She spread her fingers across her skirts again, noting the way he glanced at them. His nostrils flared and he looked back at her, a light burning in the back of his eyes.
“I don’t know how,” she said quietly. “When we first married, I thought . . . I thought I only ever wanted to be with another man.Of course, I didn’t have a choice in the matter, and I resented you.”
He inclined his head. “I’m aware.”
“I know you want a reason, or an excuse, but the truth is, I convinced myself I hated you for so long, it became easy to not . . . Respond. And at the beginning, I felt so angry with you, I told you I didn’t want . . .” Her cheeks flamed. “Well, anything. Which you obliged. Then, later, even when you were pleasant, when you treated me well, I told myself I could never forgive you, and that you would never compare to William.”
His jaw clenched. “I should have said more to turn you against him.”
“No. I think . . .” She twisted her hands together. “The man I had in my head, the one I thought was William, doesn’t exist. You didn’t compare, because no man ever could. It was only when I discovered the truth . . . I’d been living a lie for so long.” Her eyes stung and she closed them, willing the tears to remain in her throat and not break free of her eyelids.
“Then why Odysseus?” Percy murmured, his voice closer now.
“After William, it was a relief to dance with you. And as Odysseus, I didn’t have to think of anything else.” The tears gathered on her lashes, hot and wet, and she prayed they didn’t fall. “No past. No future.”
“Mm.” His hand, warm against her cold skin, touched her face. “When I was someone else, you had forgiven me.”
“I already had,” she whispered. “I just didn’t know it. I’m sorry for being so cruel.”
His laugh ghosted along her cheek, and his arm slid around her shoulders, pulling her into his body. Dimly, she recognised that his thigh now pressed against hers, and he must have crossed the narrow space to her side of the carriage. But her face pressed against the curve of his neck as she leant into him, and the logistics of their position stopped mattering.
He smelt like home. Like woodsmoke and wool and cologne. His other hand came to cup her cheek, smearing away the wetness there. Her heart, which for so long had been dormant in her chest, gave a little lurch. Or perhaps a flutter. She wasn’t well-versed in its movements, having never felt anything from it before. Yes, she had flirted—a great deal—but none of her beaus had meant anything to her. If anything, they were designed as punishment.
Look, I am still desirable, though you claimed me. I am not yours.
“Do you regret marrying me?” he asked. The same stupid, fateful question she had asked him. The truth sat on her tongue, though it took courage to utter it.
“No. No, I haven’t for a long time now.”
“Then at least I did something right.” Something pressed against her head, his lips perhaps, even as he eased his arm away from her and returned to his position on the other side of the carriage. He raked a hand through greying hair, silvery strands falling back into place with careless dishevelment, and Cecily longed to run her fingers through it.
She thought over their interactions over the past few days. Their flirting as Odysseus and Circe, and his teasing of her now. His obvious attraction, so blatant it almost intimidated her. Every instinct told her that their marriage was salvageable.
He had not stopped wanting her when he retreated from her entirely.
For years, she had taken him for granted; she did not think she should continue to do so now.
I will have all of you, or I will have none at all.
The implication was clear: if she could not love him, or convince him that she did, then she may still run the risk of losing him, no matter how much he wanted her.
Fear struck through her.
He frowned, as though sensing the direction her thoughts had gone in. “What’s the matter?”
“How am I to know?” she burst out. “How will I know if I love you?”
His smile was gentle, just enough that it made her want to cry all over again. “You will know, my witch. Love is not always what you think it ought to be, but when you find it—or it finds you—it will make itself known.”
He spoke as though love were its own entity, something out of her control entirely. But she could not allow that to be the case—she would hunt this elusive love down, if that’s what it took, so she could finally give Percy the life he deserved and the wife he wanted. She wouldforceherself to love him, and then he would never leave her.
Chapter Ten
As they arrived at their inn for the night, Cecily was struck by the noise from the coach house. Ostlers bustled across the yard, and the sound of merriment and clinking emerged from the taproom, which appeared full. Percy handed Cecily down, his hand on the small of her back as he guided her inside. The innkeeper, once he discovered their identity, bowed obsequiously and led them to a private parlour on the second floor.
Cecily sank on to a chair by the fire, and Percy stood by the window, apparently deep in thought. She removed her gloves, chewing at a hangnail. Tonight, she would be sharing a bed with her husband. A chance for them to rediscover the intimacy they’d begun as Odysseus and Circe. Not only did her body long for it, but she was certain that if she had him in that way, she could convince him that she loved him—or at least, something close. It would be a hurdle overcome. Proof that this marriage would work.
Another reason for him not to leave her.
