this particular woman.
In another life, he would have made her his wife. She’d already be his wife.
They emerged from the drive and acres of fields opened to either side of them. The twilight leached the colors from the trees, the soil, the sky. Gray, gray, gray.
Enough, he vowed. Enough of this.
He’d leave London and return to Claremont. He’d return everything to normal; he always did.
He leaned forward in the saddle, and a jolt went through Apollo.
They galloped along the path, then veered off onto the field headlong to the distant forest. The wind bit his face like a blade. Cold tears streaked across his cheeks from the corners of his eyes as speed overran his senses, the rapid thud thud thud, the whistling in his ears, the landscape rushing at him. The mind became a blank; there was only focus, speed, the cold.
Enough, enough, enough.
He ran Apollo harder, faster, until the forest loomed at the edge of the field like a dark mass.
He pulled in the reins.
Something flashed, pale and low on the ground.
Apollo screamed and twisted sideways.
Instinctively, he threw himself forward, but he felt the horse’s rump go down, its hind legs breaking away, a horrible, uncontrolled motion that whipped the powerful body beneath him up, up, and over the tipping point.
They were going to flip.
For a blink, the world froze, clear and sharp like a shard of glass. An expanse of blank sky, a flutter of mane above him.
The horse would crush him.
He yanked his feet from the stirrups but the ground was hurtling toward him at brutal speed. The face he loved most in the world looked back at him before darkness fell like an axe.
* * *
Beneath the small desk, Annabelle’s feet had turned to lumps of ice in the draft. She should go to bed. It was nearing midnight, and the oil lamp was burning low. But she knew she would not sleep. If she only looked at her surroundings, she could have pretended she was still a student with a bright future ahead; the desk, the rickety chair, the narrow cot were much like her room at Lady Margaret Hall. But that was where the similarities ended. There were no books and folders on the desk. Only a sheet of paper with three lonely lines:
Go back to Chorleywood
Become a governess up north
Marry Jenkins
Her present options to keep a roof over her head all while staying on a morally upright path.
Of course, she had come up to Oxford to avoid any such fate: Chorleywood, underpaid and vulnerable, or married to a man she didn’t love.
Two weeks. Mrs. Forsyth had given her two weeks to find a new occupation. I’m a chaperone, she had said pointedly. I’m to keep women from getting into trouble, not associate with troubled women.
The future was a black maw, ready to swallow her whole.
She pressed her palms to her face, trying to shut out the ugly faces of her fears leering back at her. “I’m a soldier at heart,” she whispered. “I can do this . . .”
A sudden commotion in the hallway downstairs had her sit up straight. Agitated voices clashed as Mrs. Forsyth’s Maltese barked hysterically.
Alarmed, she came to her feet. It sounded as though a man was arguing with Mrs. Forsyth.
And then male boots stomped up the stairs, the force of it making the floorboards shiver.
She clutched her nightgown to her chest, reflexively casting her glance around the room for a weapon.
Bam bam bam.
The door shook as it was pounded with a fist.
It did not shock her half as much as the man’s voice.
“Annabelle!”
“Sir!” Mrs. Forsyth objected shrilly.
Sebastian. Sebastian was here.
Bam bam bam.
She moved toward the door on unsteady legs.
“Sir, desist,” Mrs. Forsyth shrieked, and then Sebastian burst into the room, sending the door flying back against the wall with a bang.
Everything stopped: the noise, time, her heart. The vital urgency radiating from his body had blasted the very air from the room. He stared at her wordlessly, and holy hell, he was pale.
With two long strides, he towered over her and pulled her into his arms.
The wintry cold still clung to his clothes; his thick coat was rough against her face.
She stood motionless in his embrace, hardly daring to trust that he was real. She hadn’t expected to see him again, certainly not to ever be in his arms once more.
“My love,” he said, his voice a rumble in his chest beneath her ear.
How cruel. Her fourth option, her most desired option, her everything, was right