Page 23 of A Daring Desire

Not quite able to bring himself to agree, he waved a careless hand, as if he was indifferent to her reading or leaving him be. She flashed him a dazzling smile, opened the book, and began to read.

“On the 24th of February 1815, the look–out at Notre–Dame de la Garde signalled the three–master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples. As usual, a pilot put off immediately and rounding the Chateau d’If, got on board the vessel between Cape Morgion and Rion Island….”

Her voice was melodious and soothing and Kilbane allowed himself to relax, and let the story carry him away.

He woke sometime later as a footman carried in a bowl of soup and turned to see his wife was sitting at the desk in the corner, writing letters. She turned and smiled at him.

“You’re awake,” she said, sounding pleased. “You slept far easier, too. I think perhaps that wretched cough is subsiding.”

“I don’t want soup,” he said, staring down at the bowl the footman set before him with disgust. “Take it away.”

“No, Frank. Leave it where it is. That will be all, thank you.”

“No. Take it away,” Kilbane insisted, a growl to his voice that ought to be warning enough.

His lady wife exchanged a speaking glance with the footman, who nodded and fled the room.

“I see you have all the servants about your thumb, my lady,” he said bitterly. “It seems I am no longer master in my own home.”

“Not when you are in such a shocking state and acting like a belligerent baby, no,” she replied with a serene expression. “Now eat your soup, or do you need some help?”

She frowned at him with concern.

“Go to the devil.”

She chuckled and turned back to her letter but, much to his disgust, Kilbane soon discovered the mere act of raising a spoon to his lips was utterly exhausting. He managed half before giving in to fatigue. Though he would have died rather than admit it, the chicken soup was excellent, and he stared at what he’d left with regret before closing his eyes with a sigh.

“Here.”

He jolted, opening his eyes as the mattress dipped slightly to discover his wife sitting close beside him. She reached for the spoon and dipped it into the soup.

“I’m not an infant,” he ground out, incensed.

She sighed and set the spoon down, turning to look at him. His heart gave an odd thud in his chest. She was too close. A delicate floral fragrance teased his senses, roses and perhaps orange blossom. It was light and feminine and far too appealing. Her gaze settled upon him, and there was too much sympathy and understanding in her eyes. Something that might have been anxiety climbed up his spine, making him want to say something appalling to send her running away. But for once he kept his mouth shut, unable to make himself do it.

She reached out and smoothed his hair from his forehead, and Kilbane had to force himself not to jerk away from her touch. He watched her warily.

“My lord, you are and always have been strong and capable, but your body has given everything it had to keep you alive, and you must be patient and kind to yourself for a little while. I know it kills you to accept help from anyone, least of all me, but won’t you let me? I don’t doubt you will run away from me again the moment you are well, but at least let me help you now. Please. I have had no opportunity to be a wife to you, let me do this small thing.”

Her voice was soft, her expression so filled with tenderness he could not look at her.

“Fine.”

He heard his terse, impatient response with a twinge of guilt and slanted a glance her way. He thought perhaps there was a smile in her eyes, or something that looked horribly like understanding.

Carefully, she fed him the last of the soup and he watched her covertly as she concentrated on lifting the spoon to him without spilling it. Mine, murmured a fierce voice in the back of his mind, a disquieting sense of possessiveness stirring inside him. He dismissed it. Jealousy or possessiveness had never had a place in his life. Lovers came and went, if they were faithful whilst he kept them, fine, if they sought amusement elsewhere if he was absent, he had never cared enough to take them to task for it. He had never stayed with anyone long enough to give them cause to believe he would be faithful. What was the point? Everyone lied, and he’d rather be favoured with the truth than sweetly false sentiment.

He wondered if she was still seeing Peregrine, if perhaps she fancied herself in love with the boy. For, in Kilbane’s mind, he was only a boy, though a little older than Catherine. Had she taken him to her bed? An unpleasant sensation stirred in his gut, and he waved the last spoonful away with irritation, his appetite deserting him.

She set down the spoon, rang for a servant to come and take the tray away, and returned to the desk. Kilbane watched her as she sealed the letter she had been writing and wrote the direction on the face.

“Billet doux?” he suggested darkly.

She turned to glance at him, an arrested expression on her face. “A letter to Lady Rose Carmichael,” she amended. “She was staying here, but with you home….”

He snorted at that. “Ah, yes. Hardly an ideal situation for a virginal innocent with me in the house.”

“Just so,” she replied, apparently undisturbed by his words.