The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2(326)
"Oh dear God, no. Arabella! No!"
There was so much blood he quailed for a moment, certain she was dead. A vision of a battlefield mired with gore seared his brain for a minute, and he fell weakly to his knees. Then his hands were upon her tenderly. She breathed.
He blew out a shaky breath and checked her head and neck first. A hand cradling her head came away wet and sticky. The whole front of her dress had been practically torn asunder, her breasts covered in rapidly darkening bruises. The skirts of her gown were bunched around her waist, and her thighs were covered with blood. Blake began to sob. He was supposed to have protected her, and now….
His hands upon Arabella roused her for one last fight, and she screamed weakly, "No, no! Let me go!"
"It's me, darling! It's me. You're safe."
She continued to slap at him weakly. "Not safe with you! You lied! All men lie. Let me go! Get your filthy hands off me!"
"You're badly injured! Arabella, please, let me help you. Not just as your husband, but as your doctor."
She tried to sit up to cover herself, get him to stop touching her, but her head spun wildly. She fell backwards against the tree heavily once more. He tried to catch her, but her head hit a tree root with a solid thunk, and she lay still.
He patted her cheek. "Arabella, love. Arabella?"
He snatched her prone form up off the ground and into his arms in one smooth motion, and ran for the house. He only hoped no one would see her in this state. He skirted the French windows, and went into the back entrance and up the servant's stairs.
Blake ran to her room as fast as his legs could carry him, and laid her down on the bed. He yanked the covers down and then began to cut off the remnants of her once lovely dress.
God, how had his happened? Who could have done such a monstrous thing? To think he had been wasting his time talking to Leonore when his wife had needed him, needed his protection….
He swallowed hard to stem the tide of his rising gorge. She was badly bruised all over. Her attacker had beaten her like a man demented.
The question was, had he raped her? He hardly dared look closely at her. This was his wife, for pity's sake…. He was the one who had spoken with her about being open and honest, but--
Blake removed the rest of her shredded garments, and pulled the covers up over Arabella. He would face that question later. Right now he had to deal with her head injury.
He got a basin and towel, and began to gently probe the wounds. There was a nasty two-inch gash at the base of her skull, and another one about an inch long nearer the top of her head.
He cleaned out the dirt and leaf marl as best he could, and then fetched his medical bag from his room. He would have to shave a couple of patches of hair, but it would grow back, and be concealed by the rest of her tresses.
He went into the bathroom and came back with his shaving soap and straight razor. Turning her over on her side, he began to shave around each wound and stanched the flow of blood anew.
He took out his needle and thread, and stitched each gash neatly, trying to empty his mind of the dreadful question that loomed in his mind. But it didn't matter. She was his wife, his whole world. Even if she had been-
He couldn't even bring himself to think the word. He tried again, as he clipped the thread on the first suture. Raped. He shuddered.
Had the fiend raped his wife?
No matter what had happened, he loved her. For better, for worse. It wasn't her fault.
But what had Arabella been doing out in the fields at night in the middle of her wedding reception? He thought again about the cheroot stub. Well, many men in the neighbourhood were known to indulge. Men….
Had she been lured out there for an assignation? Had she gone willingly? No, damn it. he was not going to start thinking that way about Arabella. He had blighted his life long enough by deeming all women faithless and untrustworthy. Leonore had been untrue, and before her Rosalie, but-
No. It was not the same, not the same at all. Arabella loved him, and him alone, he was sure of it. What they had shared proved that. She had been a virgin, he knew that first-hand. She had told him herself that Adam and his brother had left her cold. If she had been compliant in some sort of dalliance, she would not now be covered in bruises and blood.
He had seen it often enough in London to know. There were men who loved to hit and hurt. Men who couldn't enjoy themselves any other way.
She had not done anything wrong. He could not allow himself to think for a moment that this had been anything other than an act of mindless brutality by some savage beast. There had been no love, romance, seduction. It had been assault, plain and simple.