Connor had thought he understood it at the wedding, but he had not. He had understood a clever woman who hid her pain because she disliked fuss. He had missed the deeper thing.
John would be waking soon at the castle. Moira would lift him, feed him, perhaps wonder why Violet had not come in with some ridiculous book or a ribbon she insisted the baby favored.
Violet would ask about him the moment she opened her eyes. She would pretend to ask calmly, but she would fail.
Connor shifted the blanket higher over her shoulder. She did not wake.
He closed his eyes for one breath, then opened them and looked at her sleeping face for a long moment.
Her brow creased suddenly. Her fingers twisted in his shirt, and her breath caught as if some dream had pulled her back toward the sickroom she refused to name.
Connor steadied her with one hand on her back.
“Violet,” he whispered.
She shifted closer. Her lips brushed the edge of his collar.
“Yer arms,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “They’re quite safe.”
Connor froze.
No sound from below mattered anymore. He looked at her hand curled in his shirt, at her cheek, at the woman who would sooner fight him half-conscious than ask for comfort while awake.
His arm tightened around her carefully. He lowered his chin, stopping before his mouth touched her hair.
He had made his decision—Violet would not leave his walls unguarded again.
By the time gray light edged the shutters, he had not slept at all. His arm had gone stiff beneath her, but he did not move it.
Violet slept as if she trusted him to keep watch, and he lay awake beneath the weight of being trusted. By morning, he knew two things clearly: Violet was hiding something that could take her from him, and he was no longer willing to pretend he would let her go.
Not now.
Not ever.
25
The road back to Moore Castle should have given Violet time to become sensible again. It did no such thing.
She rode with Connor close at her side, the morning air cool on her face and the tea from the previous night still bitter at the back of her tongue.
The tavern stood behind them, along with the bath, the locked door, the bed, and the memory of waking against Connor’s chest with her hand curled into his shirt. She did not know whether she had said anything in her sleep.
The thought worried her enough that she kept her eyes on the road.
Connor noticed. He noticed everything now.
“Do ye need to stop?” he asked.
“Nay.” Her answer came too quickly.
His gaze moved over her face, then down to the way she held the reins. He said nothing, which was worse. Silence from Connor had never meant ignorance.
Violet straightened in the saddle and pretended the movement did not cost her.
The castle came into view above the road, hard gray stone against the pale morning. Moore Castle meant John, Moira, christening clothes, ordinary tasks, and enough movement to hide inside.
She could be useful there. She could ask after John, wash, change, and perhaps have one hour without Connor looking at her as if she were a locked door he meant to break open.
