Page 89 of The Mister I Married

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dressed now in a dry set of clothes, Alex strode into the library and headed straight for the sideboard where he poured himself a generous glass of brandy.

He crossed to the hearth and sank onto an armchair with a weary sigh before drinking deep from his glass, the warmth from the fire—and the brandy—washing over him like a balm.

Thank God he is unharmed.

The words resounded through his mind for the hundredth time, and again his chest grew tight at the thought of what might have happened today. Of how close he might have come to losing his father.

The image assailed his brain once again: the lake, the boat, his father inside, barely conscious and soaked to the bone.

Alex shut his eyes and thrust the image from his mind, trying to focus instead on his immense relief that it was over, that his father was unharmed, warm and safe in his bed. Gratitude welled within him, bringing with it the sting of tears.

The doctor had said he should be good as new by the end of the week, so long as he stayed warm and rested well. Of course, that was before his father had learned of Emmy’s return to Bristlewood, and judging by the look of joy on his face when he’d heard the news, Alex wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he was up and out of bed tomorrow.

Assuming she stayed, of course.

He didn’t even know why she’d come back, so it seemed rather pointless to try to predict what she would do next. Or when.

Draining the last of his brandy, he let his head fall back against the chair and rubbed his tired eyes. God, he was exhausted. Bed was sounding better by the moment, but he knew Emmy wished to speak with him tonight. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he should permit it.

It had been a long, trying day, and he wasn’t feeling particularly gracious at the moment. It would probably be best to delay the conversation until tomorrow, after he’d had a decent night’s sleep and would be better able—and better prepared—to navigate a conversation with his wife.

Then, of course, there was the added benefit of making Emmy wait, which was something she loathed down to her marrow. The idea of tormenting her was not entirely unattractive to him. After all, didn’t she deserve a little misery?

He stared into the fire and watched the flames flicker and dance. Then he sighed. Maybe she did deserve it, and maybe if he were a more vindictive man, he would want to see her suffer, but he wasn’t. And he didn’t.

He was frustrated with her, yes, and he was hurt, but he was not hateful. And even though he was spent after this terribly trying day, he wanted to know why she’d returned even more than he wanted his bed.

“Alex?”

He stiffened at the sound of Emmy’s voice, his hand gripping the empty glass sitting on his knee. “I’m here,” he called out, not rising from his chair.

The room was silent, but he knew she was there—he could feel her. And then he saw her, from the corner of his eye, stealing into his space, into the fire’s heat, where she halted beside his chair.

“Your father is sleeping,” she said quietly, her fingers curling into her gown. “I believe he is quite comfortable.”

Alex gave a stiff nod, his gaze on the fire, though he could feel her watching him. “Good.”

A restive silence followed and then Emmy moved to the empty chair beside his, sitting with her back straight and her hands clasped in her lap.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you for letting me see him, Alex.”

Her voice was soft, almost meek, and he surged to his feet, an illogical flash of irritation sending him to the sideboard again. The display of gratitude grated his nerves, and he poured his second glass of brandy with considerably less grace, splashing a bit onto his hand.

Had she seriously believed he might forbid her to see his father? Was that what she thought of him?

“I aim to please,” he said with forced mildness before sipping the brandy from his hand.

“Alex…” She trailed off, obviously out of her element. A rarity for the ever-confident Emmy. “Alex, I—I am so sorry. You have every right to be angry with me. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t left, your father wouldn’t have—”

“Stop.” He bit the word out, his voice harsher than he’d intended.

He sighed and set his glass on the sideboard then he turned to face his wife. She was standing now, watching him with wary eyes, her posture stiff, her hands unnaturally still at her sides.

God, he hated to see her unhappy.

“It wasn’t your fault, Emmy,” he said gruffly. “You didn’t know. And it was so long ago, the last time my father went out onto the lake…” He shook his head. “It was so long ago, I forgot all about it.”