Patience, drilled into him by tutors and necessity, deserted him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, crossed the short distance, and looked down.
She lay curled near the hearth, her face turned toward the flames, lashes shadowing her cheeks. Her hands were tucked beneath her chin. A child might have looked so if they carried the lines of strain around her eyes.
“Stubborn creature,” he muttered.
She heard that.
Her eyes flew open, locking onto his. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing a mistake,” he said.
Before she could scramble away, he bent, slid one arm beneath her knees and the other beneath her shoulders, and lifted her.
She let out a soft, outraged gasp, her hands catching at his shirt. “Put me down,” she hissed. “Victor.”
He ignored the way his name on her lips tugged at something treacherous inside him. She weighed very little.
He carried her to the bed and set her gently on it, drawing the thin coverlet over her.
“There,” he said. “Now you need not pretend the floor is comfortable.”
She pushed herself up on her elbows. “You cannot simply pick me up like some parcel and place me where you think I ought to be.”
“I can,” he said. “I just did.”
She glared at him. “You are impossible.”
He almost smiled. “And you are warm. Stay there.”
“What about you?” she demanded. “You cannot mean to lie on the floor.”
“Watch me,” he challenged.
Before she could muster a protest, he took his pillow, tossed it on the rug near the hearth, and lay down on it with exaggerated contentment.
He felt her eyes on his back, as if he had lost his senses. Perhaps he had.
“Victor,” she huffed. “You cannot be comfortable.”
He folded one arm beneath his head and regarded the ceiling. “On the contrary. I have slept on wet ground in winter and on hard benches in drafty inns. This is luxury itself.”
“You lie,” she muttered.
“Frequently,” he replied. “But in this case, the floor truly is tolerable.”
She shifted, rustling the coverlet. “I cannot take the bed while you lie there.”
“You insisted on taking the floor while I had the bed,” he reminded her. “We have simply switched preferences. Consider it a neat balancing of accounts.”
She made a frustrated sound. “This is absurd.”
“It is efficient,” he countered. “You sleep. I sleep. The innkeeper remains convinced we are a married couple who will emergein the morning looking sufficiently rumpled to satisfy his sensibilities. Everyone wins.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, she said, “I will not sleep while you are there.”
“That is your own stubbornness, not the floor’s fault.”
