“In which direction?”
A laugh rumbled through him, and he hawked, spitting on the cobbles by his feet. “Headed south, of course,” he said. “Towards London, in my mind, like the devil was on his tail. Gave you the regular slip.”
“That he did,” Oliver agreed. “Thank you for your time.”
John nodded, scraping a hand along white stubble. “I hope you catch him.”
“Yes,” Oliver said. “I hope so, too.”
The back door was unbolted as promised. His questing hands found a candle and flint, and after some tries, he succeeded in lighting it. The house groaned and protested around him as he made his way through it, following the smell of smoke until he reached the room Emily occupied. A fire sat in the grate, a blackened guard standing protectively before it.
And in the bed, Emily lay asleep under a pile of blankets, her face in flickering shadow.
Placing his candle on the table beside the stump of hers, he stripped and joined her in the bed, flinging the blankets over them both. As she rolled against his body, she shuddered, half waking from sleep, eyelids fluttering.
“Oliver?”
“I’m here.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry. All my clothes were wet.”
“You’re cold.” She made a sound like a moan, then she pressed herself more firmly against him. “Where did you go?”
“Checking for certain that he went to London—or as sure as I can be—and procuring us seats on tomorrow’s stagecoach. I’m afraid I don’t have the funds to better get us there.”
To his surprise, she turned her face up to his, her lips soft and lax with sleep, and kissed him on the mouth. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“I despise false modesty.” She rested her head against his bare chest, and he held her close, one hand in her loose hair. “You did not need to help, but you did. And I will not forget that. When this is over—” She pressed a hand against his heart. “Whatever you wish from me then, you may have.”
He almost asked if she meant marriage—and he thought she might. In gratitude, she would marry him, if he wished it.
And he did, he had not changed his mind about that, but he didn’t want a pity wedding. A bride who married him out of gratitude and nothing more.
If they were ever to marry, it would be because she wanted him for a husband, independent of the things he had done for her.
He couldn’t be sure that would ever happen. There had been real fear in her eyes when he’d proposed and she’d imagined a life with him. She’d told him love was poison, and he didn’t know how a mere week with him would convince her any different.
At least she believed—hopefully—that Isabella had never loved him. That was a start, a single impediment removed.
“Sleep,” he said, stroking her hair. “Don’t think about that now.”
To his relief and gratification, she did as he instructed, her body softening and her breaths turning languid and deep, warm against his skin.
He tried to imagine his life without her, and could not.
Everything he said to her was true—he would go into the maws of hell, if that was what it required, and he would drag Isabella back out. He would restore Emily her sister and her life, and from there, she could decide what she wanted. And he could dream, in that hopeless way he found himself indulging in moreoften this week than he ever had before, that she would decide she wanted him.
If not, he would find a way of walking away.
As she slept, she let out a sigh.
In the darkness, with no witnesses but the frayed edges of his own tattered heart, he gave voice to the words that had been burning inside him for so long. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, and I think it might kill me.”
Unknowing, she slumbered on.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emilywokewithherhead on Oliver’s chest, his arm looped around her waist. The sensation was so unfamiliar, she took a moment to fully process it. Here she was, in her childhood bed, a naked man holding her. His breath lightly brushed her hair, and his chest rose and fell.
