out beneath the full moon’s light. Empty, undisturbed snow lay for miles. “He might not come back, Johanna.”
“I know.” There was no fight left in her answer, and when he turned back to her, her shoulders had sagged, her embroidery forgotten in her lap.
Though his arm throbbed and he knew he would likely receive a shriek or a slap for his troubles, he went to her and knelt beside her chair. “When I vowed that I would help, I meant it.”
She took his hand in hers and squeezed it, soundless tears splashing down on her knuckles.
This was not the outcome he’d planned for. He’d not imagined she would give him leave to actually comfort her. Now, he didn’t know what to do. “He might be all right. Perhaps the narrows to the valley became impassible. When my arm heals, I will ride out in search of him.”
“And conveniently never return,” she bit back.
Let her slap him for it, he did not care. He reached over and pushed her chin up until she faced him. Looking her in her ruined eyes through the veil of gossamer black, he swore, “I would not. I won’t abandon you again.”
He waited for her denial. When it did not come, he rose and went to his bed.
“Wait.” She called to him, tears still evident in her voice. When he turned, she continued, “I would feel more… I would be at ease, if you would sleep in Wilhelm’s bed. Just until he returns. I do not like to be alone up there.”
“I’ll sleep there, then,” he told her, and went to the door. Upstairs, Wilhelm’s cot was still neatly made from the morning he’d left. Johanna had done that, with her two loving hands, so it would be waiting when her brother returned. Guilt lanced through Philipe’s heart. Perhaps his father had been right. He truly did destroy everyone around him. He’d helped his sister into exile, had led Jessop to his death. Now, Wilhelm likely awaited trial in Lord Fueil’s dungeons, unless he’d been hanged already. And Johanna. He’d destroyed her life twice, once when he’d been so cowardly to leave her behind then cast her aside, and a second time when he’d ridden wounded to her doorstep.
His arm hung limp at his side, too painful to move as he undressed for bed. He’d slept most of the day out of boredom, yet he still felt as though he could slumber for days. That did not bode well, he knew, but he would not let himself fret over it. It was an impossibility that he would not recover. He’d made a vow to Johanna. He would be damned if he broke another to her.
Though she could ignore Philipe’s perspiration and struggle to remain upright during their supper, she could not let his grunts of pain go unanswered in the chill of the night. She pushed aside the bed curtains and went to the hearth to light a candle from the coals, carefully tucking her nightgown around her legs to prevent a stray spark from setting her alight. She lifted the candle high above his bed. His face was drawn and shimmering with sweat, his eyes fixed on the wall beside the pallet.
She pressed her hand to his forehead. Though he perspired, his skin still burned, and she drew her fingers back. “Damn you, Philipe.”
“I didn’t…” his teeth chattered pitiably as he tried to speak. He didn’t move, but his eyes canted toward her. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“And why would I be worried about you?” she snapped, pulling the coverlet back. He lay nude beneath, but his body held no fascination for her in illness.
“You might be worried you’ll have to bury me,” he managed, and though his words were very grave, she still heard his humor behind them. At least, he was not too far gone for that.
She tucked the blanket around his chest. His shoulder was angry red, with streaks reaching toward his heart like poisoned lightning. Johanna recoiled.
“As bad as all that?” he asked, and a tremor passed through him, making his words a sob.
She forced herself to scold him. If she treated him kindly, he would know the
“I know.” There was no fight left in her answer, and when he turned back to her, her shoulders had sagged, her embroidery forgotten in her lap.
Though his arm throbbed and he knew he would likely receive a shriek or a slap for his troubles, he went to her and knelt beside her chair. “When I vowed that I would help, I meant it.”
She took his hand in hers and squeezed it, soundless tears splashing down on her knuckles.
This was not the outcome he’d planned for. He’d not imagined she would give him leave to actually comfort her. Now, he didn’t know what to do. “He might be all right. Perhaps the narrows to the valley became impassible. When my arm heals, I will ride out in search of him.”
“And conveniently never return,” she bit back.
Let her slap him for it, he did not care. He reached over and pushed her chin up until she faced him. Looking her in her ruined eyes through the veil of gossamer black, he swore, “I would not. I won’t abandon you again.”
He waited for her denial. When it did not come, he rose and went to his bed.
“Wait.” She called to him, tears still evident in her voice. When he turned, she continued, “I would feel more… I would be at ease, if you would sleep in Wilhelm’s bed. Just until he returns. I do not like to be alone up there.”
“I’ll sleep there, then,” he told her, and went to the door. Upstairs, Wilhelm’s cot was still neatly made from the morning he’d left. Johanna had done that, with her two loving hands, so it would be waiting when her brother returned. Guilt lanced through Philipe’s heart. Perhaps his father had been right. He truly did destroy everyone around him. He’d helped his sister into exile, had led Jessop to his death. Now, Wilhelm likely awaited trial in Lord Fueil’s dungeons, unless he’d been hanged already. And Johanna. He’d destroyed her life twice, once when he’d been so cowardly to leave her behind then cast her aside, and a second time when he’d ridden wounded to her doorstep.
His arm hung limp at his side, too painful to move as he undressed for bed. He’d slept most of the day out of boredom, yet he still felt as though he could slumber for days. That did not bode well, he knew, but he would not let himself fret over it. It was an impossibility that he would not recover. He’d made a vow to Johanna. He would be damned if he broke another to her.
Though she could ignore Philipe’s perspiration and struggle to remain upright during their supper, she could not let his grunts of pain go unanswered in the chill of the night. She pushed aside the bed curtains and went to the hearth to light a candle from the coals, carefully tucking her nightgown around her legs to prevent a stray spark from setting her alight. She lifted the candle high above his bed. His face was drawn and shimmering with sweat, his eyes fixed on the wall beside the pallet.
She pressed her hand to his forehead. Though he perspired, his skin still burned, and she drew her fingers back. “Damn you, Philipe.”
“I didn’t…” his teeth chattered pitiably as he tried to speak. He didn’t move, but his eyes canted toward her. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“And why would I be worried about you?” she snapped, pulling the coverlet back. He lay nude beneath, but his body held no fascination for her in illness.
“You might be worried you’ll have to bury me,” he managed, and though his words were very grave, she still heard his humor behind them. At least, he was not too far gone for that.
She tucked the blanket around his chest. His shoulder was angry red, with streaks reaching toward his heart like poisoned lightning. Johanna recoiled.
“As bad as all that?” he asked, and a tremor passed through him, making his words a sob.
She forced herself to scold him. If she treated him kindly, he would know the
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