Grief for everything Malcolm had lost and would forever mourn.
Grief for herself and her loveless marriage that, at the moment, felt all too full of love.
Fox said nothing. No platitudes. No patting her shoulder. Nothere, there, it’s not so bad as all that.
He did not dismiss her pain. Instead, he offered his shoulder as rest. As strength to her.
After all, he had known such pain himself. He understood the black hole of grief and mourning and would, therefore, never judge her for her own.
And that knowledge freed her to feel fully, to be her truest self.
She cried and cried, until her lungs hiccupped and her eyes swelled and her nose rubbed raw. Until she was thoroughly spent and, possibly, even drifted off to sleep.
It was only when the carriage rocked to a stop that she shook off her lethargy enough to note their surroundings.
Gray stone walls and soaring mountain peaks.
Their home.
Fox had taken her home.
Tears sprung again.
William raced out the front entrance of Laverloch and opened the carriage door, looking sharp and resplendent in his butler’s livery.
Fox carried Leah over the castle threshold—past the footmen and maids lined to greet her, up the (wider) stairs, and into his (now) well-appointed bedchamber. Leah knew she should protest, should insist he put her down, should demand he let her walk—
Should. Should. Should.
But she had missed him so, and he was cradling her with such care. As if she were treasured, beloved.
Leah hadn’t the strength to protest. Instead, she burrowed her nose into that space between his collar and jaw, breathing in deeply and letting her tears continue to flow.
She only opened her eyes when her body hit the cool counterpane atop their soft mattress. Her hands reached for him, loathe to let Fox move away from her.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Let me tend to you.”
Gently, he pulled off her boots and her apron, unbuttoned her dress, and unlaced her corset. He unpinned her hair and massaged her head.
Through it all, Leah lay still, tears running silently down her cheeks, her heart too wounded to do anything more than soak up his ministrations.
Finally, he stripped down to his shirt and trousers, sank beside her in bed, and tugged them both under the counterpane, curling her into his body. Leah snuggled into his chest, the starchy smell of his shirt, the sandalwood of his shaving soap.
How she had missed him. Missed them. Missedthis.
The blessed heat of him brought another bout ofgreiting.
How did she have any tears left?
And yet, he soothed her . . . his hand in her hair, the thud of his heart under her ear, the gentle sound of air flowing through his lungs.
She drifted from sorrow to deep sleep in one breath to the next.
Leah woke, alone, to candlelight and the smell of roast beef. Her stomach growled.
Pushing upright, she saw Fox seated before the fire, still in shirtsleeves, looking deliciously disheveled and masculine.
Night had fallen. Dim light flickered off the red velvet bed curtains and age-darkened paneling, turning the room into a medieval laird’s hideaway.
