Hunters

XXVIII. Health

"You tell me," she growled, lifting herself out of her seat. Harry dropped to his feet and waited to follow. There was rage in her gaze as she met Vaughan's eyes. Something was wrong.

"What?" he was helpless.

"I'm not sure what you expected from your—how did you say it?—biggest regret," she spat. She was struggling to catch her breath, her chest was heaving, but she would not let him see her cry and rushed out of the room. Maybe she could make it back to bed, or maybe she would have to find an alcove first. Harry trotted after her.

"I—"

Vaughan could not speak, nor could he get air into his lungs. How? How had she heard him? Why had he even said that terrible thing? It wasn't true. At least, most certainly not true in the way she must think. He did not even think it was true in the way he had meant it. Not anymore. He did not regret her, he relished her. Needed her. Wanted her. Loved her.

What had he done?

He regretted himself.

A braver man would have gone after her. There was nothing to hide and not rushing to tell her the truth made it seem like there was. But she wouldn't listen. He wouldn't if it were him.

Did this mean that she really did care for him, then? Or was it something else?

Without pause, Vaughan planned Lecia's return to Martis. It was all of the penance he could afford. Instructions were given to the footman, his aunt, and the palace staff in regard to Lecia's care; he was to be contacted at the first sign of suspicious behavior.

He removed himself from Brahmsboro immediately. He was a coward and he was ashamed.

The first night back at Martis did not go as Lecia had planned. She had unpacked in her own apartment, bathed in her own tub, and climbed into her own bed. But as Harry's even breaths attempted to lull her to sleep, she could not fall. It was an uncomfortable mattress, her blankets were not warm enough, and there simply were not enough pillows. The room threatened to collapse on her, barren and cold though she'd decorated them herself. Furthermore, the unopened letter he had addressed to her burned a hole through any shroud of rest that could have comforted her.

She did not sleep. She would not sleep. It was a choice. Two things would have allowed dreams to take her. First, she might have read his letter. Second, she might have gone to his bed. Both things she wanted more than anything, but would not allow herself to have them.

Drowsily, she climbed out of bed. Harry followed. Fresh bread laid waiting for her on a small table in her salon. Satisfied with the night's rebellion, she plucked the letter from her desk and collapsed with it on a chaise. Tearing it open, she nibbled on a thin slice of breakfast.

It struck Lecia then that she had never truly seen her husband's script. His hand guided ink in a fascinating dance of loops and beauty that she had not expected from a boy who'd been raised on a farm.

Fy Cariad,

There was a time that I thought you might be my biggest regret. You are not. Certainly, my biggest regret is ever having uttered those words.

I am a fool and a coward to have sent you away without a proper farewell, but my shame is apparent and my heart could not bear to have you look on me that way.

By now I should hope that you know how very much I adore you. There is not a world in which I would like to live apart, and I very urgently need you to hear that I do love you.

Yet I fear that you do not share these sentiments, thus have felt regret for having imprisoned you with our vows. I had promised you freedom, and I should like to uphold that pledge should you desire. Above all else, losing your companionship would please me least. Whatever I must do to maintain it, I shall, you need only ask.

Perhaps it is untimely and unfair to beg forgiveness. Nonetheless, I ask that you consider my apology for causing you pain. Hurting you was and is the farthest thing from my intentions.

Yours,

Fychan

Certainly, it was not the most romantic of letters. It was, however, an unquestionably Vaughan-like gesture. Lecia's bread was forgotten and then discovered by Harry. She'd begun to cry, but couldn't be sure when it had started.

He didn't think that she loved him. How could he think that she didn't love him? After all that she had done and said, what had she left out? She wanted him to come home to her. She felt childish.

The second night, Lecia slept quite soundly—aside from the bouts of sickness that would wake her. She scattered pillows around the bed so that she might pretend Vaughan was beside them. His room cloaked her in his scent and in fond memories of better days, and his mattress was much more to her satisfaction.

Despite everything, she did not ask him to come back to her. He was in London for work, and when that work was done, he would return. It was something she would eventually have to accept as a part of their marriage. When business was finished, she would be here waiting. Until then, Harry would keep her company.

A/N: Ayyy. I'm planning to hopefully make this next chapter a bit longer for you, but I don't wanna make any promises. As always, thanks for the continued support! You're the best!