He waded into the waters with the thought that today ought to be no different than any morning swim he had undertaken previously. And yet, today was vastly different from all that came before it. He had a wife sleeping in the dilapidated manor house behind him. A wife he had not expected to desire as much as he did.
The cold lake water licked at his calves and thighs, and he shivered, then swiftly dove in, immersing himself. That had the desired effect, and he promptly threw himself into the methodical act of stroking his way halfway across the lake, then back to the shore. The sun was rising higher, birds calling all around him. The beauty of the countryside was undeniable. A welcome peace from the bustle and cacophony of London streets. How strange it would be to return there. It was where he belonged, he knew. But Brinton Manor had begun, in its own strange way, to feel a bit like home as well.
Invigorated from his swim and pleased at the distraction it had provided, he waded from the water. And that was when a feminine gasp invaded the quiet, telling him he was not alone. He turned in the direction of the sound to find Elysande standing on the edge of the grouping of trees.
She was wearing a simple morning gown of light blue, her dark hair confined in a plain chignon, a jaunty little hat perched on her head. The sight of her had his heart thundering in his chest.
“Elysande,” he said, forgetting for a moment that he was naked. “I thought you were still asleep.”
Her wide eyes and parted lips, along with the direction of her stare, sweeping over him in thorough fashion, reminded him. Hudson cupped his hands over himself and moved swiftly for the pile of clothing awaiting him.
“I have a habit of rising early,” she said crisply, “and I thought to do a bit of exploring before breakfast. Do forgive me for intruding. I shall go.”
Her dulcet tones settled somewhere in his belly like a hot coal.Curse it.Why had she appeared to ruin the calming effect of the water? And why could he not dress himself with sufficient haste? Ordinarily, he brought a towel with him for after his swims, but this morning, he had been too distracted to arm himself with the proper provisions. That meant stuffing his wet limbs into his smalls, which was no easy feat as the garment attempted to cling to his bloody knees.
“You are not intruding,” he called to her as he struggled. “Nor is there any need for you to go.”
How silly it was, rushing to hide himself from the woman he had married. She was his wife. Over the course of their marriage, she would see him naked. After this interminable three months was at an end.
Three months, less one day.
His concern for her modesty was new. But then, he had never had the time to dally with innocents, and nor would he have done so. His whole life had been devoted to Scotland Yard and his cases. His preference in female companionship had heretofore been knowledgeable widows unafraid to embrace their desires. Encounters were rendered so much easier.
“You are certain?” She sounded hesitant. Almost guilty.
He wondered just how long she had been watching him and how much she had seen.
“Quite,” he reassured her.
When he was finally covered, he took up his trousers and pulled them on as well before turning back to where she had been standing. She was no longer there, however. Instead, she had drawn nearer. She was approaching him now, eyes devouring his chest and lowering to the place where his hideous scar dwelled, a reminder of the day he had discovered an appreciation for his own mortality.
Her swift inhalation told him the moment she spotted the jagged and puckered flesh.
“You were injured.”
It was a statement rather than a question.
He nodded. “Some years ago now.”
She stopped when she was in perilous proximity to him, the brim of her hat shading her face yet doing nothing to detract from her loveliness. The chapeau was bedecked in flowers and ribbons, but the effect was one of quiet elegance instead of ostentatious command. His fingers longed to pluck it from her hair, remove her pins, and send those chestnut locks raining down her shoulders.
She reached for him, and soft fingertips traveled tentatively over his scar. He held still for her examination. Some of the sensation was gone from the healed skin. In certain places, he could feel the silken whisper of her touch and in others only light, hesitant pressure.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
His heart was pounding faster now, and his body’s reaction to her nearness was as swift as it was alarming. “I was stabbed when I was too persistent for a man who had murdered his wife.”
She gasped. “A murderer?”
If only she knew what he had witnessed in his years at Scotland Yard. But then, no. It was far better she did not. There were sights and smells which haunted, which never left a man, not for as long as he lived.
“I followed him into a darkened alley,” he explained. “I was younger then, and I had yet to realize I was not immortal. I also believed there was no man I could not bring to his knees, no criminal I could not catch and see in prison.”
He had been overly confident as he had raced after his quarry, and he had paid the price. But ultimately, the man who had stabbed him had forfeited his own life.
“This was during your work as an inspector for Scotland Yard?” She removed her touch with an almost guilty jerk, her gaze returning to his.
“Yes. A long time ago now, as I said.”
