Page 34 of Atone, Adonis

Fred inhaled, shakily, and then nodded, striding for her in two enormous steps. He opened his arms and she fell into them.

“Rest, Jules.” He held her tightly to him. “I’ll stay with you until you can sleep.”

Chapter

12

Near Dawn

Fred did not sleep. He lay on the small sofa in his study and stared at the ceiling overhead while the wind worried at the eaves of the house. The storm had lost much of its fury, but the branches still scraped against the windows like clawing, restless fingers.

But not as restless as he was. He’d left Julianna snoring lightly next to the fire, only to find that sleep refused him entirely. He wished he could will it into submission with an icy tone and the arch of his eyebrow like he could most other things. But no—sleep was more churlish than even he was and it currently had the upper hand.

Each time he closed his eyes he saw the same images in rotation: Thomas, ashen-faced with fever beneath the blankets. Julianna, soaked through and shaking in the great hall. Julianna again, curled up on that chaise, her shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back tears.

And then—worse than either of those—the feel of her in his arms.

Christ.

He turned sharply onto his side and swore again. It had been a mistake to touch her. He’d made a great many mistakes in his life, so he shouldn’t be surprised at that one—although it seemed graver than most, if only to himself. But he wasn’t aware of how he could have done anything else. He’d only had to look at her—ice clinging to her hair, eyes wild with fear—before he was moving closer to her. This urge, to act first and explain later, was always at the root of his most egregious failings. He didn’t regret it but he knew he’d pay for it in sleepless nights and the ache of wanting what he could not have.

He shoved aside the paltry blanket he’d managed to rustle up from the chest at the foot of his bed, the bed that Thomas now slept in, and sat up. He wasn’t going to sleep and he might as well stop pretending.

He glanced at the mantel clock. Half past four. He nearly rolled his eyes at the indignity of being awake at that hour, but instead swung his legs to the floor, pulled on his boots without bothering with stockings, and shrugged into his waistcoat. He did not trouble with any further layers; the kitchens would be warmer than the study. And he was hungry. He was nearly always hungry.

The Manor was silent as he descended the back staircase. The servants would not rise for another hour or two, probably. They’d had as long a night as he had. Gilbert might already be awake—he always seemed to be present—but the kitchens would be empty, even if he’d asked for them not to be.

He hadn’t, but the arrogance of the chef bothered him. The fit she’d made when he’d moved the skeleton staff to Dorset from London was more than enough to have let her go. If he could stomach the place while renovations were finished, she certainly could.

Fred stepped inside the kitchen and was greeted by the long wooden work tables, and the faint smell of yesterday’s supper. A banked fire smoldered in the hearth, its coals dull and red beneath a drift of ash.

Good enough.

He stoked it until the coals glowed again, then added a handful of kindling from the basket beside the stove. The wood caught quickly, flames licking upward with a low crackle.

There. Funny how such a small thing could steady him but it did the job nonetheless. He rose and began opening cupboards. The chef would certainly have thoughts about him rummaging around in the pantry too, but she could, truly, go to hell.

Fred found what he needed quickly enough. Bones left from yesterday’s roast. An onion. Carrots. A bundle of rosemary. He set a pot on the hob, lit the stove fire too, and then set to work with the knife.

His hands moved easily through the familiar motions. Onion halved. Carrot sliced. Herbs crushed lightly beneath the blade to release their scent. It had been years since he had done this regularly but one did not forget. He listened to the cadence of the knife against the table and let the scent of the herbs soothe him.

Fred dropped the bones into the pot and skimmed the first gray foam as it rose. He’d add the onions and carrots later, along with the rosemary twined into a bouquet.

He didn’t know the exact moment he felt her eyes on his back, staring, but he knew she’d been there watching him for some time. He waited several long moments before he spoke, debating what exactly he should call her. Jules, Julianna, Countess, wife?

“I know you’re there, Jules,” he eventually said. “You may as well make yourself useful and hand me the salt cellar.”

“I—” she said indignantly, but he felt the little blue enamel pot of salt in his hands a few moments later.

He finished salting the broth and added the vegetables before he turned to look at her. Her hair hung loose down her back, dark and slightly tangled from sleep. She wore the simple night rail he’d given her earlier—it had been one of Eva’s—beneath a woolen shawl she’d found from somewhere. Her feet were bare on the stone floor.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then she said, “I did not expect to find you here,” which was an understatement of such magnitude he had to laugh.

“This is my kitchen.”

“Surely the Earl of Chester does not often haunt his kitchens before dawn?”

Fred set the salt cellar down and leaned against the counter. “Not anymore, no. Come in if you’re hungry.”