It had seemed clear for that one moment, that day at Whitby Park. When Brice had told her to spite them all by being happy. By thriving. By discovering who she really was. But Malcolm would gloat if he could see the distance between her and Brice. And Father—Father would probably agree with her. Father would say she shouldn’t trust a Sassenach not to disappoint her.
But since when did she think her father’s thoughts?
The door clicked open, shut again. Lilias? No, the step was too heavy. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to regulate her breathing. She didn’t want to give Malcolm reason to gloat . . . but she needed time. She couldn’t face Brice yet. Not yet. Just a few more hours—a night between her cruel words and seeing their effect in his eyes. That was all. In the morning she would face him, and the consequences. In the morning, she’d be ready to talk through it all with him. Settle things.
The mattress shifted, and her spine went tight, despite her attempts to remain relaxed. He would know she was awake. She needed to stay calm. He wasn’t going to insist on any marital favors tonight. He never had before, and he certainly wouldn’t with her having just lost her dinner a few minutes before. He wouldn’t. She could—must—stay calm. She would simply ignore him, and he would eventually be content that she was well enough and go away. He would . . .
A touch on her shoulder, so soft she barely felt it. And her tension eased. A brush down her back, back up, around, and peace edged out the mounting panic. The darkness that she hadn’t realized was pressing closer slid away. Breathing became easier.
Tears pressed against her closed eyelids.
“Shh. You’re all right.” Why did the whisper, as soft as the touch, settle into her mind like the refrain of an old hymn? “Rest, my darling. Just go to sleep. I’m right here.”
A mere minute ago, his words would have sounded like a threat. Just now . . . the promise of it brought those tears squeezing past her defenses. “Why are ye being kind to me?” Her voice came out quiet, too, and husky with her tears.
He settled more, behind her, his fingers keeping up that blessed caress on her back, brushing aside the curls in a way that made her scalp tingle. “You’re my wife. I just want to comfort you. To be here for you.”
Now she had to face him, to see him, despite the fact that turning over dislodged his touch—and put her in a position she’d never been in before. Lying face-to-face with a man, their noses only inches away. As she turned she could see the golden flecks in the center of his eyes, the dark fan of lashes that no man had the right to boast. What she couldn’t see was any deception in their depths. Any dark intentions.
But there was pain there. Caused by her. And how did she dare claim she wasn’t like her father?
With a quick breath to bolster her, she lifted her hand and rested it against his strong jaw. “Brice . . . I dinna hate you.”
He moved his head just a bit and kissed her fingers. “Rowena . . . I don’t hate you either.”
It shouldn’t make her smile . . . but it did. “I’m sorry I said all those hurtful things. I just—”
“I know. Dinna fash yerself.” He said it with a burr, and with a wink. Then he made a show of turning onto his back and making himself comfortable on top of her blankets. “I can’t blame you for being annoyed with me, given my utter perfection—perfection is annoying, isn’t it? Though in your list, you left off a few vital items. Like my perfect handsomeness. And my perfect dancing. And my perfect horsemanship. My perfect teeth.”
She should have been alarmed at him making himself so comfortable. Instead, she laughed and grabbed a pillow with which to bash him in the face. He caught her wrist, used it to pull her down onto his chest . . . and stilled that quick burst of panic with those magical fingers against her back again.
She felt rather like Father’s hunting dog—an utter monster until one found that place he loved behind his ears, and then he turned to a pile of mush. Brice, it seemed, had found a way to do the same to her. And she obligingly melted into his side and closed her eyes to better enjoy the touch. “What’re ye doing?”
His hum vibrated in his chest, under her ear. His scent, fresh and crisp, filled her nose—nothing like the musk Malcolm always wore. He positioned her arm for her, over his chest . . . and yet it felt more like a request than a command.
“I’m settling in,” he said softly, “for a night with my wife. In which I solemnly swear that I will not be swayed by any amorous intents—my goal being solely to provide comfort to her and, if all goes well, convince her that I’m not an utter cad.”
She rested her cheek against his chest too and tried to convince her stomach to stop churning so. It was distracting her from the music of his caress. “Ye oughtn’t. Ye could catch whatever I have.”
His fingers stilled, rested for a moment, turning their position, just like that, into an embrace. Then he lifted his head to press a kiss to hers. “I might. But do you know what?”
She opened her eyes and shifted her head enough to look at him. He was smiling a soft, beautiful smile.
“It’ll be worth it.”
It was her heart, not her stomach this time, that lurched.
Brice awoke, not to muffled screams in the middle of the night, but to the soft light of dawn and an arm gone numb. An arm gone numb, to his delight, from the head resting upon it. He wiggled his fingers but otherwise decided to suffer the discomfort.
Definitely worth it.
He traced a finger over the arm draped across his stomach and smiled. He may end up sick—Rowena had run to the lavatory three times before finally falling asleep just like this—but it was a price worth paying. She hadn’t just tolerated his presence; she had snuggled against him and taken comfort. She had reveled in the innocent touch upon her back. She had somehow, without really saying anything at all, opened up.
Thank you, Lord. Thank you. Now if you would please help me not to wreck it all. . . .
Rowena’s breath hitched, and her eyelids fluttered open. Smiling, Brice kept up the soft tracing of his finger, praying it would ease her into realizing he was still with her. When she smiled back at him, his heart swelled until it nearly hurt. “Good morning, darling.”
She actually, miraculously, snuggled closer. “Morning.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Mm.” Her eyes closed again. “Dinna ken yet. Though at the moment I’m inclined to say I’m quite lovely.”
His fingers found her long locks and twined through them. The hot iron’s curl had loosened overnight, leaving naught but a hint of wave. “No question about that.”
She rewarded him with a sleepy grin. “Even charming first thing in the morning. Maybe I would hate you, if I didna prefer, just now, to be charmed.”
“Shall I press my luck, then?” He turned onto his side so he could face her . . . and find a new position for his tingling arm. “Beautiful as you always are, I’ve never seen you more so than now.” With her defenses down. Her face soft, absent of fear or caution. If he really wanted to press his luck, he would lean over that tiny, enormous inch and touch his lips to hers.
Her hand, which had settled on his back when he turned, slid over his shoulder to land on his cheek. The eyes she opened shone with vulnerability. “Did you really never love her? Or anyone else?”
“Never. My heart is waiting for you to claim it, Rowena.”
“I thought I . . . or didna think I’d . . .” She sighed and tucked her head under his chin. “I like having you here. Beside me. I didna think I would, but . . . I canna recall the last time I slept so peacefully.”
Was that an invitation to stay there again tonight? Perhaps . . . But he’d let her issue it explicitly rather than declare it again himself. “No nightmares last night.”
She drew back, brows arched in question. “How do ye ken about the nightmares?”
The urge to tell her was too strong, too directly opposed to his good sense to be anything but the Lord. He wrapped the loose curl around his finger. “You cry. S
cream into your pillow. I can hear you nearly every night.”
Her eyes went wide. “I scream? Loud enough to wake you?”
“I’m a light sleeper.” Tell her. That voice that sounded like his own thoughts, only stronger. He pressed his lips together, aiming a silent Are you certain, Lord? heavenward and then giving himself a mental shake. Of course the Lord was sure. Brice was the one plagued by uncertainty. He pried his lips apart though. “It began our second night home. I thought . . . I thought you were being hurt, so I rushed in. You were well, of course. Just the bad dream. So I . . .”
Her brows lowered, her eyes relaxed, the corner of her lips tugged up. “You did what you did last night. Soothed me. That’s why it seemed so familiar, so . . . comfortable.”
“I couldn’t just let you cry, alone. But I swear to you, darling, I never would have taken advantage, I never—”
“I know, Brice. Ye’re a good man.” Her hand slid down to toy with the front of his shirt. Hopefully she couldn’t detect the way his heart pounded beneath it. “How often? Do I have such nightmares, I mean?”
“Two nights out of three.”
“And do you always . . . ?”
He nodded. “I can’t bear to let you suffer it alone.”
“All these weeks I’ve been focused on what ye weren’t doing—and yet ye’ve been doing whate’er ye can to help me.” She shook her head and splayed her hand over his heart. “I’m an oaf.”
He leaned over but angled his face up to kiss her forehead rather than her lips. “You’ve reason to be upset with me. I dismissed your concerns because I didn’t want to entertain them. But I was wrong to do that, darling. I just pray you’ll forgive me, that you’ll give me a chance to listen now, and to win your heart.”
“I’ll do better too. I promise. I just . . . even wanting to be with you, I dinna ken when I’ll be ready to . . .”
“I know.” He wouldn’t lie and say it would be easy to have her in his arms as he did last night and not want more—but he would never, never make her aware of any struggles. He swore that silently to her. She had pain enough to overcome on the subject, and she didn’t need his impatience added to it. “I promised you at the start that I wouldn’t push you, that I’d wait as long as it takes for you to be ready. That hasn’t changed.”
“Thank you. But I . . . I’ll try. I’ll stop avoiding you. And I . . . I’d like it if . . .” Her nostrils flared. “If you would . . .” Face washing pale, she levered herself up, darted to her feet, and ran to the lavatory with a hand to her mouth.
Poor thing. Brice levered himself up too and swung his legs over the side. He would wait for her to reemerge, see if he could wheedle the end of that sentence from her. But then he had best get to his own room and ready for the day.
He had a visit to the constable to arrange.
Rowena emerged five minutes later, pale and shaking, and made him seriously reconsider that plan for the day. She sank down beside him on the bed and leaned into him, making no objection when he slid his arm around her.
She moaned into his shoulder. “I guess ye’ve no worries about me trying to have tea with Catherine today.”
A topic they had avoided last night after the initial quarrel. Brice ran his hand up and down her arm. “This isn’t exactly my preferred way of winning an argument.”
“’Tisn’t yer doing. And I had best think on what ye’ve said about her. It’s just . . .” She sat up straight only to let her shoulders slump and lift a hand to rub at her face. “I could swear I saw something in her. Something hurting.”
“Perhaps you did.” How was he to know, really, what had gone on in her life? How was he to know, for that matter, whether people like her and her brother were born or . . . or made? He may well have blinders concerning them. Blinders his wife didn’t share. “If you are right, we need to figure out what it changes. What our actions should be. Though perhaps that conversation ought to await the return of your health?”
“Aye.” She attempted a smile, quickly fading, and scooted farther onto the mattress, under the blankets. “You had better see to that business with the constable.”
He must. But . . . “I could stay with you.”
Despite the circles around her silver eyes, soft light lit them. “I appreciate that. But ye have duties. See to them, then come and check on me. And . . . and if ye’d stay here again tonight . . .”
He really did hate that such a crucial victory came at the cost of her health—but he would take it, however he could get it. “I was hoping you’d ask.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “And you know, just to throw this out there . . . you needn’t be sick to enjoy my delightful company.”
Her answer was a grin that almost eclipsed the obvious discomfort she felt, and a playful push against his shoulder. “Get on with you. But hurry back.”
He left the room with a grin that no doubt made him look the fool. But what did he care? His wife was beginning to like him.
Half an hour later, he was dressed and groomed and praying he’d find the breakfast room empty. He didn’t much care to answer any questions about why he looked so happy when his wife was ill and there was a traitorous footman in the clink in town.
No such luck—though Mother and Ella were nowhere in sight, Abbott was pouring himself a cup of coffee . . . which was odd. The Abbotts rarely dined with the family at Midwynd, unless there was business to be discussed. They usually kept to their cottage at the corner of the property for all their meals.
His old friend greeted him with a nod. “Forgive me for making myself at home—Father asked me to await you and let you know he’s ready to go into town whenever you are.”
Though his tongue demanded a leisurely cup of tea to start his day, Brice settled for grabbing a muffin. “You needn’t apologize for taking a cup of coffee. He is at your house?”
Abbott sighed and waved him to a seat. “Have your tea first—he is having his. We weren’t expecting you to rise for another twenty minutes or so.”
That would have been his usual time to come down, yes. But he didn’t usually have an employee held in jail. Still, he hated to interrupt his steward’s morning ritual, so he poured himself a cup of tea. And determined to drink it quickly. “Will you be going with us, Abbott?”
“I see no reason to. I thought I would put some more prayer and study into the topic of my first sermon from my new pulpit. I cannot make up my mind for the life of me.” Abbott settled into the chair across from Brice’s. “They mentioned in the kitchen that Her Grace is ill. Nothing serious, I hope.”
Brice would have done better to skip the tea, after all—it tasted like water to him. Maybe he was already coming down with something too. “Let’s pray not. She was ill several times last night and already this morning, but she slept well, at least.”
His friend seemed to think nothing of the implications that Brice had been there to witness it. But then, why would he? No one beyond Davis and Cowan could know that he was a complete stranger to his wife in those respects.
“Everyone is in an outrage over Humphrey—or most everyone. A few of the under staff have been mute on the subject, and Father and Mr. Child have agreed to keep a close eye on them all.” Abbott regarded him with an unrelenting stare that made his bite of muffin turn to dust. “On the one hand, it seems foolish to assume anyone else is involved. But on the other hand, something more than what we know is obviously at work. It appears Humphrey was searching for something particular, to return as he did. Have you any idea what?”
Brice washed the tasteless muffin bite down with a sip of the tea.
Abbott leaned forward. “Nottingham. You have been acting oddly for months. Perhaps it is merely your new responsibilities weighing on you—I was happy to assume so. And then you stumbled into marriage. But there is something more, and I’d have to be a dunce not to see it. Tell me, please. Tell us, so that we can help. Father and Mr. Child need to be aware of it if more servants are likely to be bought and convinced t
o partake in such activities.”
Brice sighed and shoved his plate and cup aside. Old Abbott had a head start on him—surely he was about done with his breakfast. “They do, yes. You’re right.”
His friend regarded him with lifted brows when Brice stood. “But not I? You’ll not tell me what’s going on?”
It wasn’t the brows that gave him pause. It was the hurt in the eyes beneath them. “Ab, it isn’t that I don’t trust you—on the contrary. But I don’t want to pull you into this mess.”
“I would pray with you. For you. Support you.”
Brice passed his fingers through his hair. “You’ve a new life you’re planning, one you’ve worked hard to achieve. You don’t need to be distracted with my troubles.”
Abbott looked far from mollified. Indeed, his movements were jerky with anger as he stood, abandoning his steaming cup as well, and strode to the door. But once there, he paused, turned. And speared Brice through with righteous indignation. “I thought that was what friends did—carried each other’s burdens. But perhaps I always thought more highly of our friendship than you did. Perhaps you don’t need my feeble prayers added to yours.”
“Geoff—”
“Do you think I haven’t faith enough to handle the hardships of life? That I do not believe God bigger than anything we might face—the seen and the unseen?”
Where was this coming from? “I have never doubted your faith.”
“Just the worth of my support? Perhaps we are not truly friends, then. Perhaps I was merely taken in by your affability. Perhaps you don’t even know where your charm ends and genuine regard begins.”
He would have retorted—but it was the second time in less than twelve hours that someone had made that accusation. Either Abbott had been listening at Rowena’s door last night—highly unlikely—or there was some truth to the allegation that he relied too heavily upon his personality. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment.
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