“Nothing is different.”
“Malcolm, why won’t you believe me?” She leaned forward, keeping the sheet up around her neck. “What do I have to do to make you believe?”
“Not one thing.” He stood, turned his back to her, and unfastened his shirt. Silence hung in the air while he removed the garment and placed it over the back of a chair. He reached for the latches on his trousers, stopped, and glanced over his shoulder.
Her gaze roamed over him with a look of interest. As she studied him, the lines around the corners of her eyes softened and her lips lifted in a grin. Perhaps she wasn’t repulsed.
“I’m going to remove my trousers, so you might want to hide your innocent eyes,” he teased.
Her face flamed like a bonfire, and her lips curled in a cringe before she squeezed her eyes shut.
His anticipation shattered. Obviously, his judgment had been wrong. He frowned and turned his back to her again, proceeding to undress. The sheets rustled. She must have buried herself further under the covers.
“Malcolm? Do you have your nightshirt?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?” He reached for the garment and shrugged it over his head.
“The other morning when I crawled into your bed to help convince the soldiers, you weren’t wearing a nightshirt.”
He wanted to laugh but didn’t. “You remember well, my dear.”
“I… I had hoped you would wear one tonight. If not, I shall not be able to get a moment’s rest.”
Anger and pain sliced through his heart. Apparently, she still thought of him as a monster. “That is not my problem,” he spat before climbing into bed.
His terrified wife hugged the side of the bed as if she were going to flee at any moment, so he stayed close to his side and made himself comfortable. Lying on his back, he stretched his arm over his head, staring at the ceiling.
What was so wrong with him that made her recoil every time she saw a hint of his skin? What was it about him that made her think he was a lowlife miscreant? He scolded his thoughts. It shouldn’t matter what his wife thought of him, but for some reason, lately ithadmattered. For once in his life, he wanted a wife who looked at him as if he were the most perfect man on earth.
“Malcolm?” Her soft voice broke the silence.
“Yes.”
“Are you enjoying your stay at the Burwells’ thus far?”
He rolled his head toward her. She lay on her side with her back to him, her brown hair flowing across the white pillowcase.
“So far, my stay has been quite pleasant.” He paused. “How about you? Are you enjoying yourself?”
Keeping the blankets clutched in her hands, she turned toward him, but stayed as close to her side of the bed as possible. “I really don’t know many women here, but they aren’t allowing me into their circle of friends.”
“If you remember, I warned you.”
“Yes, but I thought I could act as if it didn’t bother me. Truth be told, I do care what they think of me, and I especially care about what they think of you.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you are fooling most of them. They actually believe you have given up your former life and are concentrating on your own husband. I commend you for accomplishing that feat.”
She smiled, and his anger sapped away. Strange how her smile could do that to him so quickly.
“And, Malcolm, I want to thank you for helping me. You didn’t have to do it, you know.”
“And do what, pray tell? Leave you to the wolves? What kind of man would that make me?” He chuckled. “You know, I do it for purely selfish reasons. I don’t want them thinking that I’m inconsiderate.”
“No, they would never think that of you. You are a well-respected man in Dorchester. Everywhere I go, people tell me so.”
“Indeed?” He turned to his side, leaning on his elbow. “Who tells you such lies?”
Her gentle laughter softened his heart even more.
