— The Doyen Scrolls
Anthony's relief that she hadn't turned accusing eyes on him after his admission immediately disappeared. Confronted with her tormented expression, he'd much rather have had her blame him.
"No, Emily—whatever you are thinking, stop." If not for her shoulder, he would have shaken her to break the stricken hold that his information had taken on her. "Listen to me; if anyone is at fault, it is the nosferatu. The Guardians who failed to track him after my death. Me, for being unable to resist him." He leaned forward and made her look at him when she would have bowed her head. "Not you. This course was set in Spain, when he drank my blood. There is nothing you could, or could not, have done."
She broke away from his gaze and shuddered, as if his words had torn something dark and heavy from every cell of her being. When she looked at him again, he saw the resignation that had replaced the agonized self-recrimination. "Then tell me how it started," she said quietly.
Though he related the story of his death as unemotionally as possible, tears coursed down her cheeks and her body drew tight in horror. When he had finished, silence hung between them, broken only by her low, hiccupping sobs. Finally, she used the heel of her hand to wipe away the moisture from her face; her voice distant with memory, she said, "When he came after us, Colin and I had just returned from London—we'd taken Robert to Eton, then met with the solicitors. The house seemed so dreary without Robert, we decided to take Colin's new phaeton out for a drive. It was a beautiful day, even for November."
Anthony smiled; how impractical, and how like Colin, to keep a fashionable high-perch phaeton not just in London, but in Derbyshire.
When she saw his expression, Emily returned his faint smile—but their shared amusement quickly faded as she continued, "We went too far; it was dark as we came up the drive to the manor, and that was when it attacked Colin." Her lids lowered briefly, as if she wanted to shut away the memory. "Took him right off the seat. By the time I got hold of the reins and stopped the horses, it was already feeding from him."
He clenched his hands to keep from pulling her to him. "What did you do?"
Her eyes flashed. "I got the whip—but before I could hit it even once, she was there."
"The red-skinned flying woman you mentioned before?"
Emily nodded. "She had a sword—she nearly severed its head from its neck while it was feeding from Colin, but it still managed to get up and fight her. Then they both disappeared. And I went to get help. The staff assumed that he'd been attacked by an animal—[let them think that. Until I saw the changes in him, I thought my wits had deserted me."
"They didn't," Anthony said. "Although witnessing such a thing might have driven anyone mad, you took care of your brother and stayed strong for him."
"I do not know if I could have been for much longer," she replied with simple gratitude. "I am glad you are here."
I am, too. The thought surprised him—he had originally made the decision not to return, but upon hearing of the nosferatu, he couldn't not return. It had not given him joy—it was an obligation he had to fulfill. Now, seeing her, talking to her, he was grateful he'd had this opportunity.
She was watching him expectantly; wondering how much she had read in his expression, his gaze fell. The bruises on her shoulder were becoming livid, and a quiet frustration ran through him. His Gift had manifested itself so easily before—why couldn't he heal her now? What had he done differently? He felt the ability in him, but how had he made it work?
The answer hovered, just at the edge of his mind, and he grasped for it.
"Anthony?"
"Just a moment," he said, distracted, and raked his fingers through his hair. He saw her look up at the mess he'd left behind and turn her face to hide a smile. The unmarked sweep of her neck pulled at him: how had he done it? He'd held his hand over the wound and willed her to heal—but when he'd done the same to her shoulder, thought Heal, nothing.
And then he knew.
He hadn't willed her to heal, he had willed the process of healing—had imagined and guided the reparation of her skin, the recovery of her flesh.
And when he looked at her shoulder, he knew the muscles that needed their fibers repaired, the broken vessels that needed mending. He knew how to erase the bruising, ease the tender joints and ligaments—even knew the names for each.
It wasn't a matter of wishing it; one had to know how to do it.
When he placed his hand on her shoulder and willed it, it flowed through him in an explosion of heat and pain. He gritted his teeth, forced himself to hang on until the last bruise faded from her skin. His arm w as numb when he pulled it away, but the look of astonished wonder on her face made up for it.
Triumph rushed through him, and he grinned. "Apparently, those endless hours of studying anatomy were actually worth something."
And—because the thrill of success roared through him, because she was laughing up at him with those beautiful eyes and mouth, because he could not help himself—he grabbed her waist, pulled her from the bed, and kissed her.
She held on tight to his neck as he swung her in a circle, giggling against his lips.
Emily slipped her arm painlessly through the sleeve of her robe and shook her head in amazement.
He'd healed her, then kissed her—and when the kiss had become something else, had become charged with heat and tension, she'd bolted. She'd run off to the dressing room—ostensibly to change, but primarily to regain her composure.
Anthony's arrival had certainly given her reason to be giddy, but she was not a love struck girl in her first season. She had been that girl once, her head filled with romantic notions. She'd been a silly girl—a girl who would have tortured herself with the past, would have been overwhelmed by melancholy because she thought such suffering romantic and noble.
And when those romantic ideals actually had been shattered, she'd allowed herself to be overwhelmed by bitterness instead and tried to hurt those she loved most.
She'd been a silly, stupid girl.
She sighed as she emerged from the dressing room. Her bedchamber was empty; she wandered slowly down the hall toward Colin's room. She couldn't fathom why she was thinking about love when her brother still lay dying. Did Anthony's presence give her that much hope, make that much of a difference?
Yes, her heart sighed when she found him. He'd pulled a chair next to Colin's bed, his hands spread over Colin's chest. His focused expression told her that despite his declaration that he couldn't heal her brother, he was trying.
"It should not cause him pain," a voice said quietly from behind her.
Although she hadn't heard Hugh approach, his words had been so calmly uttered she hadn't been startled. Or maybe she'd already experienced a lifetime of fear, and nothing would surprise her again.
The idea was oddly depressing.
She didn't glance away from Anthony and her brother as she replied, "I know—the healing isn't at all uncomfortable." It's even pleasurable, she thought, remembering the warmth that had stolen through her, easing the soreness and pain. But she couldn't say that to the young, monkish man standing next to her.
She felt the long, measuring look Hugh gave her. "I was not speaking of your brother," he said finally.
She frowned, walking into the room and pausing at Anthony's side. This close, she could see the strain that held his features taut, the slight shaking of his hands. She could feel the heat emanating from him.