Kick*
It'd been his fault, all his fault, and he knew it. Guilt twisted inside his chest, cramping it and nauseating him as he reclined in the chair near his window. The golden afternoon sunlight hit the midnight blue snuffbox in his case and it glinted in his eyes. He sighed. It had been a beautiful day out, a perfect day, and everything had been going so well - so terribly well - before it had happened. They'd laughed. She'd smiled back at him as she galloped teasingly before him, the soft, crisp breeze whipping at the dangling, dark green ribbons of her hat. But then…then he'd shown-off. He'd raced past her, and he'd shown-off, with her calling after him all the while.
"But I can't ride too quickly."
He'd only sped forward.
"Oh, Robert. Wait! Please."
But he hadn't. She'd been laughing, after all, and he only wanted to show her - he'd only wanted to impress her, though why, he couldn't be sure.
So he'd taken the jump…and her horse had followed.
To see her being thrown from a horse - for her slender, delicate frame to be thrown to the ground from her horse - had been nearly traumatizing to see. He'd turned back to see her expression after his jump, to see her features alight with some sort of delight at what her new husband could do. But instead he turned just in time to see it, to see her thrown, and he had gasped at the sight. With a kick, her horse had stopped short and thrown her onto the wet autumn earth; and with a kick, his heart had stopped and he'd thrown himself down to gather her up in his arms.
He'd carried her back, muddy and bruised as she was, and the doctor had been called.
And so here he sat now, staring at the glare of his favorite snuffbox, repeating over and over in his mind what he'd done. He could hear the muffled noises of Cora and her maid through the dividing door, and then the eventual metallic click of her door - the metallic click that meant she was alone again.
Robert sat up straighter in his chair, straighter, and furrowed his brow in consideration. What did the doctor say? What if she was really hurt? He sat even straighter, his arms now bracing the side of the chair, preparing to lift him up and toward her. But...he stopped. What if she didn't want to see him? He could feel his features dropping one by one. He wouldn't quite know what to do if she didn't want to see him.
He swallowed. There was a sudden lump in his throat, the thought of not being able to see her suddenly inciting a small panic inside of him. But why? Why should he feel this way? Why did he feel any of this sort of guilt and panic and worry - such worry - over her?
Robert sat still for a moment. And then a moment more. A moment, a moment, and then he knew.
Oh, God. He knew.
And as if his feet had carried them of their own accord, and as if his hand had turned the knob of the dividing door without his conscious assent, he was within her space. He was within her room and he was looking upon her in her bed, a bruised and battered beauty bathed in the creams and whites of her gown and robe.
Her eyes flitted up at his entrance. But she did not speak. And he did not speak, not at once anyway. He only managed to smile contritely; he only managed to take one more step toward her, but no more. In the warm light of the tired sun, he could see the scratches on her skin - her face - and the plum colored mark on her cheekbone. And as he stared at her longer, she seemed to grow smaller, until at last she looked down into the book she'd held open in her lap.
He took one step more. "How do you feel?"
She shook her head, and she closed her eyes. "Embarrassed."
"What?" His brow creased; he took two more steps forward.
"Embarrassed and terribly foolish."
There was another cramp inside his chest, another wave of nausea. "No," he managed softly as he strode across the room. He sat on the edge of her bed and surprised himself by reaching for her hand.
It surprised him even further when she took it.
"You aren't foolish." He shook her hand slightly. "The foolish one is me."
She opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke ahead of her, silencing her with his admission.
"I should not have taken the jump, only I let my pride think for me, decide for me."
"But…pride?" He noticed how slightly, so very slightly, she had held his hand more firmly. "What? What had you to be —"
"— I wanted to impress you." He'd blurted it suddenly, and felt his face flush hotly. Even after being married to her for six months, six months full of thousands of blushes, he felt this one may be the worst yet. This moment was indeed the worst yet because he now knew. He knew - in looking at her, in looking at her pretty face - why he so wanted to kiss every scrape and scratch and purpling bruise that lay upon her skin.
But of course he wouldn't. He couldn't…somehow he couldn't. Not when she looked up at him that way. His heart fluttered around too painfully when she looked up at him that way. And in spite of what he knew he felt now, he also felt fear. Fear. And it was fear at what he knew he felt.
She gazed warmly up at him, her hand so soft and smooth beneath his palm. "But Robert…" she smiled and he felt his lungs give way. "You needn't try to impress me."
He tried to breathe again; he tried to do anything that might help the way his chest felt all aflame, but aflame in the loveliest way he'd ever known.
His hand was clasped more tightly. "I chose you, after all, didn't I?"
And at this Robert laughed, pulling her hand to his lap. "Yes." He looked at her fingers in his own and smiled again. "Yes, I suppose you did."
Thanks to MercedesCarello for the prompt :)