Benjamin remained silent for several moments. She watched the firelight move across his scarred features, watched the tension in his shoulders, watched him wrestle with words that clearly did not come easily.
“I am attempting to tell you,” he said at last, “that I am grateful. That you have altered this house—altered me—in ways I did not realise I required. That when I asked you to marry me, I expected convenience and received…” He paused, searching. “Received something I lack the language to name.”
Eleanor could not speak. Could scarcely breathe.
“I am not skilled with words,” he continued, almost absently. “I never have been. I demonstrate rather than declare. I act rather than speak. But I thought perhaps you ought to know—” Another pause, longer this time. “I thought you ought to know that I am glad you are here. That this house is better for your presence. ThatIam better.”
The fire gave a soft crack in the silence.
Eleanor felt tears sting her eyes—not from sorrow, but from something far more fragile. Something that felt like hope, and gratitude, and the terrifying, exhilarating sensation of standing at the edge of a precipice and wondering whether she dared step forward.
“I am glad as well,” she whispered.
It was not enough. Not nearly sufficient to carry the weight of all she felt. But it was what she could offer, what she could surrender without shattering.
Benjamin inclined his head slowly. Something eased in his expression—relief, perhaps, or quiet acceptance.
“Good,” he said softly. “That is… good.”
They sat together in the firelit stillness, not touching, not speaking, yet present in a manner that felt more intimate than touch might have been.
And Eleanor allowed herself to imagine that this—whatever this was—might truly be enough.
Chapter Eighteen
“No—”
The word tore through the silence of the sleeping house, ragged and desperate and unmistakably his voice.
Eleanor sat upright in bed, her heart pounding. For a moment she was disoriented, uncertain what had roused her—and then the sound came again, muffled but distinct through the walls that separated her chambers from the sitting room, and beyond that, from his.
“No. Get them out. Get them—”
She was moving before she consciously resolved to do so, her feet finding the cold floor, her hands reaching for the wrapper draped across the chair beside her bed. The connecting door to the sitting room stood unlocked—it had always stood unlocked, though neither of them had ever made use of it—and she passed through it without hesitation.
The sitting room lay in darkness, though sufficient moonlight filtered through the windows to guide her steps. The door to his chambers stood slightly ajar—an unusual oversight, for he was scrupulous in maintaining boundaries—and through the narrow opening came the sounds of distress that had woken her.
She ought not to enter. She knew she ought not. Walking uninvited into her husband’s bedchamber in the middle ofthe night was improper at best and presumptuous at worst, regardless of whether that husband was clearly in the grip of something terrible.
But the sounds he was making—the broken words, the harsh breathing, the low, strangled moan of a man imprisoned within some private horror—rendered propriety very small indeed.
Eleanor pushed the door open.
He was entangled in the bedclothes, his body rigid, his scarred hand clutching at the sheets as though he sought to hold them together. In the dim light, she saw the sheen of perspiration across his brow, the rapid, panicked rise and fall of his chest.
“The fire,” he gasped. “I cannot—they are still inside—I cannot—”
“Benjamin.”
She spoke his name firmly, clearly, pitching her voice to cut through whatever nightmare held him captive. He did not respond. His head turned sharply upon the pillow, his face drawn with anguish that made her chest ache.
“Benjamin,” she said again, stepping closer and halting beside the bed. “You are dreaming. You are safe. You are at Thornwood.”
Still nothing. His breathing grew more ragged, his movements increasingly desperate. Whatever vision held him—the flames, the men, the horror he had once described to her—possessed him entirely.
Eleanor made her decision.
She seated herself upon the edge of the bed and reached out, gathering his scarred hand between both of hers.
