the weather with drink — out on the cliffs, wearing no coat, no greatcoat, nothing but a thin shirt to protect him from the elements, and that His Grace had gone to retrieve the duchess's body and that everyone in the house was supposed to turn out to help —

  Thank God for Lord Charles, whose military training and competent, reassuring manner were enough to bring order out of chaos. "Everybody quiet," he ordered in a sharp voice that instantly quelled all clamor. He faced them all, snow and ice still dripping from his blond queue and down his broad, commanding back. "Now listen to me."

  He was not wearing his army uniform, but he might as well have been. He was the officer his men knew and respected — and as one, the panicky household quieted and gave him their full attention.

  Charles faced the shivering groom who had just arrived. "Someone fetch this man a hot drink. What is your name?"

  "Rothwell, my lord."

  "Rothwell, tell me exactly what happened, where you left the duchess, and where you last saw my brother."

  Teeth chattering, Rothwell croaked out the tale, repeating His Grace's orders, wringing his reddened hands, and saying over and over again that if only the duchess had stayed put she wouldn't have died. "She's at Taverton Bend, my lord . . . halfway down the cliff."

  Grim-faced, Charles listened to this tale and then immediately began to bark out orders.

  "You there —" he beckoned to a footman — "what is your name? Peterson? Well, Peterson, listen closely. I want you to ride into the village and fetch the doctor. You will detain him here until my brothers and I return with the duke and duchess. Go now."

  "And you." He summoned the housekeeper. "You are?"

  "Mrs. Cantwell, my lord."

  "Mrs. Cantwell, I want you and your staff to ready the bedrooms, build up the fires, gather all the blankets you can find, and have something hot and nourishing waiting when we all get back. My sister will help you."