Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Lazily, he slid his hands through her wet hair. Outside, snow was falling; lovely sleepy white flakes tumbling past the window.


Cordelia had not, she thought, ever been utterly naked with another person who was not her mother, and that not since she was a small child. She’d had a moment of shyness before, in the bedroom, as her chemise had come away and she had lain before James, entirely naked. But the way he’d looked at her dispelled it—as if he had never seen anything so miraculous.

And now, here they were, man and wife in absolute truth. Man and wife in the bathtub, covered in slippery bubbles. Cordelia turned her head against James’s shoulder and arched up to kiss his chin.

“There are things we still have to talk about, you know,” she said.

James tensed for a moment, before picking up a handful of bubbles. He placed them carefully atop her head. “Like what?”

“What happened,” she said. “At the meeting, after I left with Christopher.”

James sighed and drew her closer. “My parents are going to Idris. Charlotte and Henry as well, and my aunts and uncles. And Uncle Jem. There will be a trial by Mortal Sword. It will be grim, but it should exonerate them.”

“They’re all leaving?” Cordelia was startled. “What about Thomas, and Matthew and Christopher—”

“Everyone will gather at the Institute tomorrow,” said James. “Thomas and Anna are old enough to be on their own, but they’ll likely come as well, as it will be more pleasant if we’re all together. They’ll put someone in charge of the Institute for the few days they’re gone—I’d like it to be Thomas, but more likely some bore like Martin Wentworth.”

“Well,” said Cordelia. “If everyone’s going to be under the same roof, then, it will be easier for you to tell them all about the bracelet. They’ve all worried about you so much, James. It will be a relief to them, to know what happened, and that you are free.”

James leaned forward to run more hot water from the tap. “I know I must tell them,” he said. “None of the lies I’ve been living have brought me anything but misery. But what will they think?”

“They will be angry on your behalf,” Cordelia said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “And they will be proud of your strength.”

He shook his head. His wet hair made a cap of sleek waves, the ends, just beginning to dry, curling in against his cheeks, his temples. “But the telling of the tale, even knowing I will be glad, once it is done, to have told it—when I speak of what happened, I live it again. The violation of it.”

“That is the most terrible part,” Cordelia said. “I can understand it only a little, for I felt it when Lilith controlled me. The poisoning of one’s own will. The trespass of it. I am so sorry, James. I was so ready to believe you loved someone else, so ready to believe you would never love me, I saw none of the signs of it.”

She turned around so she was facing him. It was slightly awkward until she found the right position, almost in his lap, her knees on either side of him. Her hair was a wet cloak draped over her back, and she could not help but wonder if she had suds on her face.

If so, James gave no sign he noticed. He traced the line of her bare shoulder with a damp finger, as if it were the most fascinating thing he ever examined. “You could not have known, Daisy. The bracelet had its own odd powers; it seemed to prevent not just me, but those around me, from truly seeing its consequences.” The water sloshed in the bath as he moved, taking hold of her hips under the water. She leaned into him. She could see desire rising in his eyes, like the first lighting of a fire, the embers beginning to smolder. It made her feel breathless, that she could have that effect on him.

“You look like a water goddess, you know,” he said, letting his gaze roam over her, lazy and sensual as a touch. It was rather overwhelming, the manner in which he seemed to admire, even worship, her body. She admitted to herself that she felt rather the same way about his. She had never seen a man naked, only Greek statues, and when she looked at James, she began to see what the point of the statues was. He was lean, hard with muscle, but his skin when she touched it was fine-grained and smooth as marble. “I never want anyone to see you like this but me.”

“Well, I can’t imagine anyone would,” Cordelia said practically. “It isn’t as if I were about to take up bathing in the Thames.”

James laughed. “I’ve loved you for years without being able to say it,” he said. “You will now have to put up with me finally speaking aloud every ridiculous, possessive, jealous, impassioned thought I have ever had and been forced to hide, even from myself. It may take some time to work through them all.”

“Constant declarations of love? How ghastly,” Cordelia said, running the tips of her fingers down his chest. “Hopefully there will be some other reward for me, to make up for it.” She grinned at the look he gave her. “Shall we repair to the bedroom?”

“Much too far away,” he said, pulling her closer, into his lap. “Let me show you.”

“Oh,” Cordelia said. She had not realized quite how portable the act of love was, or what it was like for wet bodies to slide against each other. A great deal of water was sloshed onto the floor that night, and quite a lot of soap and bubbles. Effie would be horrified, Cordelia thought, and found she did not care in the least.



* * *



It was a pleasure for Cordelia to wake up the next morning and discover James’s arm holding her tight against him as they slept, a thing she had wanted for so long that it was hard to believe it was real.

She rolled over in his embrace, so that she was facing him. The fire in the grate had long since died down, and the room was chilly, but they made a space of warmth together, under the blankets.

Lazily, James stroked her hair, following the strands down over her shoulders, her bare back. “How long can we stay like this?” he said. “Eventually, we would starve to death, I suppose, and Effie would discover our bodies.”

“A very great shock for her,” Cordelia agreed solemnly. “Alas, we cannot stay here forever, and not because of Effie. Aren’t we all meant to gather at the Institute today?”

“Right,” said James, kissing her throat. “That.”

“And,” said Cordelia, “you said everyone will be there. Including Matthew.”

“Yes,” said James cautiously. He had taken her hand in his and seemed to be inspecting it, turning it over to trace the lines on her palm. Cordelia thought of Matthew at the Hell Ruelle and a wash of sadness rolled over her, a gray wave.

“I suppose we are not planning to conceal from him that—that—”

“Well,” said James, “I think we can spare him the details of last night. Which reminds me, where did I throw my pistol?”

“Into the corner.” Cordelia grinned. “And we’ll need to get a locksmith in, to fix the door.”

“I adore discussing domestic details with you,” said James, and kissed the inside of her wrist, where her pulse beat. “Talk to me of locksmiths and grocery deliveries and what’s wrong with the second stove.”

“Nothing, as far as I know. But we do have to talk about Matthew.”

“Here’s the thing.” James sighed and rolled onto his back. He put an arm behind his head, which made Cordelia want to run her hands over all the different muscles in his shoulders and chest. She suspected, however, that it would not be conducive to continued discussion. “We find ourselves in an odd position, Daisy. No,” he added, at her grin, “not that odd position. Unless—”

“No,” Cordelia said, with mock severity. “Tell me what’s odd.”

“That everything changed between us last night,” said James. “I think we can both agree on that. Perhaps it has only turned into what it always should have been, what in some ways always was beneath the surface. But it has changed—and yet from the outside it will look like nothing is different. We have already been married, we have already declared ourselves to each other in front of the entire Enclave. It is only now that we know that all the words we spoke then were true, and will always be true. It is a peculiar thing to confess.”

“Ah.” Cordelia hugged a pillow to her chest. “I see what you mean, but we need not make a great announcement to our friends, James. The story of that cursed bracelet is our story, and the truth will come out along with it. It is only that most of our friends will be made happy by the truth. But Matthew—neither one of us wants to hurt him.”

“Daisy, darling,” said James. He turned his head to look at her, his amber eyes grave. “It may not be possible to prevent him from feeling any pain at all, though we shall certainly try. I should tell you,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow, “I heard you. At the Christmas party. Talking to Matthew in the games room.”