Rosie shook her head and held out her hand. “Give me that jacket and let me see if I can get the paint out before it sets. We should get her up to her room so Mrs. Wesley can help her out of her dress.”
“Let her rest a few minutes first.” He pulled his hands away from Gwyneth’s just long enough to shrug out of his frock coat and pass it to Rosie. He marveled out how cold his fingers seemed without Gwyneth’s laced through them, how right it felt to slide his palm under hers again a moment later as Rosie left the room.
God of my end, show me what I am to do. How I can help her. Please, help me understand why You sent her to me, to comprehend the wheels of Your orchestration so I do not foul them up by jumping in the way. Show me, my Providence and Guide. Please, show me.
Sometimes the Lord answered with an image in his mind. A place he ought to go or a person for whom he ought to watch. Sometimes He gave him a peace that meant be still and wait.
Never before had He sent a crushing wave over Thad’s spirit, so forceful it pushed him to his knees on the wide-planked floor. Never before had he felt a hand press like this on his head, warm and welcoming, yet without compromise.
Never before had he felt his soul be bound to another’s. But when his fingers tightened around Gwyneth’s, fire touched his heart. Branded him. So bright it eclipsed all else, so fast it was gone before he could lay hold of it.
Yet in its wake a few simple words echoed in his mind. I called you beloved.
The statement resonated, crystalline. And he understood. He must love as he was loved. Whatever she needed, that was what he must be. Brother, friend, champion, guardian. Confidant and confider. Trustworthy and trusting. Beloved.
A caress on his cheek brought his eyes open. His face was mere inches from hers, their noses nearly touching, and her fingers had found him. He could see the faint smudge of ultramarine at her temple, a few swipes of blue caught in the roots of her hair. The fan of red-gold lashes that swept up and then down onto the cream of her cheek again.
And in that brief, half-second glimpse into her sleep-filled eyes, the silken ropes pulled taut. Only three weeks ago had she entered his life, but he knew in that moment she would not leave it again. Must not. She was his, and loving her would be the easiest thing the Lord had ever asked of him.
But that was not all He asked, was it? He also demanded Thad be hers. That he trust her and lean upon her, even though she looked too fragile to survive it. Even though she could not possibly believe in his cause. Even though it made no sense. He must need her. Let her love him.
Beloved.
“Thad.” His name was a sigh upon her lips, her fingers a sigh upon his face. She opened her eyes again, though they were clouded. “Stay.”
“I will.” Unable to resist, he traced the contour of her cheek too. So soft, like the petal of a rose.
“Do you promise?”
His smile felt strange—slow and secret. “I promise. So long as you do too.”
Her brows drew down into a delicate V. “Do what too?”
“Stay.”
“Oh.” If her cheek felt like a rose, the curve of her lips looked like one unfurling in the first light of morning. “I promise.”
“Good.” Were he a rake, he would lean over now, close that breath of a gap between them, and claim her lips as she had claimed his heart. But he knew he mustn’t. Not when tragedy still tormented her so.
So he pressed his lips only to her forehead and caught her fingers in his once more. “I am sorry, sweet. So sorry about your father.”
She squeezed his fingers tight and didn’t loose them again. “I am glad you know. I think…I think he would have wanted you to. He trusted you.”
And so she, because she trusted her father, trusted him too. Thad closed his eyes and rested his head on their joined hands. Why did the man trust him, when they hadn’t met but once fifteen years ago? “I am glad he sent you here.”
“Are you?” Her eyelids fluttered down again. “I did not understand why he would.”
Nor, truth be told, did Thad. “Perhaps he knew something we do not.”
“He often did.” She drew in a long breath and eased it back out. “I wish I knew…knew why…what it was. Uncle Gates was looking for something. Papa said he had sent it away.”
Could it be? He closed his eyes too and called to mind the image of that letter. Gates. The name was in it, just past the middle of the first page, but Mother had declared it a nonsensical line. He had said something about Gates being like a son to him. But they were brothers-in-law, of an age. Friends.
Was this murderous uncle of Gwyneth’s the same Gates rumored to be set on the destruction of America? Who, through his position in the Home Office, had been gathering information on U.S. soil ever since the Revolution ended? What, exactly, would that mean?
A chill raced down his spine. If he was that man…then for what, as Gwyneth said, had he been looking?
All Thad knew was there were two things Fairchild had “sent away” that had come to him. A letter, mysterious and full of blatantly wrong facts.
And the sleeping woman before him.