Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“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.”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “You did?”

“I’d gone to get something for Anna when I recognized your voice through the door. All I heard was you saying that you did not love Matthew, and that you did not know what to do about me. Which was not inspiring—but I had not meant to eavesdrop, and I left quickly, without hearing anything else. I swear that,” he added, and Cordelia nodded. She had overheard a few conversations herself without intending to; she could hardly sit in judgment. “I would like to think I would not have let things get as far as they did last night if I had not known, with surety, that Matthew knew how you felt. That he did not hold out hope.”

“I had to tell him,” Cordelia whispered. “But it was awful. Hurting him like that. Matthew does not let many people in, but when he does, he is so very vulnerable to them. We must make him understand that neither of us is going to leave him, and we will always love him and be there for him.”

James hesitated, just for a moment. “On the staircase, you spoke to me of pride. It has its downfalls, as we both know. But Matthew will not want to be pitied. He will want us to be blunt and honest, not treat him as an ailing patient. He has enough of that already. I would do anything to spare Matthew pain. I would cut my own hands off if it would help.”

“It would be dramatic, but unhelpful,” said Cordelia.

“You know what I mean.” He reached up to touch her hair. “By all means, let us tell him how important he is to us both. But it would help neither of us to pretend or to lie. We are married, and we will remain married, and in love, until the stars burn out of the sky.”

“That is very poetic,” said Cordelia. “Rather the sort of thing Lord Byron Mandrake would have said to the beautiful Cordelia.”

“I believe she was promised a herd of stallions,” said James, “which I cannot provide.”

“Well, what use are you then?” Cordelia wondered aloud.

“Is that a challenge, my proud beauty?” he demanded, and drew her toward and under him, until her giggling turned into kisses, and then into gasps, and she wrapped herself around him in the depths of the bed that was theirs now. That would always be theirs.



* * *