Page 22 of Immortal Rose

“None at all,” Cartwell began, casting a dreamy look skyward. “’Tis a beautiful night, with the moon in her waning glory.”

Foxcourt held out his hand, waiting—for me, I realized, staring at it, and my stomach gave a little turn. Then my fingers closed over the soft black leather of his gloves, tightening as the ruined soles of my boots conspired to betray me on the first step. I slipped, throwing out my free hand to catch myself before I crashed forward into the coach.

Foxcourt was there in an instant, catching me by the elbow, steadying me as hunger burned black blotches in my vision and my head felt as if it might float away.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I didn’t go to all that trouble for you to fall and break your neck.”

“Of course,” I bit out, and carefully—very carefully—climbed inside.

Immediately, I wanted to climb back out.

Curtains of crimson velvet lined the windows, and the same expensive fabric had been used to cover the plush seat cushions and pillows. I marveled at the dark wood paneling, painted with delicate gold vines, and at the sheer size of the coach, which made my boarding room feel like little more than a closet. No expense had been spared, clearly. The cost of it would have fed dozens of families for weeks.

I lowered myself onto the seat, feeling like the intruder I was. Mama’s face rose in my mind, and I tried to imagine her in a coach even finer than this one, not hunched over a washbasin, her dark hair spilling from its pins with the force of her scrubbing.

How could she stand to look at me, let alone love me, knowing what I’d cost her?

Foxcourt swept in, shutting the door and claiming the seat across from mine. Somehow, his presence diminished even the coach’s sprawl and made it feel as though he were crowding me.

Beneath the leather, the horses, the reek of the prison, I thought I smelled something warm and sugary, like honeyed nuts and meat. And . . . lemon?

Wonderful. Now I was hallucinating.

Foxcourt knocked twice on the window behind him, and the coach lurched forward, swaying as it gathered speed.

I lifted the curtain with trembling fingers and, gazing past my haunted reflection in the glass, watched as the prison grew smaller behind us before vanishing altogether. I still couldn’t quite believe it.

Using his spotless boot, Foxcourt nudged a small, covered basket toward me. The darkness of the coach had been such that I hadn’t noticed it.

“From my cook, Mrs. Silver,” he explained. “Eat something before you waste away entirely—I can’t have anyone accusing me of neglect.”

Even half starved, my stubbornness remained undiminished. I wouldn’t thank him. “Yes, well, as my jailer, you are responsible for the care and keeping of me.”

He arched a brow but didn’t rise to the bait. Merely watched, pointedly, as I struggled to lift the basket onto my lap. I was so unbearably weak with hunger the thought of something other than cold gruel brought a prick of tears to my eyes.

Flipping open the basket, I discovered the source of the lemon flavoring the air: a damp towel. Lifting the cool cloth to my face, I scrubbed it until it burned, turning as red as beetroot. When I finally pulled it away, using the clean side to wipe my hands, it came away nearly black. I startled as Foxcourt held out his own hand, gesturing for it.

“I’ll see that it’s burned,” he said, dropping it onto the seat beside him.

I was too taken with the sight of the basket’s other contents to respond. A small jar of honeyed and salted nuts had been placed alongside the most gorgeous little strawberries I’d ever seen. The delicate tea sandwiches seemed almost laughably pretty, given the circumstances.

And still, I was so overwhelmed by the bounty, I didn’t know where to begin.

“With the water,” Foxcourt advised. “And then the rest of it, slowly. It’s an hour to the house, and if you make yourself sick we’ll be forced to sit with it.”

I flushed, but the earl was no longer paying attention. Stretching his long legs out in the chasm of space between us, he leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes.

I waited until I was sure he wouldn’t open them again before doing as he suggested, letting the water from the packed flask ease the sourness from my mouth and throat. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted—until I took that first bite of strawberry and nearly moaned.

For a long while, the only sound between us was the pleasant clip-clop of the horses and the creaking of the carriage. A shaft of moonlight pierced through a gap in the curtains, illuminating Foxcourt’s perfect profile. It was so annoying I nearly crumpled the paper the sandwiches had been wrapped in and threw it at him.

Instead, I gave him a long, speculative look. “Are you really the Earl of Foxcourt?”

He cracked an eye open. “The time to confirm that was before you released yourself into my custody.”

“Are you?” I pressed. “Or is it a disguise, like your soldier’s uniform?”

“How do you know the uniform was a disguise?” he countered.