“Lord Hawkhurst … you cannot blame yourself.”
“I bloody well can! It wash-sh my fault. I should’ve been there. I should’ve died with ’em.”
For years the guilt had swamped him. That and fury that he’d been powerless to prevent the deaths of his beloved Elizabeth and his innocent young son. Hawk let loose a foul oath and threw his bottle against the far wall. The glass shattered, spraying brandy over the floor.
At the sudden crash, Lady Skye jumped, but remained sitting where she was. “I hope,” she said softly, “that someday you can forgive yourself.”
A savage anger raked him anew at her ridiculous notion. “Forgive myshelf? Go the hell away.”
She didn’t move. “I cannot leave you here like this. As foxed as you are, you might come to harm.”
Hawk sent her a fierce glare. If he wanted to drown his sorrows and risk coming to harm, who was she to stop him?
“Go ’way,” he repeated with the same grim conviction.
Skye returned the earl’s gaze, feeling the pain that radiated from him. Seeing the bleakness in his haunted gray eyes, she wanted desperately to console him, as he’d done for her last night. His was a living nightmare, and her heart broke for him.
He was more than a little drunk, yet she couldn’t condemn his inebriation or begrudge his fit of angry violence. In truth, it might help the tiniest measure if he could let out all that rage and grief.
Still, she couldn’t leave him alone and in torment.
“You cannot remain here in the cold ruins all night. If you are staying, then so am I.”
He grunted. “Y’re a bloody, interferin’ busybody, do y’ know that?”
“Yes, I know, my lord. Will you come with me anyway?”
He refused to answer and instead sat there in brooding silence.
As time stretched out, Skye began to despair at her own helplessness. There was a stillness about him that spoke of a terrible isolation and loneliness, and she yearned to wrap her arms around him and hold him to her breast.
It took perhaps five more minutes, but he finally uttered a terse oath. “Ver’ well, damn you.… I’ll come.”
He rolled onto his knees and struggled to stand. Gratefully, Skye picked up the lamp and rose, then put an arm around his waist, providing a shoulder for him to lean on.
They stumbled forward over blackened wood and damp, rotting carpet. A chill night breeze seeped into the corridor through the gaps in the wooden planks covering the windows. The glass panes were long gone, shattered that fateful evening of the fire by the earl in his futile attempt to let in the rain, Skye had heard.
The going was easier after they negotiated the opening in the boards. Hawkhurst seemed steadier on his feet now, and his words were slightly less slurred when he protested that she had bypassed his study as she guided him toward the stairway. “I need more brandy.…”
“I don’t think that is wise.”
When he started to curse her, she cut him off. “You can growl at me in the morning. For now I am putting you to bed.”
They climbed the stairs slowly and trudged along the corridor to his bedchamber. Ushering him inside, Skye supported the earl across the room and left him standing while she set down the lamp and drew down the bedcovers. When she urged him to sit on the edge of the mattress, he remained swaying unsteadily on his feet, ignoring her invitation even as his eyes closed.
“You need to sleep, my lord. You are exhausted.”
“Can’t … won’t … Don’t wan’ the nightmares.”
She sensed such bleakness in him that the desire to hold him tight intensified. Yet she couldn’t show her pity. Her best approach was to treat him like her brother and cousins, Skye decided.
“If you don’t lie down and go to sleep, I swear I will comb the house until I find every remaining bottle and cask of brandy and pour every drop out the window.”
At her threat, he pried one eye open and tried to focus a glare on her. “You woun’t dare.”
“You are welcome to test me.”
She was only trying to distract him from his grief, but fortunately it succeeded. He sighed wearily and sank down upon the bed, then collapsed onto his side and shut his eyes again.