He hadn’t noticed the folded clothes beneath her arm until she set them onto the table. Warm air wafted over his skin as she shook out a linen shirt and a dark blue coat. She laid the coat aside and then held the shirt up against his shoulders.
The linen was smooth. Fine lawn, actually. But what fascinated him was the cut.
She frowned down, avoiding his gaze and focusing on his shoulders. “I—I think the seam will keep you more comfortable.”
She belied her cleverness.
The shirt would not only be more comfortable, but because of the way she’d designed the seam, the way the fabric fell would allow a greater range of motion.
He’d be able to shoot his bow—or handle a sword—without restriction.
And, for the times he did not wish to suffer piteous stares, he could leave his jacket resting on his shoulders without concern that it would fall.
She bit her lip—clearly uncertain of his reaction.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m stunned.” He wet his lips. “And honored.”
Her blush deepened, pinking the tips of her ears. “I—I was confined to Thaddeus’s room until his fever broke. I cannot be idle.”
She had never been able to be idle, worried or not. And yet, she’d waited for him for thirteen years.
“Is Thaddeus recovered?”
“He is much better. Begging to see you, in fact,” she said. “May I help you try on the shirt?”
Allowing her to dress him was a terrible idea.
He lifted his arms anyway. She slipped the shirt over his head and then smoothed the linen down his chest like a lover.
Like a wife.
“There are hooks, you see.” She fumbled with the ones on his right. “You may leave it down, or pin it back, as you require.”
Her care warmed him deeply. “Thank you, Lady Cheverley.”
“Penelope,” she corrected.
He ran a knuckle down her heated cheek. “Pen.”
One minute, he was sure she knew he was her husband.
The next, he was not.
The old spark flamed between them, but, while secrets remained, they could be nothing more than emissaries of their true selves.
She traced the puffed white lines across his wrist. Her lip trembled. Then stilled. Though his scars muted her touch, the pain ran deeper than the physical.
“You said you were imprisoned. Were you cut then?” she asked.
“Yes,” he whispered, raw.
“You must have fought quite hard.” She sniffed. “You were not easy to restrain.”
“No.” He blinked over stinging eyes. “I wasn’t.”
“I thought—I thought officer prisoners were treated with respect.”
“Sometimes,” he answered. “Sometimes not. I wasn’t in a regular prison. And yes, though I struggled until I bled, I was kept restrained.”
