Julia stared at him, her mind a tempest of conflicting emotions. The truth she had witnessed in Marian's room was a visceral, horrifying reality. But Alistair's anguish, his seemingly genuine sorrow, chipped away at her certainty, stirring a confusing empathy within her. He was dangerously alluring even now, especially now, in his moment of perceived weakness.
Yet, the memory of the bloodstained nightgown, the unfinished note, and Marian's screaming face in the mirror, was too stark to dismiss. She shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. "No, Alistair. I can't. I can't forget about it. Not when Marian's death is being passed off as a mere fever. I cannot allow her murderer to roam free."
Alistair's eyes, still clouded with unshed tears, hardened. "There was no murderer, Julia. It was a fever. The doctors confirmed it." His voice was low, but firm, a quiet insistence.
"No!" Julia's voice rose, fierce and defiant. "It was not a fever! Marian was murdered, Alistair. I know it. And I believe it was by someone in this house. Someone close to her." Her gaze held his, unwavering.
Alistair's jaw tightened. "Are you accusing me, Julia?" he asked, his voice a mere breath, but laced with a sudden, chilling stillness.
Julia didn't flinch. "I didn't call names, Alistair," she said, her voice quiet, pointed. "You did. Why are you so quick to assume it's you I'm referring to?" The directness of her question seemed to hit him, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his aristocratic features.
He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing directly before her, his imposing presence filling her entire line of sight. His hand reached out, gently, almost tenderly, to cup her face. His touch was surprisingly warm, his thumb brushing softly over her cheekbone.
"Do you truly believe that, Julia?" he murmured, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through her. "Do you truly believe I could have killed Marian?" He searched her eyes, his own gaze piercing, vulnerable, yet utterly compelling. "Look at me, Julia. Look into my eyes, and tell me you believe I am capable of such an act."
Julia looked. She gazed into his eyes, those piercing blue eyes that had been so charming, so chilling, so full of rage moments ago. Now, they were filled with a raw, agonizing pain, a profound sorrow that seemed to consume him from within. She saw genuine grief there, a desolation so deep it felt like a gaping wound.
His vulnerability was disarming, shattering her carefully constructed suspicions. His pain was palpable, and for a moment, she felt the world tilt on its axis. It was an expression of such raw, unadulterated heartbreak that she felt a strange, undeniable certainty. No. He could not have done it. Not like this.
Tears welled in Alistair's eyes, finally overflowing, tracking shimmering paths down his cheeks. He slumped against her, not putting his full weight on her, but resting his head heavily on her shoulder, his tall frame trembling. He cried, soft, broken sounds that tore at Julia's heart.
"God, Julia," he choked out, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I wish… I wish someone had killed her. So I could find them. So I could strangle them with my bare hands." His grip on her shoulders tightened, almost desperately. "Do you know what it's like, Julia? To watch the person you love… to watch them waste away? To see them fading before your very eyes, and there's nothing you can do? Nothing at all?"
Julia felt a profound wave of pity, mixed with a bewildering confusion. He was crying. And she was holding him. The powerful, imposing Lord Blackwood was weeping into her shoulder like a lost child. She reached up, her hand, still throbbing, hesitantly stroking his dark hair.
"Alistair, what are you talking about?" she whispered, her voice soft, unsure. His grief seemed utterly genuine, shattering her image of him as a cold, calculating killer.
He pulled back, cradling her face in his hands again, his thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks. His eyes, red-rimmed and still glistening, held hers with an intense, almost desperate sincerity. "Marian… she died of a fever, Julia. She truly did. I was there. I saw it." His voice was thick, yet utterly convinced.
"But… the bloody nightgown?" Julia asked, her voice barely audible, the image of the stained silk flashing in her mind. "The torn journals? What about all of that?"
Alistair's expression clouded with renewed pain. He released her face, his hands dropping to his sides, clenching into fists. "She was pregnant, Julia," he said, his voice low, hoarse. "We lost the child. Our child."
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken tragedy. Julia gasped, a sharp, intake of breath. Pregnant? Marian had been pregnant? And she had lost the baby? This was a truth more devastating than any murder.
Alistair's eyes seemed to cloud over, his gaze distant, lost in the painful past.
***
Months earlier.
Alistair stepped through the grand entrance of Blackwood Hall, a massive bouquet of Marian's favorite white roses clutched in his hand. The scent of fresh blooms filled the air, a sharp contrast to the usual dignified hush of the manor. He had a lightness in his step, a joyous anticipation.
"Marian!" he called out, his voice ringing with affection. "My love, I'm home!" He paused in the great hall, waiting for her familiar soft steps, her warm greeting. Silence.
He frowned slightly. "Marian?" he called again, a hint of concern creeping into his tone. He turned, catching sight of Finch, who was supervising a footman polishing a silver tray. "Finch, have you seen Lady Blackwood? She's not in the drawing room."
Finch straightened, his expression typically reserved, but a subtle unease flickered in his watchful eyes. "My Lord," he began, his voice carefully modulated. "Lady Blackwood retired to her chambers some time ago. I… I heard some sounds, My Lord. Like she was in… distress."
Alistair's heart leaped into his throat. "Distress? What sort of distress, Finch?" He didn't wait for an answer, dropping the roses carelessly onto a nearby table. He was already taking the grand staircase two steps at a time, his boots pounding against the ancient wood. "Marian!"
He burst into their shared bedchamber, calling her name, his eyes sweeping frantically across the room. It was empty. But the door to her private bathing chamber was ajar. A faint, whimpering sound came from within.
"Marian!" He rushed to the bathing chamber, throwing the door open.
Marian was there, crouched on the floor beside the large, claw-footed bathtub. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale and streaked with tears. She was holding something small and glinting in her hand, clutching it tightly. As Alistair's eyes found her, she abruptly threw the object away, sending it skittering across the tiled floor with a small, sharp clang.
"Marian, my love! What happened?" Alistair knelt beside her instantly, his hands reaching for her. "Are you alright? Finch said he heard sounds."
Marian flinched, pulling back slightly. Her eyes, wide and shadowed, darted to the corner where the object had landed. "I'm… I'm fine, Alistair," she stammered, her voice thin, strained. She tried to force a smile, but it wavered pitifully. "Finch always overreacts. I… I just stubbed my toe. Clumsy me."
Alistair frowned, his gaze falling to her foot. "Stubbed your toe? My darling, let me see it. We must get you some proper bandages." He reached for her foot, his fingers gently tracing the delicate bones of her ankle. He was always so physical with her, so quick to offer comfort through touch. He cherished her, adored her, and loved to feel her close.
Before he could examine her toe, Marian suddenly clutched her stomach, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Her face contorted in a grimace of pain, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Marian? What is it?" Alistair asked, his heart seizing with a sudden, cold fear. He saw it then. A thin trickle of dark, viscous blood began to seep from beneath her silk nightgown, snaking its way down her pale leg.
His breath hitched. No. It couldn't be. She was pregnant. They were expecting their first child. Their joy, their hope, was growing inside her.
Marian's eyes were wild with panic, reflecting the terror in his own heart. She was in excruciating pain, whimpering, clutching herself. "No," she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. "Not the baby. Please, no, not the baby!"
Alistair pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his hands. "Marian, my love, stay with me," he whispered desperately, his voice thick with his own rising panic. "It's going to be alright. We'll call the doctor. Just hold on."
But the bleeding didn't stop. It flowed freely, staining his hands, soaking her nightgown. Marian became hysterical, her cries growing louder, more desperate. She thrashed in his arms, her mind seemingly unraveling with the horror of losing their child.
"No! No! Stop it! Please!" she sobbed, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped bird. She reached out, grabbing at her small leather-bound journal that had been resting on a nearby shelf. With trembling hands, she began tearing at its pages, frantic, desperate, trying to use the torn paper to soak up the blood, to make it stop.
Alistair held her tighter, her desperate strength no match for his own. "It's alright, my love," he murmured, rocking her gently, as if to soothe a child. His heart was breaking, watching her descend into this raw, unimaginable grief, watching their future slip away with every drop of blood.
He shouted for Finch, his voice echoing through the silent halls. "Finch! Get the doctor! Now! Hurry!" Marian clung to him, sobbing uncontrollably, her tears mingling with his own. "Our baby, Alistair," she cried, her voice a raw, desolate sound. "Our baby…"
He held her, silently weeping with her, the hope of their family draining away with the blood. It was the most agonizing, helpless moment of his life.
***
Alistair blinked, his eyes clearing, though the pain remained. He looked at Julia, his hands still held out towards her, as if offering her this piece of his shattered past.
"That's what the blood was from, Julia," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "And the torn journals. She was trying to stop the bleeding. She was… distraught. She couldn't bear it."