She arranged her skirts, keeping her eyes carefully averted. “Better to keep the interior of your carriage clean, my lord.”
He blew out a breath.
Was this to be his life? A life where every tentative volley of truce was met with cannonades of scorn?
He had his Langley wife. She’d promised him an heir.Be careful what you wish for, lest it combust in your face.
He rested his head on the back of the carriage as the carriage bounced.Thunk, rattle, rattle, rattle.Thunk, rattle, rattle, rattle.Thunk. Jarring, physical pain was his only relief.Thunk, rattle, rattle.Thunk, rattle, rattle, rattle.Thu—
First, she touched his shoulder, and then she placed something soft behind his head.
He dared not open his eyes, lest he weep.
On impulse, he reached up and grasped her hand. Without looking, and, most certainly, without speaking, he held her gloved fingers against his chest. She ceased breathing. Then, in slow measures, aspiration returned.
His hand made a nest for hers. After what seemed like an hour—each second marked by a small circle drawn against her palm with his thumb—her fingers curled around his and she rested.
It was enough. He would press no further.
He sunk back onto her makeshift pillow and, with his hand, he prayed a wordless prayer.
In his prayer’s comfort and promise, finally, he slept.
…
For the first time in her life, Katherine had fallen asleep in a carriage. The carriage’s leather-covered seats were cushioned with horsehair, the wheels were well-sprung, and the team expertly managed. None of those things had been the reason for her ability to rest.
Bromton’s touch—gentle, constant, and warm—had slipped past the sentinels of her anger and fear, delivering a signal straight to her soul:all will be well.
The message had calmed and comforted.
She’d slept straight through to their arrival. And before she could parse how she felt, Bromton began introducing the assembled servants. Next, he guided her through the house. She could not think while he studied her features. They walked from chamber to chamber, each grander than the last. Bromton fidgeted, repeating himself as he pointed out architectural details.
Every room fed her growing dread.
She could hardly fathom being mistress of all this, and “all this,” Bromton had assured, was mere prelude to Castle Bromton.
She struggled to, again, find comfort in Bromton’s presence. She struggled and failed. She’d made a terrible mistake. She could never be equal to this place, let alone its mistress. And she had no answer to Bromton’s anxious eagerness to please.
Could she let him love her? Did she believe in love at all?
“Might I retire?” she asked.
“Of course,” he replied.
All propriety, he led her to the series of rooms that would be her domain.
“The family chambers form the rear of each wing,” he explained. “From the landing I turn left, you right. However,” his breath hitched, “a door connects the bedchambers.”
His gaze beseeched, devoured. She stood alone on an island ache. The only possible way to return to him was to wade voluntarily into too-deep waters of pain. Panic fluttered at her throat.
He lifted her hand. One finger at a time, he tugged the leather from her fingers until he’d removed her glove. Two rings glinted in the light—one red, one gold. Holding her gaze, he placed a kiss on her knuckles, just the rings.
Sensations.Somany sensations. Each, with the pull of a tide. Each, too fierce to name.
“May I come to you tonight?” he asked.
She swallowed with difficulty. Her throat had completely dried. “I do believe it is your right.”
