Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

He swallowed. “Kate.” The word trailed off into nothingness. He didn’t know what to say to her.

She wanted to help him. It seemed such a reasonable thing for her to ask. From some other man, she would have had instant acquiescence.

But then, she’d married him. And he had nothing but a complex prickle of requirements that she had to negotiate. If he could not rely on himself, the only assurance he could offer her was the certainty of his failure. He’d failed before; he wouldn’t do so again. If he gave in to her demands, if he let himself grow soft…well, he’d barely be able to trust himself. He needed to be strong, not just for himself, but for her.

She held up one finger. “Shh,” she admonished. “Don’t say anything.”

And maybe she was right. Anything they said would disrupt this moment in the moonlight. It would break whatever spell ensorcelled him now. Words would only bring them back to reality.

She floated toward him. She was even walking silently, as if she were some unearthly spirit visiting him, rather than a woman composed of flesh and blood. The only sound she made coming forward was a gentle swish of fabric, coupled with the quiet exhalation of her breath. His own breath had stopped long ago. How, then, was his heart still thudding so monstrously?

Maybe this was the solution, then. To let their marriage lapse into this unreal thing by moonlight. No hard questions. No difficult thoughts.

She came up beside him and he turned on the bed to face her. The act caused his leg to twinge. Even the most ethereal of spirits could not hold off reality for long. Pounding rhythm did not, at this moment, appeal to him. Drat.

“I have a gift for you.” Her voice was low.

And oh, if he’d been able to get up on his knees, if he’d been able to grab hold of her and bring her beneath him, he would have had a gift for her, too. It was the only sort of gift he could imagine giving her, the silent caress of his body.

She lifted the thick material of her wool gown two inches, and set her foot on the bed next to him. He leaned forward, to trace a finger down her ankle—but caught up short. A discordant note sounded in the sylphlike fantasy he seemed to be having. She wasn’t bare-footed like the pixie he’d imagined her to be. He glanced up at her in puzzlement.

“Stockings,” she explained. “Thick stockings.”

Her voice wasn’t low and spiritual; it was bright and cheerful. That tone sounded a second discordant note. He stared at her covered foot for just a moment too long, trying to reconcile his thoughts about ghosts and ethereal spirits with the undeniable oddness of warm, woolen stockings.

“Um,” he finally managed to say. “Stockings are the gift? Why are you wearing them?” He glanced dubiously at her tiny feet. “I don’t think they would fit me.”

She looked down at him and tilted his head up. “They’re for me. Like the night rail. So I can sleep with you in the cold.”

Something painful wrenched inside him. “Oh, Kate. There’s no need—”

She covered his mouth with her fingers. “You seem to be operating on the belief that when I tell you I want to help, that I want to swaddle you up so you can’t move and do everything for you. That’s not what it means, Ned. I want to help you. And if what you need is to make sure you feel strong, I will help you feel strong. If you need me to set you an impossible task just so you can complete it before breakfast, send me the word, and I’ll find you a dragon to tame. ‘Help’ need not be an empty, cloying affair. Sometimes…it really can help.” She sat down on the bed next to him and took his hand. “You don’t have to do everything alone anymore, Ned. Let me walk with you.”

His head buzzed. He felt it like a tickle in the back of his throat. It filled him, those words, and he couldn’t even say why or how or with what. He pressed their en tangled fingers to his forehead, as if he could push the burn of emotion away. She was not a sprite, then, come in moonlight to tiptoe away at dawn, but a woman—one better than he could have imagined. And she wasn’t going to leave.

He didn’t have to be alone. He didn’t have to leave some part of himself stuck out there, still on that sea. Maybe he didn’t have to fear himself any longer.