Page 18 of Reflections of Silence

I couldn't tear my gaze away from Sebastian as he stalked the few paces toward me. For a single moment, he towered over me, then dropped to his heels, kneeling on the floor at my side.

A wash of coolness swept over me, like he was both there and not, all at once. He studied me; dark eyes boring into my own, reaching to the corners of my soul. But it wasn’t the clinical probing a localdocteurmight inflict, rather that coolness turned to a comforting warmth, spreading through me as the world narrowed down to him alone.

One hand rose, his fingers curling inches from my skin before he dropped them, the moment broken by his jarring movement. The ghost of his touch caressed my cheek where his phantom touch had been a second ago. A swipe of his deft fingers flicked away the short jacket I wore, exposing my shoulders. The material slithered off my arms. I clutched it to my stomach as a pithy shield.

His mouth turned up in a rueful smile. “I’ve taken liberties with you, haven’t I? After all, you’ve just arrived. I forget things like…time.”

Though he stared into my eyes—right through me—Sebastian seemed far distant from where we sat, lost somewhere in a place I couldn't reach. He blinked, as though rushing back to our shared present. Where he had gone in that moment?

He was right; I knew little about him, and he knew as much about me, though I suspected he might have collected more information about who I was on the journey from the abbey to our home. His home. Was it mine now, too? Not in the monetary sense, but would I call this place home forever now?

I had spent so many months in transit, uncertain. A guest in abbey after abbey, with no place to find solidarity in my fate. Now I had that, it seemed more tenuous than ever.

His soft laugh brought me back. “I’m not the only one with an odd sense of time.” He offered a small smile to ease his words, turning them from an insult to a…something else. An offering, perhaps.

That tiny bridge brought me a little closer to him. When he spoke, I detected the very faint undercurrent of an accent lilting his words. If I hadn’t been from France, from his province, I doubted I would have noticed it at all.

“I arrived…” I trailed off, trying to think when it had been, and realized that in the rush of everything that had happened, I had no idea what the date was—or when we had landed in New Orleans. I offered a wan smile. “Perhaps I’m more tired than I thought.”

A pathetic offering, and by Sebastian’s creased brow, he agreed.

“I’ve been a poor host.”

“Husband.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re my husband. Not...not a poor husband. Just that you are one. Mine,” I ended feebly, wishing I’d never opened my mouth at all.

His mouth pressed into a line. Neither thick nor thin—his arched lips a rosy hue, not the over plumpness of the courtiers of home, too soft, too indulged, though I knew his smile could curl something in my chest alongside his lips.

“Yes,” he replied, canting his head, as though thinking it over. “I am your husband, aren’t I?”

His eyes caught mine again, drifting downwards, over my decolletage, to the concave curve of a traveler’s stomach. When his hooded gaze rose to meet mine, dark desire lingered there.

My cheeks heated, knowing what must come.

Do you want this or don’t you, Gisella?

A voice echoed in my head, and with a start, I thought it was his.It’s not my choice.I became his property the moment I married…him. My cheeks burned. If I couldn’t concentrate on this moment, he would write me off as a simpleton, and I’d be left to myself for who knew how long.

I’d heard of arranged marriages where the partners lived their own lives, took on a group of friends in a lonely life, but here? Here, there was no one but me, Sebastian, and the servants. I shook myself, trying to get my head straight, and took a sip of champagne.

Bubbles fizzed about my lips, sending the alcohol to my head.

“You are,” I said softly, unsure what question I answered, clutching my napkin as he returned to his assessment.

“Then there are some things we need to talk about.” Sebastian straightened his legs with a long sigh, as though he were an old man and the weight of the world rested upon him.

“What—um, things?” I twiddled my napkin until it frayed at one end, sipping my champagne with my other hand.

The flush went straight down, this time, heating my chest. My nipples tightened, their hard outline visible at the edge of the fabric constraining my dress, though I daren't look down to see what color my pale skin turned. I sighed, slipping my coat back a little to ease the warmth that left me languid beneath his gaze.

“Gisella—” My husband straightened, and I realized how close he sat.

“Seb—”

Our names collided. He planted his fists on the back of my chair, looming over me. When had he moved closer? My breath shortened, and I was sure I'd pop a button or something.

---