Ritcherd arrived home to find a few guests still lingering. He had no desire to even see his mother. He probably would have killed her if he did. He managed to avoid having to speak to anyone as he went up to his room and went to bed, doubting that he’d be able to sleep at all. Every time he closed his eyes, he could only see the fear in Kyrah’s expression. He felt sick inside at the reality of something like this happening, and wondered how so much could go wrong in so little time. When he forced his mind away from the current situation, he could only recall his intimacy with Kyrah the previous evening, and guilt and regret threatened to choke him. How could he be such a blasted fool?
He’d not been in bed long when George opened the door and stuck his head in without any warning. “Hey, Buchanan!”
“You scared the hell out of me,” Ritcherd snarled.
“Wouldn’t hurt.” George chuckled, then added, “Can we talk?”
Ritcherd had forgotten all about his promise to give George some undivided time. But he knew his mind was far too wound up over the situation to even be able to think straight. “Listen, Morley,” he said. “I’m really sorry, but this isn’t—”
“It’s not a good time,” George interrupted with sarcasm.
“No,” Ritcherd said tersely, “this is not a good time.”
“When?” George asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Say three?” George asked.
“Fine,” Ritcherd agreed, praying he would remember.
“I’ll be here,” George said adamantly and pulled the door closed. But it came open again only seconds later, startling Ritcherd once more. “By the way,” George added, “congratulations. She’s a beauty.”
“Yes,” Ritcherd tried to smile as he thought of his beauty sitting in a cell tonight, “she is.”
George left the room and Ritcherd wondered again what he could possibly want to talk to him about. What could be so important? Then he decided he didn’t really care. His heart, his soul, and his mind were all concentrating on Kyrah. And he would rot in hell before he let this stupid drama tear them apart.
George hadn’t been gone long when a knock came at the door. He knew it wasn’t George; he’d just been reminded that George never knocked. It had to be his mother.
“What?” he called angrily.
He was surprised when one of the maids came in, gave a light curtsy, and looked embarrassed to see him sitting in bed.
“What is it?” he asked, trying to be kind as he recalled Kyrah’s scolding him for his sharpness with the servants.
“Mrs. Buchanan asked me to bring you this.” The maid set a cup of hot cocoa on the bedside table and curtsied again. Ritcherd would have laughed if the evening had not been such a nightmare.
“Thank you,” he said and she quickly left the room.
It had been years since his mother had sent hot cocoa to his room at bedtime. And he wondered if she really believed that this tiny gesture would actually make up for what he knew she had done. But he had to admit that it smelled good. Savoring the aroma, he realized that hot cocoa at bedtime was one of the rare good memories he had of his childhood. Setting the empty cup back on the table, he extinguished the lamp and settled into the bed. Despite the tremendous anxiety weighing on his mind, he fell quickly to sleep.