A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(69)

“Anne,” he said, touching her back, her arms, her hair. “Anne, Anne, Anne.” It seemed the only thing he could say, just her name. He kissed her face, the top of her head. “Where have you—”
He stopped, suddenly realizing that her hands had been bound. Carefully, very carefully so as not to terrify her with the extent of his fury, he began to work at the knots at her wrists.
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
She just swallowed, nervously wetting her lips as she held out her hands.
“Anne . . .”
“It was someone I used to know,” she finally told him. “He— I— I will tell you later. Just not now. I can’t— I need—”
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly. He squeezed one of her hands, then went back to work on the knots. They had been tied furiously tight, and she had probably made it worse with her struggles. “It’ll just be a moment,” he said.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she said tremulously.
“You did the right thing,” he assured her, yanking the cloth from her wrists and tossing it aside. She had started to shake, and even her breath began to tremble.
“I can’t stop them,” she said, staring down at her quivering hands as if she did not recognize them.
“You will be fine,” he said, covering her hands with his. He held them tight, trying to keep her steady. “It is only your nerves. The same thing has happened to me.”
She looked up at him, her eyes huge and questioning.
“When Ramsgate’s men were chasing me in Europe,” he explained. “When it was through, and I knew I was safe. Something inside of me let go, and I shook.”
“It will stop, then?”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “I promise.”
She nodded, in that moment looking so terribly fragile that it was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her and try to protect her from the entire world. Instead he allowed himself to place his arm around her shoulders and steer her toward his home. “Let’s get you inside,” he said. He was so overcome—with relief, with dread, with fury—but no matter what, he had to get her inside. She needed care. She probably needed food. And everything else could sort itself out later.
“Can we go in the back?” she said haltingly. “I’m not— I can’t—”
“You will always use the front door,” he said fiercely.
“No, it’s not that, it’s—please,” she begged. “I’m in such a state. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
He took her hand. “I see you,” he said quietly.
Her eyes met his, and he could swear he saw some of the bleakness wash away. “I know,” she whispered.
He brought her hand to his lips. “I was terrified,” he told her, laying his soul bare. “I did not know where to find you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I won’t do it again.”
But there was something in her apology that unsettled him. Something too meek, too nervous.
“I have to ask you something,” she said.
“Soon,” he promised. He guided her up the steps, then held up a hand. “Wait one moment.” He peered inside the hall, ascertained that all was quiet, then motioned to her to come inside. “This way,” he whispered, and together they silently dashed up the stairs to his room.
Once he shut the door behind him, however, he found himself at a loss. He wanted to know everything—Who had done this to her? Why had she run? Who was she, really? He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
No one treated her this way. Not while he took breath.
But first she needed to get warm, and she needed to simply breathe, and allow herself to realize that she was safe. He had been in her place before. He knew what it was like to run.
He lit a lamp, and then another. They needed light, the both of them.
Anne stood awkwardly near the window, rubbing at her wrists, and for the first time that evening, Daniel really looked at her. He’d known she was disheveled, but in his relief to have finally found her he had not realized how much. Her hair was pinned up on one side but hung loose on the other, her coat was missing a button, and there was a bruise on her cheek that made his blood run cold.
“Anne,” he said, trying to find the words for the question that must be asked. “Tonight . . . Whoever this was . . . Did he . . . ?”
He couldn’t get the word out. It sat at the back of his tongue, tasting like acid and rage.
“No,” she said, holding herself with quiet dignity. “He would have done, but when he found me, I was outside, and—” She looked away then, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory. “He told me that— He said he was going to—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly. At least not now, when she was so upset.
But she shook her head, and her eyes held a determination that he could not contradict. “I want to tell you everything,” she said.
“Later,” he said gently. “After you take a bath.”
“No,” she said, her voice barely a choke. “You have to let me speak. I stood outside for hours, and I have only so much courage.”
“Anne, you don’t need courage with—”
“My name is Annelise Shawcross,” she blurted out. “And I would like to be your mistress.” And then, while he was staring at her in stunned disbelief, she added, “If you’ll have me.”
Almost an hour later, Daniel was standing by his window, waiting for Anne to finish with her bath. She had not wanted anyone to know that she was in the house, so he had hidden her in a wardrobe while several footmen saw to the task of filling a tub, and now she was presumably still soaking in it, waiting for the chill of fear to leave her body.