Page 40 of One Wicked Secret
“The sky is so blue today it feels endless.” He spoke in the soothing voice one adopted with the sick. “The grass has never looked so green.”
The scrape of the chair legs on the floorboards was a familiar sound. He had spent every hour by her bedsideyesterday, except when Clara insisted that he come downstairs to eat.
What if she never woke up? What if it were just the two of them, alone like this every day—no problems, no lies, no desperate clamber for the truth? Just him holding her hand and reading from her beloved book of Greek myths.
The soft rustle of turning pages preceded him saying, “Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and?—”
“Daniel,” she murmured through parched lips.
He sat forward, closing the book. “Elsa? Can you hear me?”
With effort, she raised her heavy lids, her blurry gaze settling on his handsome features as they came into focus: the swathe of sable hair, the tawny brown eyes that shifted from gold to black depending on the light, the deep cleft in his chin that made him look dangerous. “Yes. I can hear you.”
“Thank the Lord.” He was on his feet, testing the temperature of her forehead with the back of his hand. “You had us all worried. Clara even slept beside you last night.”
She glanced at the connecting door separating their bedchambers. Why had he not slept beside her? Did he think it too presumptuous? Had he tried but couldn’t shake torturous thoughts of Mr Carver from his mind?
“How long have I been in bed?”
She remembered him giving her laudanum and flushing the wound with brandy while Lord Rothley extracted the lead ball. Her tormented scream as the forceps dug into her torn flesh, the pain excruciating, her sweat-soaked undergarments clinging to her body.
“You’ve slept for three days. Do you remember me helping you to drink or Clara washing you and changing your nightclothes?”
“No. These last few days have been a blur.”
“Days? It feels like months.”
“And months can feel like years,” she said, having lived with endless questions and no answers in sight. “I should know.”
His gaze lingered on her, heavy with regret. “I’m sorry for leaving you in Henley, but after what happened in the mews, I believe I made the right decision. Elsa, you could have died here, and our sacrifices would have been for nothing.”
Perhaps he was right. What was more tragic: months of separation or dying without ever knowing her husband’s touch?
“But I didn’t die.”
“Only by God’s good grace. Thankfully, there was no damage to the nerves or bone. We sent for Dr Rotherham. I told him we suspected a poacher had accidentally shot you and the scoundrel escaped.”
“Did one of the hired thugs pull the trigger?”
“We didn’t give chase. Saving you was all that mattered.” He perched on the edge of the bed, the brief press of his thigh against hers sending her heart into a frantic stutter. “I visited The Speckled Hen, ready to confront the louts, but no one has seen them since the shooting.”
She winced in pain as she shuffled to sit up.
Daniel helped her, his hand brushing her breast as he slipped his arm under her shoulder, gently easing her upright before adjusting the pillows.
“Who knew you would have to play nursemaid so early in our marriage?” she teased. “While it felt like I was lost in a dream, I was aware of you reading to me.”
“You always loved when I read to you during our secretpicnics in the meadow.” His eyes softened as he spoke. “As I recall, you found every word enthralling.”
The words hadn’t held her spellbound. The rich cadence of his voice was like a sensual caress. And she’d stopped breathing when he leaned closer on the blanket and twirled a buttercup under her chin.
“Who wouldn’t be transfixed by the story of Narcissus,” she said, “forever pining for that unreachable love?”
“Perhaps someone who prays true love isn’t hopeless.”
She held his gaze. The space between them often felt as vast as an ocean; now, it felt impossibly small.
“Surely love begins with the truth—no illusions, no false promises, just the honesty of what it is and what it could be.”
