The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(12)

Cecily stirred in his embrace and raised her head. She had never looked more beautiful, her golden hair tousled, her face flushed, her eyes drowsy.

“Did you like riding St. George?” Gareth asked softly, even though he already knew the answer.

She blushed, and nodded, and pushed herself to sit upright on his lap, but she made no move to climb off him. Perhaps she liked feeling him inside her as much as he liked being there?

Cecily’s eyes became less drowsy, more alert. Her brow furrowed faintly, her head tilted slightly to one side.

“What?” Gareth said.

“When you said I could face away from you, it wasn’t because you thought I mightn’t want to look at your face, was it? It was because you thought I wouldn’t want to look at your arm.”

His sense of contentment vanished abruptly.

“And that’s why you didn’t want to take your nightshirt off, isn’t it?”

Gareth looked away from her.

Cecily’s arms came around his neck again. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Would you truly rather I couldn’t see you?” Her voice sounded soft, sad.

Gareth couldn’t bring himself to look at her. After a moment, he nodded.

Cecily sighed, and then kissed his cheek again. “My poor Gareth.”

He stiffened.

Cecily sat back on his lap. “What? You did that last time, too. What is it you hear when I say that? Because I can assure you it’s not what you think.”

Gareth stared at the corner of the room for a moment, and then reluctantly met her eyes. She was frowning, her gaze intent on his face.

“What, Gareth?”

He clenched his jaw briefly, swallowed, and then said, “I don’t want your pity.”

Cecily stared at him for a moment, and then she shook her head and laughed softly. “Pity? Oh, Gareth.” Her arms were around his neck again, and his hand went instinctively to her waist to pull her closer. “I don’t pity you,” she whispered in his ear. “How can you think that?”

“Poor Gareth,” he said, but his heart was already feeling a little lighter.

“Because I love you, Gareth, and when someone you love is hurting or unhappy, you want to comfort them.” She drew back slightly and met his eyes. “I won’t say it again, I promise.”

Gareth gazed at her, wishing he could read her thoughts. “You don’t pity me?”

“Of course not! Why would I? Because you’ve only got one arm?” She made a dismissive sound. “As if I’d pity you because of that!” She thought for a moment, frowning slightly, and then said, “The only reason I wish you didn’t have one arm is because it hurts you and it grieves you and it makes you think I don’t want to look at you, and I do want to look at you, Gareth. Of course I want to look at you! You’re my husband and I love you.”

Emotion gathered chokingly in Gareth’s throat.

“I don’t care about your arm,” Cecily said quietly. “But you do, don’t you?”

Gareth’s vision blurred. He looked away from her and managed a nod and blinked several times. Don’t cry, he told himself.

Cecily touched his cheek lightly. She sighed, a sad sound. “Do you hate it so much?” she whispered. “Your arm?”

Gareth sighed, too, and closed his eyes. “I hate the difference between what it was and what it is now.” And then he confessed, in a very low voice, “I don’t feel whole anymore.”

Cecily was silent for a moment, and then she said, “You might compare yourself to who you were, but I don’t.” She fell silent again, and then said, very softly, “And our children won’t, either. They won’t care whether you have one arm or two, any more than I do.”

Gareth’s throat constricted.

“To me, you’re whole. And to our children, you’ll be whole, too.”

He squeezed his eyelids tightly together, but it didn’t stop the tears leaking through. Cecily wiped them gently away with her thumbs.

Gareth inhaled a shaky breath. He opened his eyes.

She smiled at him crookedly and her eyes were bright with tears, too. Ten minutes ago he might have mistaken those tears for pity; now he recognized them for what they were.

“I love you,” he told her.

“I love you, too,” Cecily said, and leaned forward to press her lips to his. “And I will love you even if you let me see your arm.” She sat back and smiled that sad, crooked smile again. “One day. Not now.”

One day, not now . . . but Gareth had a sudden, deep, instinctive feeling that now—the first night of their marriage—was the time. Start as you mean to go on. He hesitated, and then pulled the nightshirt awkwardly over his head. The fabric gathered on his right arm. He clenched his hand inside the folds of linen and sat tensely, his head turned slightly from her, afraid to see revulsion on her face.

Cecily didn’t recoil or try to lean away from him.

After a moment, Gareth dared to look at her face.

“Do you always wear a bandage?” she asked.

He nodded. “It helps.”

“Does your shoulder ever hurt?”

He shook his head. “Just the arm.”

Cecily reached out and traced his left collarbone with a fingertip, from his sternum to his shoulder, a light, tickling touch that made him shiver. “Does that hurt?”