Aaron nodded. “He says one must learn to c-control it.”
Emmeline thought of Rowan’s face in the carriage, the way he braced himself against the boy’s very existence. He wanted a fortress. Anything that could not be commanded seemed to frighten him, even in his own son.
“And what do you think?” she asked.
Aaron blinked at her. The question seemed to surprise him more than anything else she had said. “Me?”
“Yes. You.”
His mouth opened, then closed. His stammer gathered before any word could break free, and Emmeline saw the frustration rise in his face. He looked down at the horse and swallowed.
“I t-think…” He pressed his thumb harder into the wooden mane. “I think fear is l-loud.”
Emmeline’s throat tightened. “Yes,” she said at last. “It can be very loud.”
Aaron looked up at her, relief flickering over his face as if he had expected correction and found understanding instead.
“And perhaps,” Emmeline continued gently, “one need not always control a loud thing at once. Sometimes one may simply sit beside it until it grows tired.”
Aaron frowned in thought. “Can fear g-grow tired?”
“I hope so.”
He considered that. “Does yours?”
The question struck with such unexpected accuracy that Emmeline felt her breath catch.
Her fear had not grown tired last night. It had followed her back to her chamber and sat beside her while she touched her swollen lips in the dark. It had woken with her, dressed with her,and walked beside her through the halls of Ironford, wearing Rowan’s absence like a cloak.
She smiled, though it cost her. “Sometimes.”
Aaron looked satisfied. He bent over the book again, and this time, when he read a line aloud under his breath, the stammer softened around certain words.
And then she felt eyes on her. Her gaze lifted toward the open doorway.
Rowan stood in the hall.
He was in riding clothes, his hair wind-tossed and his face harder for the outdoors. The sight of him hit her with such sudden force that for a moment she forgot Aaron, the book, the whole bright library around them.
Her body remembered before her pride could intervene. His mouth at her throat. His hands on her waist. The rough sound he had made when he kissed her.
Heat rushed through her, shameful and immediate.
Her husband did not speak.
He looked at Aaron first, then at her, and what passed across his face was so brief she might have missed it if she had not beenaching to understand him. Surprise. Regret, perhaps. Something tight and pained and dangerous.
Emmeline’s pulse stumbled.
“Father?” Aaron said, turning.
But by the time the boy looked toward the doorway, Rowan had stepped back.
The hall was empty.
Aaron frowned. “Was he there?”
Emmeline looked at the vacant threshold, anger rising to cover the foolish hurt beneath it. “For a moment.”
