Page 56 of More than Words Can Say

“Look at me,” Ben urged, his voice warm, calm, steady.

Abby forced her eyes open again and found Ben’s face. He smiled, and the wind seemed to lose some of its vigor.

“I’ve got you.” He tightened his grip on her ankle. “I’ll get you down.”

She believed him. How could she not? Benedict Crowley was the most noble boy in school. Kind, honest, trustworthy. And he was here. With her. She couldn’t disappoint him.

So she gave a little nod and loosened her hold on the branch near her shoulder. With Ben’s steadying hand, she managed to make it down to the branch he stood on, and immediately wrapped an arm around his waist and buried her face in his chest. “Thank you.”

For one blessed moment he hugged her back, and Abby’s heart sang.

Then Sophie called up to them and broke the intimacy that Abigail had no right to enjoy. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine.” Ben winked at Abby and reached for a new handhold. “We’re coming down.”

“Good.” Then almost as an afterthought, Sophie added, “Be careful!”

Ben stayed right by Abby’s side as they worked their way down. Patient. Understanding. Never once did he scold her for climbing too high or complain about her timid descent. Instead, he repeatedly offered reassuring touches to her arm or shoulder, praised her for the progress they’d made, and insisted there was no hurry. She could take as much time as she needed.

The belittling voice of her father that had been castigating her in her head ever since she realized her folly slowly faded from her mind, replaced by Ben’s steadfast encouragement. She could do this. They could do this. Together.

Then they dropped onto a branch weakened by mistletoe. A sickening crack. Ben’s wide eyes. His arm snaking about her waist even as he grabbed for another handhold. But there was no time.

The limb broke. Their feet hit the air. They fell. Sophie screamed.

Ben held Abby tight against his chest, taking the brunt of the damage as they banged off limbs. One slammed against his skull. His neck flopped. Then they hit the ground. Ben first. Abby second, her friend’s body cushioning the blow.

Abby was battered and disoriented, and everything that happened next was a blur. Sophie crying. Asking Abby if she was all right. Then pushing her off of Benedict. Screaming. Blood. Brokenness. And one sentence that rang in Abby’s head over and over.

“You killed him! You killed Ben!”

Silent tears ran down Abigail’s face as the past shifted back into the present. Zach still stood behind her, listening. At some point during the retelling, he’d ceased rubbing her shoulders and instead wrapped his arms completely around her torso, surrounding her with his strength, his acceptance.

She turned her head to find his eyes. “I killed him, Zach. Not on purpose, but it’s my fault he’s dead.”

Zach glanced away from her, and pain ripped through her breast. What had she expected? That his holding her meant acceptance? That there would be no consequences? She was responsible for a young man’s death and guilty of keeping secrets from her husband.

“I should have told you before we married,” she said, facing forward again to keep from seeing the disappointment, the betrayal in his eyes. “You had the right to know who you were taking to wife. We should be able to get an annulment, if that’s—”

Zach spun her around so fast, her words cut off in midair. His glare was fierce enough to fire her bread oven without kindling. She tried to back away from him, but he wouldn’t let her. He grabbed her upper arms and refused to let her budge.

“I don’t want an annulment,” he growled.

That declaration should have made her happy, yet he seemed almost savage as he said it, leaving her confused and aching. He probably felt trapped, figuring an annulment would reflect poorly on him. But it wouldn’t. This was her failure, not his.

“I’ll testify to withholding the truth from you before we wed. No one will blame you for not wanting to be married to a killer.”

“You’re not a killer.” He shook her.

“Not legally, I suppose. Yet I am responsible for a young man’s death. If it wasn’t for me, Benedict Crowley would still be alive. I don’t expect you to understand—”

“But I do.” His voice broke. In a flash he released her and stepped back. His gaze rammed into hers for a split second before it darted away, but not before Abigail caught a glimpse of the torture dwelling in her husband’s soul. “I killed a man too.”

CHAPTER

28

How had a picnic designed for courtship turned into an exercise in stripping the skin from each other’s souls? Zach blew out a breath and gripped the back of his neck, as if the action would anchor him when his entire being was adrift.