“It’s sort of a… means of survival.” He did not want to tell her this, had never told a soul. But wine on the tongue, stars in the sky, and flames dancing so near they’d caught fire in his soul loosed the truth into the air. “When I came back from France, I wished only that I hadn’t. Death seemed like it should have been my fate. It had been everyone else’s.”
Her hand on his shoulder, the other gently curved into his own, tightened, and she did ease him closer. “I am glad you were spared that fate.”
“Me as well, but I wasn’t always. And sometimes… still… What helps is looking for bits of life to love. Moments of joy. If I can find those, I can be glad I’m still here. The day you walked into that room. During the interview… It was like one of those moments I look for.”
“The ones that make you fall in love?”
He nodded.
“That’s… lovely. But sad. Is it, what you speak of, truly love?” Her voice breathy, no, husky. Reminding him.
Tomorrow night, they would be man and wife.
A shiver crept through him. Admiration came easy. Easy, too, to call it love. But love itself? The thing that pierced like a bayonet’s point? Much more difficult. Much more costly.
What was the shiver rippling through him? He’d never felt it watching the sun set or freeing a garden trying to bloom from winter weeds. New. And terrifying. He’d done it. Brought her to a place she felt so well, so free, so safe, she could wink at a man, open her body to him beneath the inky sky. And in such a short time. He’d done the right thing. For her.
He danced her about the bonfire, where the chaos of human glee swept in song toward the sky. One of his songs lifted on every dancing voice.
Harvest time has come, with a sharp promise in the air. But my heart will keep you warm, my love, my only care.
What had he been thinking of when he’d written those lines? A wooly sheep? A newborn pup? Who knew. Couldn’t remember.
The lines seemed to coalesce in the body pulled warm against his side, the body of the woman who, tomorrow, would be his wife.
Nine
Amazing how quickly a woman could become a different one. Stand up with a lord before a clergyman, repeat a few words—voilà! Mrs. Bronwen became Lady Atlas Bromley. She felt no different than before, but she could not stop looking at her hand as she sat in the middle of the small but jovial wedding breakfast at Briarcliff. She’d worn a ring for eight years, but she’d plucked it off this morning.
Lord Atlas had not replaced it with another. She’d known that would be the case, but her hand felt barren nonetheless. And she could not help but wonder… if her union with Lord Atlas had been for love and not for safety, would he have found her a ring? And what would it look like? What would it feel like to have a bit of him wrapped around her at all times?
Her husband stood nearby. She could reach out and touch him if she dared. The air between them sizzled, and she glanced at him in tiny increments only. The sleeve of his cuff was more frayed than she’d noticed before, and the elbow stretched too thin. The seams of his shoulders were coming unplucked in places where he filled it out too tightly for fashion.
If he was an elegant man who screamed of military bearing, his precision and perfection existed not in his clothing, but in him alone.
Zander said something across the room, and his brothers and their wives laughed. She grinned, happy to be part of such merriment, but still feeling… outside of it.
A hand settled on her shoulder, then her husband leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You are very pretty today, Clara.” That deep, rough voice rumbled through her, warmed her more than the fire could. Her body seemed incapable of resisting Lord Atlas. It obeyed his every command, preening now that he’d complimented her, aching now that he touched her, wanting now, too.
“Thank you, my lord,” she mumbled. Then, finding bravery, she patted the open space beside her on the sofa. “Atlas, will you sit? You’ve been standing all day.”
He shifted from foot to foot and his gaze flipped from that narrow space to another chair, and then another and another around the room. “No. I’ll stand.”
What did he find so displeasing about the chairs? One possessed an elegant spindle back with straight, carved arms to match. But he wouldn't fit in that narrow space, would he? Another had no arms, inviting any sort of body, but the seat was so small his shoulders must be double the size. Another uncomfortable perch. Oh, and the legs ofthatthird chair seemed a bit wobbly, even from across the room. Too spindly, too delicate. Sitting was a precarious activity for her husband. Especially considering…
She studied his stance, slightly tilting to his right, taking weight off his left. Almost undetectable, but clearly he favored the injured side. How much did it pain him, then?
She stood abruptly. “I should like a walk. Is that terribly rude? On such a morning?”
“Not at all,” Franny said. “You may go and come as you please here. You’ll find us terribly informal in almost every way.”
Clara called Alfie to her. “Would you like to go for a walk as well?” She looked up at Atlas. “You must show us your favorite places around the estate.”
“Very well.” Atlas offered her a hand, helping her stand.
They gathered their coats and soon were striding out of doors, ambling in no particular direction. At least that she knew of. Alfie took the lead, running ahead, exploring fences and ha-has, chasing after rustling bushes.
“Can we get a dog, Mama?” he called.
