Beatrice was propped up against a pillow, sound asleep, her hand resting on the blanket next to his arm.
When had she come into his room, and why was she sitting in his bed touching his arm?
He rolled onto his side and took a moment to study her features without her noticing: the few freckles that dusted her cheeks, her tiny nose, her lips, and the way her hair trailed down across her chest.
He had occasionally imagined being married, but he’d never imagined that his wife would be this beautiful, nor that he would already feel so strongly about protecting her from all harm.
It was merely a marriage of convenience—and yet his feelings couldn’t be less convenient.
He shifted as his arm began protesting the weight upon it, and her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him for half a second before they widened dramatically. She pulled her arm back and crossed it over her chest, leaning away from him.
“Forgive me, Alexander,” she began, looking away from him.
“Do not worry,” Alexander said, wanting to ease her mind. She looked like a frightened rabbit that had been caught in a trap. But even while anxious, she’d said his name, and warmth flooded his soul at the thought.
“I’m not upset, merely curious as to why you are asleep sitting upright in my bed. But you don’t need to fear. We are married, after all.” He let his voice take on a teasing tone with the last words, something that didn't come naturally to him, but was worth it when she uncrossed her arms and began to fidget with her nightgown instead. “Are you not cold?” he asked. The fire had died down overnight, and she was not covered by any of the blankets.
“It's not too bad,” Beatrice said, still avoiding meeting his gaze.
It would not do for his wife to be cold. Alexander swung his feet over the side of the bed and walked to the armoire. He returned after a moment with a blanket for her, spreading it over her legs before climbing back into his bed and pulling the covers over himself again.
If Beatrice noticed that he was not wearing a shirt, she didn't say anything, but the color of her cheeks confirmed that she had, most likely, noticed.
Either that, or she was more embarrassed than he thought about being caught in his bedchamber.
“Were you having trouble sleeping?” Alexander asked. “You could have woken me.”
Beatrice frowned at him. “You don't remember?” she asked. But then she shook her head. “No, you wouldn't. I couldn't wake you. So why would you remember?”
“You couldn't wake me?” he asked.
“You were having a nightmare,” she explained, reaching up and playing with the ends of her hair. Her fingers twisted and tangled in the reddish-brown waves, and he wanted to reach out and see if her hair felt as silky smooth as it looked.
He folded his hands in his lap instead.
“You said some things in your nightmare,” Beatrice began slowly. “I don't know if it was just a nightmare or if it was a memory.” The words came out in halting half-sentences, as if she was questioning her own memory of the incident.
“What happened?” he asked gently, reaching out his hand in a silent offer.
She stared down at it for a moment before slowly, so slowly, reaching out her own and placing it in his. Her fingers were ice-cold, and Alexander immediately reached over and adjusted the blanket, tucking it more securely around her with his free hand. “You're cold,” he said.
“Yes,” she admitted softly.
The movement of tucking the blanket in had brought him closer to her, their faces mere inches apart. This close, he could see that her eyes were not nearly the color he had imagined. They were a rich brown, the color of freshly poured coffee, deep and bright, promising to make his day better from the very start.
They already had.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, and his gaze flickered down to them and back up to her eyes.
He cleared his throat and settled back against his pillow, his shoulder brushing against hers.
This was dangerous.
Something shifted on the end of the bed, and both of them looked up to see Rose in her kitten form, stretching widely across the bed. She looked up and noticed them staring at her before sauntering over and curling up in Beatrice’s lap.
His wife pulled her hand away from his to pet her, and a moment later the purring started.
“I would love to hear more,” he said, looking back at Beatrice, “if you are willing to share.”
