She whimpered.
“If we do not return,” he said gently, “you will be missed.”
The enchantment was slipping away. The shadows grew longer. The jewels muted, transforming back into plain stars.
She grasped his cheeks as if in holding onto him, she could hold to the magic. She raked her fingernails through his stubbly beard.
Penelope.
Had he said her name again, or had she just imagined it?
She wanted to hear him say it. She loved the way it sounded on his lips—like a spreading vine, living thing. She stared at those lips, doused in darkness.
“Penelope.”
A vine, yes, with tendrils that pulled her in.
She brushed her lips against his in a feather-light kiss. A kiss of gratitude. Of reverence. Of acknowledgment for whatever it was they’d just shared.
He touched her hair. A tremor ran through his hand.
“I think it best if you walk on ahead.” He spoke like a man at odds with himself. “I will be near, and I promise you will make it safely back to Ithwick.”
Ithwick.He spoke it like a curse. The estate’s specter rose—a menace, a thief.
“Very well.” She sighed, but a question mark remained. She knew, just as sure as this circle of stones, there were truths between them yet to unfold. “May we meet again?”
“If you wish to meet, we will,” he replied, barely audible. “I will not deny you.”
She nodded, bowed her head, and then turned. The mist cloaked all but a few steps of the bridle path. There was no way forward but to walk, to place each step with the faith that the next would unveil.
Faith was not among her strengths.
Perhaps all would be well; there was no way to know.
She resisted the urge to look behind. She would not be able to see him anyway. But he would be there. He said he’d be near. She trusted his word.
And, what was more—the peace she’d found in the stones.Thatpeace she could recall. It wasn’t faith, but it was something to hold.
Somehow, she reached the house. A candle burned in the window of the duchess’s rooms. Silently, she thanked Mrs. Renton, and entered the house. As soon as the door closed, his presence was gone.
~~~
Penelope fluffed her pillow for the nineteenth time.Whycouldn’t she sleep?
Why?
Sheknewwhy. She’d been terribly bold. She’d placed her hands just above the captain’s hips, on the swell of his chest muscles, on the planes of his cheeks. She’d taken his injured arm and wrapped it around her waist.
The pang that lingered in her heart was not regret.
To be held again had been a marvel. And to be held by the captain?
She sank into the pillows, curled her arm against her face and rolled to her side, grateful, for once, to be at Ithwick.
She could not imagine lying in the yew bed she and Cheverley had carved and thinking such thoughts about another man.
She set aside thoughts of the captain and turned to her memories of her marital bed, and of the great yew tree that had spawned not just the bed, but many of Cheverley’s bows. Young, newlywed, and giddy with love, they’d built a cottage—the single room to eventually serve as the heart of Pensteague.
