Page 47
She turned too quickly, wincing as pain flared at her temples. Laying back against her pillow, she shut her eyes. There was a creak, then approaching footsteps, followed by movement beside her as Michael sat.
“You’re unwell?”
The backs of his fingers touched her forehead then brushed down her cheek.
“Only a slight headache. I’ll survive, I just need to rest.”
The bed shifted again as he got to his feet.
A moment later, the door clicked shut, but scarcely any time had passed before he returned. There was the muted clink of china against wood, care in the movement to avoid excess noise, and then the warm weight of a quilt settled atop her. She sunk down into the unexpected comfort.
“I’ve a cool cloth for your head, and tea.” His voice barely breached a whisper. “Did you eat lunch?”
She nodded, then instantly regretted it when her head swam disconcertingly.
“Shh. Easy, little lamb.”
Gwen huffed a laugh through her nose at the ridiculous endearment, then opened her eyes.
“Don’t look at me in that scandalized manner; I have it on good authority that it's the only way to refer to a person who is feeling unwell.” He sat beside her again, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body.
“Your mama?”
“God no,” he snorted.
He dabbed the cloth lightly against her forehead, then settled it there once she’d braced herself against the chill. He was decidedly adept at nurturing for a man raised by… who then?
“Your brother?”
“Him, yes. And our housekeeper, Mrs Janewood. Although, had Gabriel referred to me as a little lamb, masculine honour would have compelled me to make at least a half-hearted attempt at thrashing him, feverish or not.”
“You were close, the two of you.”
“Three of us, actually. There was a servant of an age with us, Christopher. We were inseparable until Gabriel went away to school, then Christopher reached an age where his time, working at the estate, was in greater demand.”
Everything she already knew about Michael’s childhood rushed in to fill the gaps. And then I was entirely alone.
Michael must have known what she was thinking; her sympathy could hardly have been well concealed. But rather than taking advantage of it, as she thought he might, he promptly changed the subject.
“What of your mama? I feel as though I know everything there is to know about your da. He’s something of a legend among the men at Llanelli, yet there is never a mention of her.”
She curled deeper into the blanket. “She left when I was young. Too young for me to remember her at all. My father never liked to speak of her, so we didn’t.”
Gwen could all but feel Michael’s keen interest pique—another trait she’d once found appealing before she realised his eagerness had more to do with gathering ammunition than any true fascination with her. But for the second time that evening, he surprised her.
“I’m sorry.” He let out a soft breath, then fell silent. He didn’t touch her. Nothing in his countenance changed that she could name, yet it felt as though he’d taken some portion of her sadness upon himself, lessening it for her.
It was likely a grave mistake to take his silence for solemn support, when it was likely just another form of manipulation, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from doing exactly that.
If she were truly considering a life with this man, her faith in him had to begin somewhere. Didn’t it?
“I never knew why she left. I simply assumed her reasons were her own and had little to do with me or Da. How could they, when a babe is faultless and…” She curled her fingers around the edge of the blanket, reaching for the familiar words—that her da was the most worthy man she had ever known. But the words would not come. They’d lodged in her throat like a bur.
Gwen felt him nod anyway, as if she’d finished the sentence exactly as she would have yesterday.
She could leave it there, and Michael would be none the wiser. Telling him would make the things she’d learned about her father real in a way nothing else could. Would strip away the lie that she required perfection to wholly love a person and give Michael every reason to hope that she might extend that same forgiveness to him.
She turned her gaze to Michael, perched tentatively on the edge of the bed, and was struck all over again by his contradictions. The same mouth that had traced the contours of her body with no purpose beyond her pleasure she’d seen twisted with impatient arrogance. Hands that had penned those devastating letters were now folded loosely in his lap, work-scarred and callused in service to her… but they were still the same hands, and it wouldn’t do to pretend otherwise. For better or for worse.
