cast enough light for her to see the deep horror in his blue eyes, the panic he tried to conceal.
She could not help but feel it herself. “You remember it.”
The confirmation appeared in his eyes.
He released her hand, and Emma fought an unbidden urge to sweep her fingers through his hair, as she’d done so many times while he’d been feverish.
She knelt down to his level and spoke to him as she would a child determined to stay awake after a nightmare. “It is over now. You must not think of it. You are safe.”
Suddenly his arms encircled her. He held on to her so tightly she could barely breathe. She felt him tremble against her, and it seemed that his trembling resonated throughout her whole body.
He released her, leaning back against the chair, running a ragged hand through the very hair she’d wanted to touch. “You must think me daft.”
For the moment the thoughts she had of him were as jumbled as her emotions. She did not respond.
He gave her a wan smile. “I seem to have developed a fear of the dark.”
She shot to her feet and started for the connecting door. “Is there no fire in your grate? I shall see to it—”
“Come back,” he pleaded. “The fire is adequate. It . . . it casts a bit of light. I did not want to be alone.”
She stopped and turned back to him, clasping her hands together in front of her. “It will only take a moment to fetch Tolley to stay with you.”
“No.” His eyes swept the room wildly before his gaze returned to her. “Would you sit with me, Emma? Talk to me?”
Her impulse was to refuse, but how often had she heard in her own voice that same edge of controlled panic, the sense that one was held together by sticking plaster? Even though it would take mere minutes to fetch Tolley, she knew how long minutes could be when one was fearful.
“I know I am delaying your sleep,” he went on. “But, a little while, please?”
She walked over to the satinwood armchair adjacent to his chair and sat down. “What do you wish to discuss, my lord?”
His smile turned sheepish. “Oh . . . anything.”
There was much too much for Emma to say, and now she was certain he would not be strong enough to hear the half of it.
She put her hands in her lap and waited.
He tried to straighten himself in the chair and grunted with the attempt. The pain still on his face, he said, “You mentioned letters. I never received letters from you, Emma.”
But she had sent many. She’d sent them to his man of business. She’d sent them to his regimental offices. She’d even sent them directly to Spain and France, wherever the newspapers said he was stationed. It was impossible to believe he could not have received even one letter. How was she to respond to this? Say, “I don’t believe you”?
She responded, “I sent them.”
His brow wrinkled and he frowned. She was painfully aware that his breathing still sounded as if he’d run from the village without stopping. He twisted in the chair again, and something twisted inside her when he grimaced in pain. He closed his eyes, she supposed waiting for the pain to pass.
He opened them again and rested his gaze upon her for such a long moment that it was her turn to feel like wincing. “You’ve changed, Emma.”
She bowed her head and examined her hands, noticing her ragged nails. She curled them into her palms.
“You are not the girl I left here.”
No, she’d aged. She knew she had become old and bitter, but it was her bitterness and anger that propelled her forward, forcing her to find ways to ward off the suffering that would ensue if the farms failed.
She raised her eyes to him and lifted her chin. “No, I am not the girl you left here.”
His expression turned puzzled, and his breathing quickened. Impulsively she reached over and touched his hand. She forced her voice to exude sympathy. It was surprisingly easy. “There will be plenty of time later to talk of this, Spence. It is best you go back to bed.”
The
She could not help but feel it herself. “You remember it.”
The confirmation appeared in his eyes.
He released her hand, and Emma fought an unbidden urge to sweep her fingers through his hair, as she’d done so many times while he’d been feverish.
She knelt down to his level and spoke to him as she would a child determined to stay awake after a nightmare. “It is over now. You must not think of it. You are safe.”
Suddenly his arms encircled her. He held on to her so tightly she could barely breathe. She felt him tremble against her, and it seemed that his trembling resonated throughout her whole body.
He released her, leaning back against the chair, running a ragged hand through the very hair she’d wanted to touch. “You must think me daft.”
For the moment the thoughts she had of him were as jumbled as her emotions. She did not respond.
He gave her a wan smile. “I seem to have developed a fear of the dark.”
She shot to her feet and started for the connecting door. “Is there no fire in your grate? I shall see to it—”
“Come back,” he pleaded. “The fire is adequate. It . . . it casts a bit of light. I did not want to be alone.”
She stopped and turned back to him, clasping her hands together in front of her. “It will only take a moment to fetch Tolley to stay with you.”
“No.” His eyes swept the room wildly before his gaze returned to her. “Would you sit with me, Emma? Talk to me?”
Her impulse was to refuse, but how often had she heard in her own voice that same edge of controlled panic, the sense that one was held together by sticking plaster? Even though it would take mere minutes to fetch Tolley, she knew how long minutes could be when one was fearful.
“I know I am delaying your sleep,” he went on. “But, a little while, please?”
She walked over to the satinwood armchair adjacent to his chair and sat down. “What do you wish to discuss, my lord?”
His smile turned sheepish. “Oh . . . anything.”
There was much too much for Emma to say, and now she was certain he would not be strong enough to hear the half of it.
She put her hands in her lap and waited.
He tried to straighten himself in the chair and grunted with the attempt. The pain still on his face, he said, “You mentioned letters. I never received letters from you, Emma.”
But she had sent many. She’d sent them to his man of business. She’d sent them to his regimental offices. She’d even sent them directly to Spain and France, wherever the newspapers said he was stationed. It was impossible to believe he could not have received even one letter. How was she to respond to this? Say, “I don’t believe you”?
She responded, “I sent them.”
His brow wrinkled and he frowned. She was painfully aware that his breathing still sounded as if he’d run from the village without stopping. He twisted in the chair again, and something twisted inside her when he grimaced in pain. He closed his eyes, she supposed waiting for the pain to pass.
He opened them again and rested his gaze upon her for such a long moment that it was her turn to feel like wincing. “You’ve changed, Emma.”
She bowed her head and examined her hands, noticing her ragged nails. She curled them into her palms.
“You are not the girl I left here.”
No, she’d aged. She knew she had become old and bitter, but it was her bitterness and anger that propelled her forward, forcing her to find ways to ward off the suffering that would ensue if the farms failed.
She raised her eyes to him and lifted her chin. “No, I am not the girl you left here.”
His expression turned puzzled, and his breathing quickened. Impulsively she reached over and touched his hand. She forced her voice to exude sympathy. It was surprisingly easy. “There will be plenty of time later to talk of this, Spence. It is best you go back to bed.”
The
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