She gave a shaky sigh, expelling the exhaustion of a good cry and, he liked to think, the relief of an unburdened conscience. “I don’t want to have a secret. Any secret. But for so long, I’ve felt much like an open book with a page torn out. I appear completely ordinary. But if you try to read me, to know me, it’s impossible, because there’s something missing. Something lost.”
Pressing his lips to her damp hairline, Piers savored the fragrance of her. “You, my wife, are anything but ordinary. You’re perfect.”
She pulled back a little, gazing up at him with those dark, assessing eyes. He wondered what she could see in the gathering shadows. Probably more than most could at noonday.
She swallowed twice before she could bring herself to speak. “I’d like to hope nothing much has changed between us. I still want a family. Children. Your children, I mean. I want to … to make love to you. I just don’t … I don’t know how.”
He let out a long, strained breath, both elated and humbled. “Alexandra…”
She tensed. “I understand if … if this alters your desires. I’m not a virgin. I’m an entire mess, and if you no longer want—”
“Dear God, no!” He trailed his lips over her forehead, down her temples. Pressing little chaste, worshipping kisses to her cheekbones, her nose, the corners of her lips.
She turned her face to him, pressing her still-wobbling mouth against his own.
He let her, soaking in the kiss until she broke it with a great sniff.
He’d give his soul for a handkerchief.
“I feel better now.” She sighed. “I think … I think I can try…”
He lifted her, carrying her to the bed and settling her upon it. He stretched out next to her, behind her, tucking her body gently against his, and scooping out a protective cocoon for her.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“What?” She lifted her head, but he guided it back to rest on his arm.
“Tomorrow.” He traced little symbols of comfort over her arms. “Or the next day. Or whatever day you are ready. Once the tears have dried and the fear is departed…”
And he felt a little less like murdering someone.
Once someone had ceased trying to murder him.
Relaxing, she nodded, her lithe form shuddering a few more times.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered around fresh tears. “Piers?”
“Yes, darling.”
“What do I do now?”
“Now,” he rumbled, doing his best to match his breath with hers, touching her with comfort rather than need. “Now you allow me to hold you. To watch over you as you sleep in my arms.”
She nodded, leaning deeper into his embrace.
Piers held her the entire night, searching the darkness for answers he knew were not there. He wouldn’t rip information from her she wasn’t ready to give. He wouldn’t touch her unless she asked him to.
He would search out his enemies and put them in the ground, for they posed a threat to her as well. Then, when she was safe, he’d tear the world apart until he found the man who’d done this.
And avenge her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Alexandra had expected to suffer through the following day, to spend each moment dreading her midnight reckoning. Likewise, she’d feared a heavy and melancholy change in the dynamic between her and her husband after the overwrought, if emotionally intimate, night they’d spent in each other’s arms.
However, as she and Redmayne trundled along the scenic cliff road from Le Havre to Seasons-sur-Mer in a coach burdened by a veritable treasure trove, she felt lighter than she had in years.
A smile broke over her as she enjoyed the brilliant sunset and laughed at her husband’s own brand of wry humor. Was this what joy felt like? A cluster of hours nearly free of care, every moment filled to the brim with delight, each one a distinct flavor and all of them sweet.
Their first stop in Le Havre had been the bank, where Redmayne withdrew a mind-boggling amount of money and relinquished it to her as though he’d given her a mere trinket.
On the subject of trinkets, she’d never realized that a man could have the emotional and financial fortitude to shop like a Redmayne. Pillaging coastal villages and such was a trait handed down to him by his ancestors, and evidently, her husband awoke hell-bent on honoring his lineage to the fullest. The notable difference being, of course, he paid rather than plundered.
Paid handsomely, in fact.
Never mind hacking through foreign jungles and forging lethal rivers. Redmayne conquered the entire market street and beyond with a singular focus, spoiling her as though it was a mission given him by the queen.
He plied her with costly gifts, insisting on a garnet set of jewelry he claimed matched her hair and eyes. The earrings, brooch, bracelet, and watch cost more than she thought it should, but he’d not even bothered to barter with the jeweler.
After a few disconcerting extravagances, Alexandra had begun to contain her appreciation of anything, worried they’d end up going home with it. If she exclaimed over an intricate telescope, he bought it and the matching sextant and compass. If a scarf caught her eye, he commissioned it in every color. He didn’t restrain his purchases to those she admired, but procured her French and foreign things he thought she might like, such as a jewel-encrusted Moroccan lantern, or a book written by Sir Grégoire-Pierre Leveaux, the famous sixteenth-century explorer. It charmed and delighted her how easily he matched her tastes without needing to ask.
He insisted she pick several ready-made skirts and blouses from a shop window, and he obtained a few new articles of clothing, himself, mentioning something vague about an incident in the laundry room.
It embarrassed her a little, how many times he vowed to take her to the dress shop in Rouen Julia went on and on about.
“These will do just fine,” she said, hoping the shopkeeper didn’t speak English, for fear he’d offended her. “I have no need for Rouen.”
Alexandra had never considered herself a materialistic woman, as a frequent traveler must select her things with economy, but she couldn’t say she didn’t enjoy herself immensely.
She could barely contain her gratitude when he recommended she select a gift or two for Cecelia and Francesca. She found a vastly expensive decorative abacus for Cecil, and agonized over Frank until he suggested a new riding crop with a lovely and intricate but eminently practical handle.
He whipped his own thigh with it, testing its merit.
Alexandra knew she’d forever keep that moment locked in her memory, the most precious acquisition of the entire day. The Terror of Torcliff, a bearded menace with the reputation of a demon, lost in a distracted, boyish fantasy, swiping at the air with a riding crop as though it were a fencing sword.
“I’ll thank you to school the ridicule from your regard, Doctor,” he bade with a lopsided smile upon noticing her intent gaze. “I was merely conducting a thorough scientific analysis.”
“And what has your analysis concluded?” she inquired, suspecting she was unable to school much of anything from her features, not even the strange, aching profusion of luminescence in her heart.
He held the crop before him with as much fanfare as Arthur’s Excalibur. “I proclaim this item an excellent offering for even the most discerning outdoorsman, or outdoorswoman, as is the case.”