Agatha regarded her for a long moment then sighed. “You know I only want the best for you, my dear.”
“I know.” Her voice quivered. “But you have to trust me when I say that things are good. I’m happy. Happier than I deserve to be.”
Reaching out a hand, Agatha cupped her cheek. “One day, my dearest…” Their gazes held; her friend’s brown eyes were solemn and a little sad. “I hope you’ll realize what you truly deserve.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next morning, Penny said goodbye to Agatha. Neither of them were for long farewells, but that didn’t prevent them from clinging to one another and promising to visit soon. Marcus handed Agatha up into the driver’s seat of the wagon.
“Please expect a donation for the Abbey. A grateful token for all you’ve done,” he said.
Knowing that he wasn’t just referring to Agatha’s charitable works, Penny felt a burgeoning of all she felt for him—for his goodness and honor.
I love him so much.The thought ought to have been joyous; for some reason, it was tinged with desperation.All will be well, she told herself. It was just that the conversation with Agatha had dug up ghosts; soon they would settle again—she would shut them out, make them go away as she’d always done.
“Thank you, my lord,” Agatha was saying serenely. “I have no gift in return, but, if I may, I’d like to offer a small blessing.”
Marcus inclined his head, his arm circling Penny’s waist.
“May the both of you know the bounty which you’ve been given and surrender your trust,”—her brown eyes fixed on Penny—“in the Good Lord’s grace.”
Agatha’s words lingered after her departure, spurring in Penny a keen urgency to make the most of every moment she had with Marcus. He seemed to share this sentiment; Agatha’s wagon had barely reached the snowy woods when he swung Penny into his arms and carried her back into the cottage, smothering her giggles with his kiss.
So the day went.
That night, sated and content, Penny fell asleep in Marcus’ arms, surrounded by his warm and solid presence.
She woke up screaming.
~~~
“Penny, love. I’m here. You’re safe.”
The voice wasn’t coming from the alley. From the darkness holding her down, choking her. Her lungs strained to pull in air. Light flared, blinding her.
The floating spots faded to her husband.
It’s Marcus. It’s Marcus.Her disoriented mind clung to those words, the details of him, the way a drowning person does to driftwood.
The worried lines on his face, blue eyes bright with concern. His chest was bare, shadows dancing over rippling muscle. He was sitting next to her, bedclothes tangled around his lean waist.
The bedchamber. The cottage at the Cotswolds.
He reached a hand to her, and she couldn’t stop the flinch.
Surprise flitted across his features. “You’ve had a nightmare, darling. A bad one. But you’re safe.” His voice was deep and soothing, the one he used with the boys when they were hurt and in need of comfort. “You’re here with me.”
“Yes.” Her insides were coiled so tightly that she could hardly get the word out.
He reached a hand out again, this time slowly, and she managed to hold still as his palm cupped her cheek. Wetness slid against his callused skin. His eyes held hers.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.
“It… it’s nothing. Just a dream. As you said.”
“You’re shivering all over, darling. Come here.”
She allowed herself to be gathered against his chest. Her skin was chilled, clammy, and she soaked in his warmth as he pulled the blankets over them both. Cuddled against him, trembling, she could hear his steady, strong heartbeat, and it rooted her in the present. She rubbed her cheek against his hard chest, the wiry scratch of hair another needed reminder that this was real. That she was here. Not there.
