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“Aye. It’s not always easy to remember she’s still a child. And where she came from, pain relief—and a doctor’s skill—are luxuries no one dreams of.”
“But Norman explained it to her?”
“Aye, he’s being kind.” He paused before saying reflectively, “They’re all working well together.”
Reina gulped down the rest of her tea before bringing herself to ask, “Did the doctor say how long it would take?”
“Half an hour, at least.”
“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it? Tuppence will be all right?” She hated the way her voice came out, so anxious and young.
John’s expression was difficult to interpret. He took the empty mug from her and went to set it on the nearby desk. When he returned, he angled his chair to face hers more fully. They were so close that her skirts bunched in the space between his knees.
“The odds are low, cariad,” he said softly.
“We can’t give up hope.”
After a measured silence, John commented, “It’s very English, this determination to hope against hope. It’s a refusal to see anything but one possible outcome. But there are times we run up against something we can’t change.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting we accept defeat.”
“It’s not defeat. It’s knowing when to let go.” His thoughtful gaze fell to her lap, where her agitated fingers plucked at a band of pleated trim on her skirts.
Realizing what she was doing, Reina stood and began to pace back and forth. She was too nervous to sit or stand, too distracted to occupy herself with small tasks. “I can’t bear doing nothing,” she said. “How much time is left? I should help Enid with the cleaning, or go see if—”
She didn’t realize John had followed until she turned and found herself walking straight into his chest. His arms went around her, bringing her securely against him. Relief quivered through her. During all the years of constant forward momentum, she’d never even considered what it might feel like to be anchored like this. To rest inside the temporary shelter of a moment.
The top button of the collarless shirt had been left undone, revealing his smooth brown throat and the triangular hollow at the base. Before she could stop herself, she dove into that inviting space, hunting for the natural scent of his skin beneath the sharp antiseptic solution.
One of his palms traveled along the length of her back, up and down. Gradually she felt herself relax beneath the slow repeated stroking.
“It’s not fair,” she said. “Why have such terrible things happened to someone who doesn’t deserve it?”
“Life isn’t fair,” came his low reply. “It’s unpredictable. Wishing it otherwise will only make you bitter.”
“I am bitter. I’m angry.”
“And a bit fearful too, aye?”
A long time passed before Reina could bring herself to nod.
“Sooner or later,” John said, “we each have our portion of grief. In time, we find a way to fold it in with the rest of a life fully lived. No matter what happens tonight, or tomorrow, you’ll go on to make the world better for women like Tuppence. But you can’t avoid this part of it. Let the river be a river.”
Reina was silent, lulled by the radiant heat of his body, the tapping of sleet on the windows, and the occasional hiss or pop of coal on the grate.
No one had ever held her for so long. All his strength surrounded her even as it created space for her to breathe . . . a storm harboring her in its center.
“At the tertulia,” she heard him say absently, “I noticed even the happy music had a bit of melancholy woven in. I think the Welsh and Spanish are the same in that way: finding joy in a minor key. It’s knowing sadness is part of life, not something to be avoided.”
Her bandaged hand crept up to his face, cold fingertips following the edge of his jaw.
It distantly amazed her that she’d done all this. She had brought all these people into her house. She’d wanted their help, and company, their vitality filling the empty rooms. But their problems and pain had come too, and were now hers to share. And this man was the greatest part of the wholesale change she’d brought on herself.
She stood on her toes and strained upward to bring her trembling mouth to his.
His breath caught. In the next moment his hand came to the nape of her neck and his hungering mouth took hers. The hint of whisky mingled with the intimate taste she remembered from before: drugging and delicious. She wanted more of it, wanted roughness and obliterating heat. But he jerked his head up as if something had startled him.
He clasped her against the swift rise and fall of his chest, listening intently.
