Page 82 of The Defiant One
He just looked at her with bleary eyes.
"Come," she said, seizing his hand and dragging him from the room. His toe hit the doorjamb and he stumbled, nearly taking her down with him. "You and I are going for a walk."
"For God's sake, Celsie, have some pity, would you? I need sleep, not exercise."
"Then you should have got some while you had the opportunity." She pulled him, unprotestingly, downstairs and hailed a footman, who took one look at the drooping Lord Andrew and came running.
"Is his Lordship ill, my lady?"
"No, he is merely overtired. Please fetch him his hat and coat. We are going outside for a walk."
"But it's raining," Andrew said, looking out the window and frowning, as if he'd only just become aware of that fact.
"So it is. Just what you need to wake you up."
She took his greatcoat from the footman and helped him into it herself when it became obvious that he was so dazed with exhaustion that his arms would not obey his brain. You shouldn't be doing this, her conscience protested. The poor man is walking in his sleep. For heaven's sake, have some mercy and put him to bed.
What, put him to bed and allow him to regain his energy, only to shove her away all over again? Oh, no. That would not do at all. He was tired, he was vulnerable, and she was going to get to the bottom of this nonsense while she had him right where she wanted him. Besides, if he'd really wanted to sleep, he would have been in bed, not working on a formula to make himself invisible or a machine to mince turnips or whatever the devil he did when he holed himself up in that confounded laboratory. She'd had enough of his tendency toward avoidance. She'd had enough of his running away from what was obviously becoming a serious problem. She had the fox by the tail, and damn it, she wasn't about to let him go.
Calling for her cloak, she slipped her hand within the crook of his elbow, and together they went outside.
There he took off his hat and tilted his head back, closing his eyes and letting the icy drizzle beat down on his face in an obvious attempt to wake up. Then, blinking the water from his eyes, he offered his elbow once more. Celsie did not press him to speak. He would talk to her when he was good and ready, and she had already learned that forcing him into a premature discussion of whatever was troubling him would only yield anger and resistance. And so she said nothing, simply walking beside him, allowing him to set the pace for both their walk and their impending conversation.
At length the drizzle began to taper off, and overhead, low, fast-moving clouds heralded a temporary break in the weather. The wet had done nothing to deter afternoon traffic; horses trotted past, clopping through puddles and splashing unwary pedestrians. Mud-spattered carriages filled the streets, and here and there sedan chairs darted as ladies paid social calls on each other, catching up on the latest gossip and scandal. Andrew seemed oblivious to them all. He remained mute beside her and eventually they ended up at Charing Cross, where they found a tiny coffeehouse and went inside to warm up.
"You had the right idea, getting me out of the house," he finally said, as he seated her at a little table and took the chair opposite. He wrapped his hands around a mug of strong black coffee and looked down into the steaming brew. "I no longer feel as though I'm walking in a fog."
She reached across the table and laid her fingers atop one of his wrists. He looked down at them, his face expressionless. Then he reached out and covered her hand with his own.
"I'm sorry," he said, not meeting her eyes. "You deserve better than what you got."
She only squeezed his hand. He squeezed hers back. Neither looked at the other, he staring into his hot coffee, she at their clasped hands.
"I trust Sheik behaved for you?" she asked, resorting to small talk in the hopes of breaking the ice between them.
"He's a fine little horse."
"I nearly collapsed when I heard that you'd taken him and hadn't returned."
"I should have asked."
"No, no, it wasn't that," she said, her thumb roving up and down his hand. "He has nearly killed every man that's ever gone near him. He was abused, you know. He hates men."
"He didn't hate me."
"No. " Her glance lifted briefly, to his. "You must have charmed him, then."
He shrugged. "We de Montfortes have always had a way with horses. His liking me had nothing to do with any charm I may or may not possess."
He sipped his coffee, a damp wave of mahogany hair falling into his eyes as he gazed down into the mug. He blinked, and a few strands of the hair caught in his eyelashes. He didn't bother clearing them away, and Celsie suddenly wished she felt comfortable enough to just reach out and brush the hair away for him, but no . . . not yet.
Go easy, go slow, and maybe you can win his trust such that he'll let you do a lot more than just touch his hair . . .
She took a sip of her own coffee, though she didn't release his hand. "So . . . why haven't you been sleeping?" She smiled, trying to put him at ease, trying to get him talking. "Are you so wrapped up in some fabulous new discovery, some incredible new invention, that you haven't had time to go to bed?"
"No." He looked up then, and his gaze — so direct, so intense, beneath sleepy brown lashes — met hers. "It wasn't that at all."
"I see."
