.
her father had agreed to increase her dowry to twenty thousand pounds to convince the man to marry her. She suddenly felt a strange affinity with poor Violet Garfield. Both of them were apparently unappealing to any man without the lure of riches and Aaron was obviously disappointed to have been left with just her. Her needle slipped and pricked the top of her index finger. Pretending to try to save her embroidery rather than let him see how much his words had cut her, Connie hastily dropped it into her lap and examined the wound with irritation. She had to tell Aaron about Mr Thomas. Feud or no feud, her conscience would not let her keep such a dreadful secret. Not when innocent people were suffering. But the truth was likely going to cause a huge row, not only between the Wincantons and the Stuarts, but between her and Aaron. He would want to know why she did not tell him the moment that she had realised, but at least it was better late than never. Steeling herself for the inevitable, Connie turned to him.
Aaron’s eyes were locked on her fingertip. More specifically, they were fixated on the small red globe of blood oozing out from the needle prick. His face was stricken and she watched all of the colour drain out of it until he was positively ashen. He suddenly stood with such force that the legs of the heavy chair scraped behind him in his haste to get away.
‘Goodnight, Connie.’
He started to march towards the door as if his life depended on it. ‘Aaron, wait, I need to talk to you...’ The door slammed behind him and he was gone, leaving Connie completely at a loss as to what had just happened.
Aaron originally headed towards his bedchamber, but by then he could physically smell the blood. The rational part of his mind told him that was ridiculous, but there was nothing rational about his body’s intense reaction. The metallic tang was burning his nostrils, making him gag, and his skin itched with the warm stickiness of it. Within seconds, the stench was so bad that he had to get some fresh air. Fearing that his dinner was about to make a sudden reappearance, Aaron bolted down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He ran through the hallway, ignoring the startled looks from the few servants he collided with, then through the morning room until he reached the large French doors at the far side of the room. Only when he threw them open, and felt the biting November air rush into the room, did he feel that he could breath.
Hastily, he tore the cravat from his throat and braced his arms on his knees while he sucked in the cold air like a starving man eating food at a banquet. It had just been a pinprick. Nothing more. Yet in that one simple accident he had immediately been transported to a different place. The place of his nightmares.
Ciudad Rodrigo.
Aaron forced himself to breathe slowly, hoping that by being calm he could chase away the blind panic that clawed at his gut. After several minutes he was still shaking, but able to stand up. He staggered towards the nearest chair and slumped into it, trying to make some sort of sense out of what had just happened.
His reaction to the blood had been so sudden and so violent, he had never experienced anything like it. He had fought battles where his uniform had been soaked with the stuff, retrieved the bloody remains of the bodies in the aftermath and even marched across fields so sodden with death that the mud itself had been almost bleeding as his boots had squelched across it. He had hated every second of it then, but he had coped. Why was the mere sight of a tiny droplet of it now enough to render him incapacitated? God only knew what Connie must be thinking.
Not that he had any intention of explaining it to her. How exactly did one go about telling someone that there was a distinct possibility that they were going slowly mad? That could be the only explanation for what had just happened. The nightmares had been getting worse. They were certainly happening more frequently. Last night he had awoken twice and each time he was reliving the same dreadful scene on the battlements of the fortress. But now, apparently, he could be transported back there whilst he was still awake, too. Alongside the awful smell of the blood had been the unmistakable cries and sounds from that battlefield in Spain. He could see the broken bodies of his men strewn out around him. He was in Connie’s sitting room one minute and then that had faded away and he was all alone in the smoke and the chaos, stood amongst the carnage and wondering what the hell to do.
What would a gently bred young lady like Connie make of all that? At least his insanity would be good grounds for her annulment. That thought made him laugh bitterly without any trace of humour before he forced himself to make his way up to bed. At this rate, he would be carted off to Bedlam before he could fix the estate and that thought brought Aaron up short. He could not let that happen. There were people depending on him. No matter how many tricks his mind decided to play on him, he had to hide that from the world and get on with the task in hand. Once the estate was safe it would make no difference if he suddenly declined into complete insanity. If that happened, they could lock him in his bedchamber for all he cared. He just had to hold it all together until then. At least he had more of a plan now than he had had this morning. That was something positive to focus on. Now, once his father died he had to secure the annulment as quickly as possible so that he could find another heiress. It might not be the greatest plan in the world, and it hurt to even contemplate losing Connie, but it was all he had right now.
Connie woke early and, in the absence of any maid or any breakfast tray, dressed herself in a more forgiving habit and headed downstairs to find her husband. Yesterday he had offered to take her riding again and she needed to tell him about Mr Thomas. The first person she collided with was the housekeeper.
‘Good morning, Mrs Poole. Have you seen my husband?’
The older woman shook her head apologetically. ‘Sorry, Lady Constance, but we have not crossed paths this morning. Perhaps he has gone out for an early morning ride. He does that most mornings, usually before the sun is fully up. He is awake before the lark most days.’ The smile on her face faltered and she looked down briefly, as if she were considering her next words carefully. ‘On that subject, I am very worried about him.’
‘You are?’
‘If you would permit me to speak out of turn, Lady Constance, I have known Master Aaron since he was a boy and he is not the same man who went off to war. Something is very wrong, yet half the time he appears to pretend that those five years never happened and that he is exactly the same devil-may-care lad who went away. I am not convinced that he is. He disappears for hours on end some days, much like he has done this morning, or he locks himself away in the library. He never used to be so solitary or so preoccupied. He doesn’t sleep well either. I hear him up at all hours of the night; sometimes I hear him screaming. Deaks went in to check on him one night and Master Aaron was furious. He threatened to move out if anyone disturbed him like that again. He never sleeps past dawn. Wild horses would not have dragged him out of his bed before noon before he went away. I have asked him about it, but he will not confide in me. He just pretends that nothing is amiss and that I am imagining things. I thought that now he has a wife perhaps he might open up to you in time. I hope he does.’
The housekeeper’s concerns reminded Connie of what she had witnessed last night. Aaron’s behaviour had been odd in the extreme and Connie could not shake the feeling that it had something to do with seeing her blood. It made her wonder if he had deliberately gone out without her to avoid explaining it. Then there had been that brief flash of temper when he had let slip that he had witnessed the horror of men going to their deaths petrified and screaming, and she had seen for herself how deeply that still affected him. Something was definitely not right with Aaron. However, discussing it further with the housekeeper felt disloyal to him. He would hate that, she already knew, because he was so very proud.
‘Thank you for telling me. I shall certainly keep an eye out for him.’
Mrs Poole looked relieved. ‘Thank you, Lady Constance. That is a weight off my mind.’
Connie continued her search for her elusive husband to no avail, but she found his father in the breakfast room, reading the newspaper.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ she