Page 37 of The Winter Husband
She wanted so much more than his kiss.
Dangerous thoughts rushed through her mind—wild, impossible paths to escape, and even riskier ideas about staying. How much longer could she endure this loneliness? What harm would there be in reaching for small comforts? The happiness she’d once hoped for was forever out of reach…but would it be so wrong to fill this emptiness in another way, in the way they both wanted?
She squeezed her eyes shut, but as her head lolled forward, a tear slipped through. It fell upon her wrist where the glove didn’t quite meet the sleeve. Spring seemed like years away. Paris, a million miles farther. Another tear slid hot down her cold-numbed cheek to drip off her chin.
A creak of a floorboard startled her. She glanced up to find Lucas stepping onto the porch.
***
Lucas took in the sight of Marie’s tear-streaked face as his heart came to a stop. He searched for blood, bruises, broken bones. Her skin was flushed from cold, her clothes unrumpled, but he saw no pain but that which shimmered in her eyes.
He spoke the obvious. “You’re crying.”
“It’s nothing.”
She swiped at her cheeks. Any fool could see she was lying. The stony face he’d crashed into every day had shattered. He stepped toward her and bent a knee to coax her gaze back to him, but, damn it, he was still wearing snowshoes. They arced out beyond the toes of his boots, complicating his effort to kneel. His hands were full, too. One gripped a flintlock, the other held the new snowshoe frames he’d spent weeks cutting, seasoning, and steaming into shape for her small feet.
Marie raised herself out of the chair. “I’ll get your supper.”
She stepped into the cabin before he could drop his burdens and lay a palm against her cheek. That was probably for the best. Touching her would be dangerous. Sagging into the chair himself, he set the flintlock and frames across his lap and picked at the frozen rawhide knots of his snowshoes. Had he done something to make her cry? Said something? He doubted it. He’d fought hard to follow her rules, by talking little and seeing her even less. Kicking his ice-caked snowshoes aside, he stepped inside the cabin, where she darted about like a startled bird, all winged elbows and swift turns, unnerving him even more.
“Those snowshoe frames,” she said, setting pewter spoons on the table. “Are those for me?”
He nodded and propped them against the wall, along with the flintlock.
“Where are the rawhide strips?” She carried two bowls to the table. “I can’t string the frames without them.”
“I’ll get them later.” He sat on the bench and yanked off his ice-encrusted boots. “The snowshoes aren’t important right now.”
“They are to me.” She tightened her jaw, but her chin trembled. “With snowshoes, I can leave this cabin without wading up to my waist in drifts. I can explore beyond the shoveled paths—”
“Marie.” He set the boots aside. “Stop.”
He stood up from the bench and approached the table, easing his weight upon a chair before swigging a cup of water he wished was rum. She stood frozen in place, eyes wide, tugging on her silver wedding ring.
“Sit.” He turned the cup on the table in pointless circles. “Speak to me.”
She lowered her chin. Her brows pinched together.
He sighed. “Marie, if I’ve done something—”
“You haven’t done anything.” She huffed a breath. “You have done exactly what you’ve promised me, good man that you are.”
The words rang clear, but his mind rejected them. She wouldn’t be calling him a good man if she knew the carnal things he’d been doing to her body, in his mind, in the darkness of the barn.
“These tears are my fault.” She exhaled until she had no more breath. “I didn’t think about the consequences of our agreement when we made it all those weeks ago. I’m not like you. I don’t like being alone.”
He ducked his head, frowning. He didn’t like solitude either, but he couldn’t blame her for thinking he did. She didn’t know him before, back in France, when he’d become a soldier for the camaraderie. She didn’t know, after the last battle in Flanders, how many nights he’d staved off loneliness by drinking, or in the arms of willing women. Hell, even when he shipped to Quebec with the last few soldiers he had left, he still found himself drawn to the campfires, feeling a growing affinity with the Huron braves telling tales about warrior chiefs and star maidens. It wasn’t until the Mohawk campaign when everything changed, when he realized it was best he stay alone, for everyone’s sake.
He turned the cup between his hands, seeing on the surface of the water the faces of so many lost companions.
“You’re sad,” he ventured, “because you miss your friends.”
“Yes. Yes, I miss Cecile especially.” She plucked at the folds of her skirts. “But it’s more than that. With all this silence between us, I feel like I’m at the bottom of a deep well. I miss…I miss your company.”
No.He didn’t believe that. Her lovely face was easier to read in its vulnerability, but she didn’t really misshim. The long nights and darkness were affecting her. He’d seen this sort of melancholy during the years he’d spent in a wilderness fort. More than one tough soldier had drifted from the fireside gatherings, slipping into gloominess. He and his men had learned to keep an eye on each other, find new ways to stay alert and busy during the long nights and gray days. But how the hell was he to amuse Marie, when it was torture to walk into this cabin every day, to gaze upon what he ached for but had sworn not to take?
“I can hardly think straight these days,” she confessed, running her palms down her skirts. “I’ve come up with such mad ideas.”
