Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(88)
She lifted the thick material of her wool gown two inches, and set her foot on the bed next to him. He leaned forward, to trace a finger down her ankle—but caught up short. A discordant note sounded in the sylphlike fantasy he seemed to be having. She wasn’t bare-footed like the pixie he’d imagined her to be. He glanced up at her in puzzlement.
“Stockings,” she explained. “Thick stockings.”
Her voice wasn’t low and spiritual; it was bright and cheerful. That tone sounded a second discordant note. He stared at her covered foot for just a moment too long, trying to reconcile his thoughts about ghosts and ethereal spirits with the undeniable oddness of warm, woolen stockings.
“Um,” he finally managed to say. “Stockings are the gift? Why are you wearing them?” He glanced dubiously at her tiny feet. “I don’t think they would fit me.”
She looked down at him and tilted his head up. “They’re for me. Like the night rail. So I can sleep with you in the cold.”
Something painful wrenched inside him. “Oh, Kate. There’s no need—”
She covered his mouth with her fingers. “You seem to be operating on the belief that when I tell you I want to help, that I want to swaddle you up so you can’t move and do everything for you. That’s not what it means, Ned. I want to help you. And if what you need is to make sure you feel strong, I will help you feel strong. If you need me to set you an impossible task just so you can complete it before breakfast, send me the word, and I’ll find you a dragon to tame. ‘Help’ need not be an empty, cloying affair. Sometimes…it really can help.” She sat down on the bed next to him and took his hand. “You don’t have to do everything alone anymore, Ned. Let me walk with you.”
His head buzzed. He felt it like a tickle in the back of his throat. It filled him, those words, and he couldn’t even say why or how or with what. He pressed their en tangled fingers to his forehead, as if he could push the burn of emotion away. She was not a sprite, then, come in moonlight to tiptoe away at dawn, but a woman—one better than he could have imagined. And she wasn’t going to leave.
He didn’t have to be alone. He didn’t have to leave some part of himself stuck out there, still on that sea. Maybe he didn’t have to fear himself any longer.
It seemed a foreign concept, odder than anything he’d ever experienced. And still he didn’t know what to say in response. In place of speech, he kissed her hand. When she didn’t draw away, he drew her down next to him and put his arms around her. Even the touch of his lips to hers seemed like an importunity; and besides, he would have to draw back from her to do it. He would have to pull his head from where it rested against her shoulder, and if he did that, she might see there was something suspiciously like moisture in his eyes. She could no doubt tell that his breath was already ragged.
But maybe she knew. And maybe she held him so closely, stroking his shoulder, because he didn’t have to be alone any longer, not even in this final discovery of her. When his breath stopped racking his body, when he let out one last shaky exhale against her collarbone, he realized she’d been right. He was stronger for having her, not weaker. They lay next to each other, exchanging careful caresses. The comfort overwhelmed him.
“Do you know what it means, to help me?” He finally spoke against the edge of her collar. He was drifting off to sleep; his eyes would not stay open.
“Of course I do.” She sounded amused. And then she leaned forward. He could feel the bed shift under her weight, the heat of her against his face. Then she kissed his eyelids slowly. “It means I love you.”
“Oh.”
So that’s what love looked like—not some stifling, too-careful creature, who wanted to cut his meat into digestible pieces for him. It was something bigger, more robust. He ought to say something in return, he knew, but she was still running her hands across him, and for the first time in longer than he knew, he felt safe. Not alone.
He drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke in the morning, she was still with him, a solid, warm presence. Overnight, all of the nonsense, all of his fears, the sheer impossibility of their situation seemed to have become manageable. He knew precisely what they needed to do about Harcroft, and now he finally knew how to do it.
For a long while, he watched her, afraid to disturb her rest. When her eyes finally fluttered open and met his, a slow smile spread across her face. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Some things were even harder than walking a handful of miles on a broken leg. But then, Ned had gotten quite good at doing things he didn’t want to do. He looked his wife in the eye.
“Kate,” he said softly. He took a deep breath and held her hand, for courage. “I am going to need your help.”
LONDON SOCIETY often constructed rumors out of nothing but glances, and gossip from little more than a few wrinkles on a gown. So it was no surprise when Ned discovered that everyone had taken an avaricious interest in the matter between Harcroft and his wife. Everyone knew that Louisa was staying with the Carharts—and speculation as to the reason ran rampant.
The most likely possibility listed in the betting books, was the one Louisa had announced in the courtroom—she was angry with her husband for putting her dearest friend in jeopardy of life and limb. But there were other theories.
Kate sorted the gossip papers into little stacks on the breakfast table. “Feminine pique,” she murmured. “Feminine pique. Masculine bravado. Feminine pique.” She looked up at him. “That makes three for feminine pique.”