She slapped his hand away. “There will be none of that, Lucas Mainwaring. When you are sober, we will talk, but the only thing you are useful for tonight is as a bed-warming pan. Get in.”
He grinned inanely at her, and she rolled her eyes again, bustling him to bed. Climbing in herself, she sneaked her cold feet onto his warm calves and within a moment, he was unconscious, his broad arm clutching her close.
An irritating whistling roused her from deep sleep. It was out of tune, but she recognised it as the chorus to a rather bawdy song about a vintner. She usually relished the peace and quiet of the mornings, so different to the asylum where they had awoken to shouting or the guards banging on doors. At Stonebridge, she could be a slug-a-bed and stay here appreciating the calm, listening to the birds rising or the horses calling for their breakfast, but todaythatirritating whistle invaded her peace.
Stretching out with her eyes still closed, she realised there was a rather large, empty dent in the bed, and that Lucas had gone. She wasn’t surprised. No dreams had haunted her last night – indeed she had slept soundly – but he must have at last understood the consequences of her curse. Her chest tightened in sorrow even as she acknowledged he was right.
That bothersome whistle got closer, and she heard the door open. Her maid never whistled. Or had a heavy step. Or smelled of mint. Or stroked her shoulder.
She opened her eyes as the bed sagged.
“Coffee, Rosalind?” The delicious aroma wafted under her nose so she turned her head…and gulped.
Lucas was looking as bright and cheery as a small boy who’d found a slimy frog. She’d expected him to be nursing a terrible head, but he was still quietly humming that bawdy tune as he proffered the mug.
It wasn’t fair: he’d shaved, she could smell mint on his breath, he’d run a comb through his hair, and he wore a crisp new shirt, open at the neck. She felt like the bleary-eyed inebriateheshould have been.
“You look beautiful this morning, Rosalind.” She scrunched her nose at his breezy words but sat up and took the mug, watching out of the corner of her eye as he plumped the pillows and sat beside her.
“I’ve been thinking about everything,” he murmured seriously.
Rosalind’s heart sank, and she gulped the coffee, burning her tongue. But she would listen. She would be strong… And, after all, they would be able to part as friends.
“For our first courtship outing, I think a trip to Knutsford might be pleasant.”
The coffee spluttered over the green coverlet, and he brought forth a clean handkerchief with which to dab at her lips.
“But I thought…”
“Yes, Rosalind, my love.”
“My curse… We can’t…” She trailed off, unsure of what to say.
“Rosalind.” The mug was taken away and a blunt finger lifted her chin; she was forced to look directly into his pewter eyes. “Listen to me. Your dreams have saved lives – mine, Stone, the child in the village. In war, I took life away. You save it – who does that make the cursed?”
“But you fought to defend life.”
“Yes, but even so, I have killed. And it blackened a part of my soul every time. But your soul, Rosalind, your soul must be brimming, overflowing with light.”
She felt stinging tears at the back of her eyes. No one had ever put it like that before. “Last night, you said you’d filched Benedict’s poetry, but you have no need, Lucas.”
“Only when I’m with you, it seems. Look at me and believe me. I love you, dreams or not. I want to be with you.”
“But I wake screaming, Lucas, like a madwoman. If…if you really want me, maybe we should have different beds or–” He sighed deeply so she rushed on, “Or different rooms if you lik–”
A soft kiss caught her words. “You misunderstand my sigh. I don’t want different rooms or even different beds. When you wake from your nightmares, I want to be there, next to you. I want to hold you till the trembling stops. I want to kiss away your fear. I want you to tell me what you saw. I want you to know that you’re not alone. We will be one, Rosalind. We are one… Can you not feel it?”
“Yes, I can, but…then I think–”
“The day you kissed my scars, I was forced to think too. To change the view I had of myself. In the mirror, I saw a man no woman would ever want. I am not saying it is easy. It only took some words yesterday morning to make me doubt myself again, but I believe we can do it together. And when one of us weakens, the other is there to strengthen. I wish I could kiss your scars as you did mine, but I can only do it with words.” He took her hand and kissed the palm. “I will be patient, Rosalind. We will take it slow, as slow as you want and as long as you need. But, if you say no, you must also be aware that I will not go away. I will fight for you.”
Would he? That sounded rather lovely. “But…there are other things, Lucas.” She turned away. “You…you will want an heir. And I can’t…if they inherit this afflicti–”
“No, ’tis a characteristic, Rosalind – a part of you. You may not like it, but that is what it is. I do not like my propensity for low spirits, and I suspect I will always battle the temptation of laudanum, but I have to accept it, as part of me.”
A hand came to her shoulder and she turned. “As to children,” he continued, “there are plenty of orphans to home. Only a month back, I carried a babe to the orphanage – six weeks old – with a dead mother and no father.” He raked a hand through his previously neat hair and looked away. “Rosalind, I do not seek to control you, but…the tea, in London, I saw–”
“I haven’t taken it,” she interrupted. “I can be stubborn, but I do heed advice.”
