Her husband chuckled. “Those are two traits no one has ever accused me of.”
Was that a teasing note in his voice? Ella found a smile of her own. “Maybe they should. There are worse things.”
“Perhaps.” Cody flipped to the first page. “This one is my favorite.”
Ella read the title. Her jaw dropped. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning’sSonnet 43?” Her gaze found his. “I love that poem.”
Matching surprise flashed over his face before a smile replaced it. “Does that mean you’re a romantic at heart?”
Her throat clenched painfully. Ella closed her eyes, fighting for control. When she opened them, her words came out in a whisper. “I used to be.”
Cody’s piercing gaze seemed to expose her. No doubt he saw more than she cared to reveal.
With a quick intake of breath, she held the book out to him. “Will you read it to me?”
Too late, she realized how that must sound. Mortification filled her while heat gorged her cheeks. Cody didn’t blink. He accepted the book and slowly began to read in his gruff, deep voice.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
Ella’s breath hitched. Cody’s eyes remained trained on the page, but every word felt as intimate as a caress. She let her own eyes drift closed as he continued.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
When he stopped reading, Ella opened her eyes. Her husband had his gaze fixed on her. There was raw vulnerability in his expression. A swarm of butterflies took possession of her stomach, beating their wings and rendering her mute.
Cody broke their connection first. Clearing his throat, he looked down at the page. “My mother made this book. She filled it with her favorite poems.”
It took Ella a moment to understand what he told her. “She wrote all this by hand?”
“Yeah. Ma was a classic romantic. One of my earliest memories is of her and my father sitting together like this, reading poems to each other.” His throat worked. “It’s now one of my most cherished possessions.”
His lingering grief wrapped around her. Without thinking, Ella threaded her fingers through his. “I’m sure she’d be glad to know you treasure a poem she loved.”
Cody glanced at their joined hands. “Do you know which part ofSonnet 43she liked best?”
