Page 53 of The Winter Husband
The world wouldn’t change.
Neither would he.
“Let’s talk about this later, shall we?” She pushed herself up on her snowshoes and held out her hand. “It’s time to go home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
To Marie, the trip back to the cabin took decades. She was in knots about Lucas’s state of mind. He walked as he usually did, raising his chin to eye the landscape left and right, but when his alertness waned, his head hung so low his short beard brushed against his chest.
Were all soldiers who returned from war so damaged?
Her legs wobbled with exhaustion by the time the cabin came into view. Inside, they threw off their ice-encrusted coats, grateful for the reedy warmth of the banked coals. While he rebuilt the fire into a blaze, she fetched bowls and pewter spoons and set herself to the task of nursing his wounded spirit. Filling a bowl from the pot of stew she’d set simmering earlier, she urged Lucas into one of the hearth armchairs and offered it up. He took it, his gaze fathoms deep.
She retreated to the opposite chair, curling her legs up under her, giving Lucas some time to think. She suspected he was still reliving the horrors as if they were still present. A memory drifted back to her, of her father waking every morning to survey the grounds of the manor house, flintlock in hand. Hunting for rabbits, he’d told her, though he always returned empty-handed. Now she found herself wondering if her father had really been seeking snipers in the hedgerows, ten years and a thousand miles from the battle that had scarred him so badly.
She glanced over the bowl of stew at her brooding, silent husband. He was not so far lost as her father had been. Still, she would give him time for his mind to catch up with his body, time to return to this place, to her. She dipped into the bowl of venison stew, surprised to find it rich with gravy and chunks of turnip, delicious and filling, one of her rare successes. She savored it until she’d eaten her fill, putting it aside only when she noticed him stirring into new awareness.
Standing up, she crossed the space between them and slid onto his lap.
“Come back to me, Lucas.”
Cupping his bearded jaw, she turned his face to hers. He gazed at her through faraway eyes.
She pressed close, whispering,It’s in the past now. She brushed her mouth against his until a tremor passed through his body. She pulled away to run a thumb over the ridge of his furrowed brow.
Come back, Lucas.
Come back to me.
Seeing him so lost in grief churned her up inside. She buried her face in his hair.
He ran a hand up her back, murmuring, “After all I told you today, you should be terrified.”
She pressed her mouth to the top of his head. “If you’d told me that story before we married, I would have been.”
“You wouldn’t have agreed to marry me either.”
“Isn’t that why you kept it to yourself?”
“Yes.” He winced. “My lie brought you here.”
“And freed me from a jail cell.” She smoothed his thick hair off his brow. “I’m glad you lied. I’m a braver woman because of it. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
He turned his face into her throat. She shifted in his arms like a ship at sea as his chest swelled and deflated. After a while, she felt a tug on the back of her head. The rawhide tie that cinched her braid tumbled across her lap. He loosened her hair and ran his fingers down in long, languorous sweeps.
“Do you remember,” he said, in a very different voice than before, “the Huron guide I mentioned, the one my commander didn’t trust?”
“Yes.” She curled more closely around his body as he stroked her, feeling like a cat nestled in wool.
“His name is Mitameg.” He drew his fingertips through tangles, gently. “He visited the trading post, often, exchanging furs for black powder and shot. He always had a story to tell. He once said that if a Huron warrior was wounded, star-maidens would descend from the sky to heal him.”
She imagined that, bright stars falling from the milky smear in the velvet sky.
“You’re my star maiden, Marie.” His voice thickened. “It’s like you’ve been sent from afar.”
“What a poet you’ve become.”
A soft prickling began at the back of her eyes. His face bore little resemblance to that of the soldier who’d stepped into Madame Bourdon’s parlor months ago, stiff of jaw, hard of eye, blasting an air of authority. She traced a hand down his stubbly cheek, caught up in a rush of feeling. He’d shown her so many kindnesses, now finally she could return some kindness of her own.
