Silence.
He set down his tumbler and ran a palm over his evening whiskers, the scratching sound thunderous in the quiet.
“Well . . . there’s my answer,” she said softly. “Come. Let me help ye tae your bedchamber.”
“Going to tuck me in, wife?” He stumbled forward again, looping his arm casually around her neck, much as Malcolm had with William. “Make me comfortable?”
“That has been my goal.” She wrapped her arm around his waist and tugged him toward the door—her side pressed to his from knee to shoulder.
How she ached to melt into him, to soak up the heat of his body. Even drunk, Fox held an unshakable allure.
“Look at the two of us,” she continued. “Two purportedly unhappy souls trying tae rub along together.”
He snorted and took three staggering steps.
“And how do you propose we rub along?” he asked dryly. “How do we . . .re-happyourselves?” He leaned forward so he could see her face, struggling to focus his gaze.
Leah smiled despite herself, maneuvering them out the door. “Well, we could think of times when we were last happy.”
She declined to add the rest of her thoughts:I’ve been content for a span of years, but I cannae rightly remember when I was last genuinely happy.
Had she truly been happy since her father’s death? Since her mother’s passing over twenty-two years ago? Was that the true reason she had married Fox? Because she wished to reclaim the wee bit of the joy she had experienced that one evening in his company?
And how pathetic if that were the case.
She and Fox now faced the main spiral staircase. Its stone walls were wide enough for the two of them to climb together, but just barely. Her bulky skirts overlapped Fox’s thighs.
Thank goodness the sconces were lit, illuminating the stairs at regular intervals. Above, she could hear Ethan cursing as William pulled him and Malcolm along. Rain pattered against the stairwell windows.
Leah urged Fox forward, but he didn’t move. Not yet.
She paused, studying him. “When were ye last happy, Fox?”
More silence. He deflated, his arm settling more fully on her shoulder, as if the answer pressed heavily upon him.
“I was happy when those I loved most were not yet dead.” An immense weight sank through his words.
Leah blinked.
When those I loved most were not yet dead.
Not when those I loved most were yet alive.
No.
He focused on their lack.
Their deaths had abolished his happiness.
At her urging, they began to climb the wide steps. She could feel the muscles of his chest work as they moved, her hand still wrapped tightly around his waist.
“What is happiness?” he snorted, swaying once more and coming to a stop. He leaned sideways, taking her slightly with him, his shoulder making contact with the wall. “Whenever I think about times I felt happy, I realize now they were merely—” He flicked the hand not draped over her. “—spaces of naivete. I was happy then because I didn’t know what I know now. I was only happy because I was ignorant.”
Well.
That was . . . informative and yet unhelpfully . . . vague.
Leah placed her free hand on his stomach to steady them both.
