me.’
He shook his head. ‘I had my lawyer offer marriage as soon as I heard of…of how things were for you.’ Lillian was glad he did not say ruined.
‘And when my father accepted, I could never understand just how it was you persuaded him.’
A shutter fell across amber, the secrets between them there again after a few brief moments of honesty. The thought made her sad as she tidied the sheets on his bed.
‘There are things we need to say to each other, Lilly, but not here like this. I need to at least be standing.’ The corners of his lips pulled up.
‘An explanation for your wounds, perhaps?’ She gestured to his arm and unexpectedly he reached out, the strength in his fingers belying the pain.
‘That, too,’ he added and the brush of his thumb traced the lines of blueness on her wrist. A small caress! Quietly given as the distant storm rolled closer and a single bolt of lightning lit the room with yellow, thunder rattling the panes of glass in a celestial reminder of the paltriness of human construction and endeavour.
When his fingers tightened she did not pull away, liking the warmth and closeness, watching the wind wild- tangled in the trees outside.
He was asleep before she realised it, his face in slumber so different from the watchful guardedness that cloaked him when awake. The scar on his neck was easily seen, his head tipped sideways so that the full length of it was visible, his opened collar making it even more shocking.
A small boy who had left parentless for the new lands across the sea. What had happened to him between then and now? she wondered. What possible excuse could he give for the scraps he was so constantly in?
‘Please, God, don’t let him be…bad,’ she asked quietly of the omnipotent deity that she believed in, and then smiled at her own ridiculous description of Lucas’s character.
Bad?
From whose point of view?
The world she lived in skewered slightly. Never before had she questioned anything. Rules. Regulations. Beliefs. All had been adhered to in the way of one who feared that even the slightest of detours might lead to chaos.
Well it had, here and now, but the feel of his fingers against hers and the sound of his breathing did not feel like anarchy.
No, it felt warm and real and right, the world held at bay by a promise far greater than fear.
‘Love,’ she said quietly into the darkness, the word winding around truth with its own particular freedom as Mrs Poole bustled back with a tray full of salves.
Chapter Seventeen
Lucas joined them for breakfast, the morning weather quieter than it had been in the night. Today, Lillian could almost feel the sun wanting to break through its binding mantle of cloud, though a thick blanket of twigs and leaves had been left on the part of the garden visible from the breakfast room.
Hope chattered beside her about the day and the night and the storm and the decorations that they had made yesterday. A never-ending array of topics and thoughts and so different from her sister, who sat in silence as she carefully spooned thick porridge to her lips.
‘If your governess could spare you one day around lunchtime, I thought we could go and collect pine cones and berries for the Christmas fireplace. I used to do the same when I was a little girl.’
‘At Fairley?’ Luc asked.
She nodded. ‘With my mother…’ Amazement claimed her. She could not remember the last time she had ever spoken of her mother in company, but as the questioning gazes of the two children fell upon her she fought to appear calm. ‘She died when I was thirteen and I find it sad to think of her. Especially at Christmas.’
Unexpectedly Charity’s warm hand crept into hers, the small honesty of it endearing.
Lillian looked at Luc, knowing that he had seen the gesture, and he tipped his head. This morning the whiteness of his shirt covered the generous bandage and his colour had returned to normal. A masculine virile man with more than just humour in his smile, for sensuality and appetite could be seen there, too. She knew by the responding lurch of her own body that it would not be long before pure desire ruled between them.
Looking away, she helped herself to scrambled egg and a piece of thick buttered toast. Scrambled like her thoughts, the rush of heat on her cheeks bringing her glance downwards so that her new husband might not see, might not know, might not understand that the resistance she had made such a show of was crumbling fast.
‘I have something in my room for you, Lilly. When you have finished your breakfast and the girls have gone up to their lessons I would like to give it to you.’
His room was tidier than she had seen it last time, all the clothes put away and the myriad of papers and books stacked on his desk into two neat piles.
A well-read man, she determined, and tried to align that with one who gambled and fought. Often.
She noticed there were many books on boats and shipping and on a shelf behind him was a single ship on a plinth, its riggings intricate and complete.
‘She’s the
‘You bought this model here?’
He nodded. ‘In London. It will be shipped home to my uncle’s house in Richmond after Christmas.’
‘He likes ships as well?’
‘Liked. He is dead.’
‘Did your parents ever visit you in America?
‘No, thank God.’ When she frowned, he softened the criticism. ‘My parents were more interested in each other than in me. My father was almost forty when I was born and heavy-handed with a boy whom they never understood. It was a relief when they left my upbringing to Stuart.’
‘But you saw them again after you left England?’
He shook his head. ‘They died a few years after I left, of the influenza. In Italy.’
She saw no sorrow in his eyes. Just fact and distance, the ties that more usually held a boy to his parents broken by misunderstanding.
‘So you lived with your uncle.’
When he hesitated she knew that he had not. ‘I lived on his land on the James and farmed it.’
‘By yourself?’
‘There were a few mishaps but I soon got the way of it and Stuart helped me.’
‘Did one of the mishaps lead to the scarring on your neck?’
Before he could stop himself he pulled up his collar, the movement making Lillian place her hand upon his arm. ‘It was not meant as a censure,’ she said softly.
‘I have other scars as well,’ he returned and the air around them changed.
Other scars, other places. Where she could not see? Beneath his clothes and hidden. A singular vision of naked limbs entwined came to her, the thick burgundy cover on his bed loosely wrapped around them.
‘I am not untarnished, Lillian,’ he went on. ‘Not like you,’ he added, the husky American accent in his voice more pronounced than she had ever heard it. ‘And I cannot help but notice that you rarely wear my ring.’
He brought her hand up between them, the nakedness of her finger making her frown.
‘I took it off yesterday when I was painting with the girls…’
He leaned over and opened the drawer by his bed. ‘I know. Mrs Poole found it and had it cleaned.’ The large red ruby glinted at her, its familiar heaviness making it less…ugly, she thought, surprising herself. When he fitted it on to her finger she smiled.
In return he traced a line from her wrist to her elbow and then higher again when she did not pull away or turn.
‘I want this marriage to be more than just a sham, more than separate beds. You mentioned patience and
