Page 78 of The Redemption of the Shrew

For the second time in as many nights, Philippe climbed up the drainpipe to Gloriana’s bedchamber. The window had a sticky spot halfway up, which hadn’t mattered on his way into an empty room, nor after she’d fallen into exhausted sleep the night before. Perhaps she wouldn’t hear it this time either . . . Scrrritch. He put a leg over the sill.

“Elspeth, is that you?”

Still not asleep . . . but she didn’t sound as if she’d been weeping this time.

“Who’s there?” A drawer scraped, and the curtain rings rattled. “I have a gun. Show yourself, or I will shoot.”

Knowing Gloriana, this was no empty threat. “Shoot me if you must, but first, please allow me to apologize and to share with you the secrets of my heart.”

“Philippe?” Her voice flew an octave higher than usual. Reassured and filled with hope, he climbed into the room and lowered the sash.

Chapter 16

Her heart thudding chaotically, Gloriana returned the gun to the drawer of her bedside table and pushed the coverlet off. “What are you doing in here?” She had her voice under control once again.

He came out from behind the window curtain. “As I said, I have come to apologize, most abjectly and with all my heart.”

She didn’t know what to say. Bewildered and shaken, she tucked her nightdress around her legs and sat on the edge of the bed.

He knelt before her, took her hands in his, and kissed them. “I was unkind to you last night. I am desolated, ma belle.”

Ma belle. My beautiful one. Those words again, which had such a heady effect on her foolish heart. Her eyes burned. Oh God, she must not cry.

“You meant to help. I treated you harshly, and now I come craving forgiveness.”

She should get a hold of herself. She should . . . “Don’t, Philippe. If anyone needs forgiveness, it is I.” She shook her head, and because she was so weary, her confession poured out. “I was unkind to you for years. I don’t deserve to be forgiven, and I don’t expect it.” She pulled her hands from his and turned her face away. It was dark, but even so she couldn’t face him. “Please let us forget what happened last night.”

“Mais non!” He stood. “I am glad it happened. It made me see sense. Instead of avoiding you because of my own stupid fears, I should have included you. I was terrified for you tonight, venturing out so bravely despite the gossip and the unwanted attentions of that cochon Hythwick.” He took her hands again and raised her to her feet. For a moment, she thought he might take her in his arms.

He didn’t. “Come, let us sit on that sofa. We have much to discuss.”

He had come to her bedchamber in the middle of the night . . . to talk?

She allowed him to lead her to the sofa. She sat, folded her hands in her lap, and tried to think. Her head felt thick, her mind like mud . . . but one sentence of his rose up from the slurry of her thoughts.

“What stupid fears?” she asked.

He lit a candle, set it on the mantelpiece, and came to sit next to her. “That is the crux of the matter, ma belle.” He cleared his throat. “I must tell you the story of my life.”

She had never seen Philippe so ill-at-ease.

“It is not a pleasant story,” he said, looking down at his hands. What was he so reluctant to reveal? He took a deep, shuddery breath and raised his eyes to hers. It was as if his usual poise—which must be a veneer of sorts, although she had never suspected as much—had begun to peel away.

“I never imagined it was.” Truth to tell, she hadn’t imagined much at all. She’d been too absorbed in her own anger to think about what his life might have been. “Don’t tell me, if you don’t wish to. No matter what, I am your friend for always, just as you are mine.”

But oh, she wanted so much more, and alone with him in her bedchamber, desire hovered in the air.

Nevertheless, she would take what she could get, and if that meant merely offering comfort, so be it. She watched his hands, resting on his thighs. They were strong but also long and slender. She longed to entwine her fingers with his, but what if he didn’t want her to?

“Even Sophie does not know everything, and I trust her more than anyone.”

Which means he doesn’t trust me. Sad, but unsurprising. “If it is so difficult, why must you tell me? My unkindness over the years gives you sufficient reason to mistrust me—although I have not broken your confidence about being a thief, which is a point in my favor, I think.”

“I must tell you because I want to trust you,” he said.

“Oh.” A wave of joy washed over her—and broke. She mustn’t make too much of this, and yet she couldn’t help herself. Perhaps if she unburdened herself a little, it would reassure him. “You may do so, I swear. I was unkind because my feelings were hurt—it is no small thing to be repudiated when one offers oneself utterly naked—and striking back in a way that would make you feel a fool as well was all I could do. But I have never been untrustworthy. I never wished you any harm, Philippe, except perhaps a heartache equal to mine. I am sorry.”

“As am I.”