Page 63 of The Winter Husband
Our cabin.
He closed his eyes. He had once hoped she would still be in his cabin when the spring rain pattered on the roof. He’d once dared to dream of her bathed in sunlight as she walked across the green summer grass. He’d once yearned to see her swollen with his child in the autumn, as the wind tossed golden leaves across the porch.
What a fool he’d been.
“I’m sorry, Marie.”
“Why?” She reached for his hand and slipped her slim fingers between his. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“There will be, after I say my piece.”
“Lucas, we have so much to talk about, but not now, while you’re still in pain. When you’re back on your feet, we’ll have all the time in the world to make plans and—”
“We won’t.”
Confusion rippled across her face.
“You can’t stay in the cabin with me.” By the saints, it hurt even to breathe. “It’s too dangerous.”
She sighed, smiling. “We’ve talked about this. The nightmares are back, aren’t they?”
“I didn’t dream up Landry and Fortin.”
“Did the nuns give you that awful tisane?" She fingered the bottles on the table beside the bed. “One of these medicines made you so restless—”
“Listen to me.” A fresh wave of weakness threatened to sink him. “Someday, another bullet will come through the cabin window. It will be aimed at my heart.”
He could tell she was losing patience. Around them, people coughed, sheets rustled, hay mattresses crackled as patients changed positions. Sharp boot heels clicked against the slate floor as nuns made the rounds.
“Once a soldier, always a soldier.” She covered his hand, engulfed it in warmth. “I love you for that.”
His eyelids weighed like lead. “You’re my heart, too, Marie. But I’m still sending you back to Paris.”
He saw the kiss coming but was too weary to stop it. She tasted of morning and the metallic tang of cold water from a stream. She tasted like a thousand nights of shared pleasure. He would take this kiss into his dreams and love this woman until the day he died.
The world faded as sleep overcame him.
When he opened his eyes again, the image of Marie was burned behind his eyelids, but his wife was no longer leaning over him. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed, only that the shadows in the room had shifted. The rafters were lit up by sun streaming through the narrow windows.
“Lucas?”
He turned his head against the pillow. Pain shot down his back again, but duller than before. Philippe sat on the chair by the bed, the black curls of his wig oiled to a ridiculous sheen.
“You look like hell,” Philippe said. “But it’s damn good to see you alive.”
Lucas pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing, but feeling stronger. “Where is she?”
“At my house, under Etta’s care.”
His friend leaned forward, offering a cup of what looked like wine. Lucas seized it and drank it to the dregs.
“You won’t be seeing Marie any time soon, I’m afraid.” Philippe splashed a little more wine into the cup. “Your wife is banned from visiting you here.”
“Banned?” He wiped his mouth. “Why?”
“The nuns think she agitates you. You’ve been waking up shouting her name, throwing fists, and kicking off your bedclothes. The sisters had to restrain you twice.”
Lucas’s heart squeezed. He’d been dreaming of Marie. New nightmares more terrifying than the old.
