“Dear God,” Marek said, wincing.
She told him about the death of her mother, and her father’s blindness.
She told him everything.
Marek listened attentively.
They talked about everything that had gone on in their lives until this moment in this room. There was no question between them of a future, or even a tomorrow. Tonight was about two people brought together by extraordinary circumstances. Two people who had developed a mutual regard against all odds, and who would one day need to recall all the details they shared now so they could make sense of this extraordinary moment.
It was also about falling in love. That’s what Hollis was thinking when she climbed onto Marek’s body and found him willing and able. They made love again, exploring this new, budding landscape they’d created. Of all the men she’d met and interacted with over the last few years, why was he the man to capture her imagination so completely? Why was it the solemn, partially deaf man who made her feel so exuberant? There was no logic to it.The course of true love never did run smooth.
Shakespeare.
Hollis didn’t know when she fell asleep in his arms, but she slept heavily, and she dreamed vividly. There were soldiers, and Marek. Beck, too, which should have disturbed her more than it did.
She was awakened in what felt like the middle of the night. The hearth had gone cold, and the room was nearly black. But she was aware of someone moving around in the room. She ran her hand over the bed next to her and found it empty. She sat up, propping herself on her elbows and blinking into the dark. “Marek?”
“I’m here,” he said in a low voice. The bed sank to one side with his weight. He touched her face and smiled tenderly. “I should go. Your servants—”
“I have another idea of how to find them,” she said, her dreams coming back to her.
“Pardon?”
“The soldiers.”
He stroked her hair and tenderly kissed her forehead. “There’s no point, Hollis. If they ever existed, they have disappeared into London.”
She sat up, drawing up the sheet with her. She pushed a tangle of hair from her eyes. “I dreamed it. Or thought it, I don’t know—but soldiers must be billeted somewhere. They didn’t come here to wander the streets, did they? I know someone who might know where foreign soldiers may be billeted. All we need is cake.”
He chuckled. “You’re still dreaming.”
“Donovan and I will pick you up at the hotel at one o’clock. But we must arrive before he has his luncheon.”
“You’re not making sense, Hollis.”
“I know,” she said. She came up on her knees, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “You’ll see. Trust me.”
Marek sighed and settled his hands on her waist. “You make it impossible to resist you. You do know that, do you?” he asked, and pressed his lips to the side of her neck.
Actually, Hollis thought it was the other way around.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
From the hallowed halls of a palace, more than one heard the terrible row between some of the Weslorian ministers and King Maksim. The shouting could be heard all the way to St. James Park. No reason for the argument has been reported, but those who heard the shouting in Weslorian noted that the king sounded quite angry. Could it be that Alucia will have more gains in the new agreement than his own country? Even those of us who are ignorant of the proceedings know there cannot be true peace if one party has more than the other.
The Earl of Kendal and his formidable daughter, Lady Blythe, were recently spotted on Regent Street, and in particular, in the establishment of dressmaker Madame Louisa. A reliable little bird has told us that an astounding twelve gowns were ordered. Perhaps Lady Blythe is building a trousseau.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
ATHALFPASTONE, Mr. Kettle pulled his pail from beneath his chair. It felt heavier than it had in the preceding weeks, and he couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. Kettle had at last come home, having apparently discovered that her father was more demanding than she considered her own husband to be. Mr. Kettle felt a bit smug about his wife’s epiphany and reminded her that he had told her to expect her father would be less inclined to tolerate her unacceptable behavior, and he sincerely hoped she’d learned a valuable lesson.
If the weight of his pail was any indication, she had.
He removed the linen and spread it on his desk, then balanced the pail in his lap to peer inside.
A hunk of bread rested on top. He removed that and placed it on the linen. This was most assuredly an improvement, and he would freely admit that he had missed his wife’s fresh bread.
The next item he lifted from the pail was an uncooked potato.A potato?Their argument last night had resulted from his expressed desire for variety in his meals, particularly as he’d been forced to eat the same foods for several days in a row after she’d gone running off to her father’s house. But this was not the variety he’d envisioned.
