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I bite back a smile. I’ll have Dr. Brahms to thank for that.
“But do you want to go?”
“No.”
“Okay. Then we won’t go. But there’s no information on how to send our regrets,” I say, scanning the letter. “Perhaps Rolf is outside. We should invite him in and tell him we won’t be able to attend.”
I go to the door and open it a crack, Etienne right on my heels. But no one is out there waiting for us. The winding walkway is empty save for the tiny solar lights that Etienne installed last week. Down the lane, red taillights disappear around the bend, blocked from view by the trees.
“Strange,” I say. “They dropped the letter and left?”
Etienne huffs and crosses his big, tanned arms over his chest. “That’s their way of telling us we don’t have a choice. But we always have a choice.”
I reach out and take his hand. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”
“Too late for that,” he says, a smirk spreading into a wicked smile. “We’ve both been nothing but trouble since we came home from our honeymoon.”
Keeping our fingers entwined, I raise my other hand to cup his jaw, my thumb stroking his soft, short beard. “Thisisour honeymoon.”
Etienne angles his face and nips at the tip of my thumb. And now, all I can think about is going for a ride on that gorgeous, bearded face.
And all talk of the intrusive letter, as well as our dinner, is forgotten.
Until late at night, while we lay entwined, exhausted, and sated, something intangible strikes.
It’s as if an unseen force rips him from my arms as I sleep. I gasp, awakened by the sudden loss of his warm body beside mine. Startling awake, find Etienne on the edge of the bed, gasping for breath.
I flick on the side table light. “Etienne. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t breathe.”
Oh, gods. I haven’t prayed to them since I was a child, but I’m praying now that my husband isn’t having a heart attack or something.
After scrambling off the bed, I kneel between his knees and get a good look at him. I focus on his body language, his face. He breathes in short gasps.
“I have to go,” he grunts, shoving up from the bed and descending the winding turret staircase.
He leans on the rough stone walls as he descends.
“Talk to me, Etienne,” I demand.
“Have to get out of here.”
Oh, no.
I’ve seen this before.
And so, I know not to take this personally. Still, a tiny, irrational insecurity surfaces, causing me to wonder if he’s upset because of me. That I'm suffocating him, as some royal watchers claim. Has he awakened in the middle of the night in a panic because he doesn’t love me? Does he resent me for keeping him from his family? Have I made a mess of everything?
I bury those irrational thoughts because my husband could fall down the stairs if I do not act fast. I flick on the light and follow his long-legged strides, trying not to stumble.
“You’re safe, Etienne.”
“I need air.”
Yes, I’ve definitely seen this before.
When I was at finishing school, it happened to me at least once a month. Sadly, not privately in my room in the middle of the night. No, my panic attacks occurred in the middle of lessons.
