A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(81)

“Perhaps we should wait for daylight.”

“If you want to wait, we can wait. But I’m ready now if you are.”

He took a deep, slow breath and then plowed straight in. “I’ve no idea what caused it. The accident, I mean. We were coming home from a visit with some neighbors. It wasn’t a long trip. We had no footmen with us, only a driver. I’d fallen asleep on the rear-facing seat. My parents sat together, across from me. I remember listening to them talk and laugh about something. My mother was teasing my father for his overindulgence, I think. I drifted off to the sound of their voices. And then I woke sometime later. To screams.”

She slipped her arms about his torso. “You must have been so confused.”

“Completely. I had no idea what was happening. It was dark, and we’d careened off the road. I’d fallen from the seat. Somehow, I learned that the carriage had overturned and I’d landed atop the door. I’d cut my head on the latch.”

“Here.” She felt for the scar on his temple.

He nodded. “Other than that, I seemed to be unharmed. But I was terrified. The darkness was so complete. Like wearing a blindfold. And the smell of blood . . .” His gut clenched, and he paused to master his composure. “It was so thick. Smothering. I called for my mother, and she answered. Her voice was weak and strange. But she just kept telling me over and over that all would be well. That I must be brave. That surely someone would come to help us soon. I wanted to believe her, but I knew she was unable to move.”

“Where was the driver?”

“Severely injured. He’d been thrown from the driver’s box some distance back, but we couldn’t know it at the time. We only heard the horses in agony. Theirs were the cries that woke me.”

“And your father?”

“Dead.”

“You knew that already?”

“No, but my mother did. The way they’d landed . . .” He drew a shaky breath. “This is the unpleasant part, pet.”

“Go on.” She stroked his shoulder. “I’m listening.”

“There was a spike of some sort. To this day, I’m not certain whether it was part of the carriage or something in the ditch. A bit of fence, perhaps a branch . . . but they were impaled on it. The both of them. It went all the way through my father’s chest and then into my mother’s side.”

She shuddered in his embrace. “Oh. Oh, Colin.”

“It gets worse, I’m afraid. As long my mother kept talking, I knew she was alive. And even when she couldn’t speak anymore, her breathing was so raspy and loud. But when even that stopped . . . I went utterly mad. I panicked. I wanted out. I screamed and beat on the carriage walls until I think I went unconscious. And then—” He choked back his emotion. He’d come this far. He had to get it all out now. “And then the wild dogs found us. Drawn by the noise and the scent of blood. They finished the horses. I passed the first half of the night screaming to get out, and second half praying they wouldn’t get in.”

“Oh God.” He felt her tears, hot and wet against his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, holding her tight. “I’m sorry.” He knew well what a disturbing picture it made. Which was precisely why he’d never shared it. Not with anyone. He hated that such a gruesome tableau would be seared on her imagination. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Of course you should.” Sniffing, she lifted her head. “You did absolutely right. To think, you’ve been keeping that to yourself all these years? I’m the one who should be sorry.” She worked her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “Colin, I’m sorry. They’re pathetic words, and they’re not enough. But I’m so, so sorry. I wish with all my heart you hadn’t suffered so. But I’m glad you told me everything.”

He buried his face in her hair. For a moment, he feared he would weep. And then he realized, if he did weep—even noisily, messily, uncontrollably—she wouldn’t shrink from him. She probably expected him to shed some tears. These soft, sweetly fragrant arms would hold him as long as he needed to be held.

So he decided to let the tears come.

And then they didn’t. Odd.

For whom should he cry? For his parents? He’d grieved their loss, yes. And he missed them still. But mourning only lasted so long. It was the horror of that night that had lingered. The fear. And the shame.

The deep, buried, unvoiced shame.

“For years,” he said quietly, “I thought it was my fault. That if I hadn’t fallen asleep, it wouldn’t have happened.”

She gasped. “But that’s nonsensical.”

“I know.”

“Of course it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know.”

“You were a child. There was nothing more you could have done.”

“I know. And as a grown man, I understand that, rationally. But . . .” But he’d never managed to rid himself of the notion. It was as though he needed someone else to confirm his innocence. Someone very intelligent and logical. Someone he could trust to always give him the unvarnished truth.

Someone like Minerva.

“It wasn’t my fault,” he said.

“No,” she answered. “It wasn’t.”