Part 24 (1/2)

”Good night,” she whispered, her shoulders drooping.

He didn't answer. Slowly, reluctantly, as if her feet were blocks of stone, she turned toward the door she'd left ajar.

One step. Two.

She didn't want to leave him. She never wanted to leave him.

She was almost at the door when she heard a m.u.f.fled sound behind her. An unfamiliar sound although she immediately identified what it was.

Stifling a horrified cry, she turned. He pressed gloved hands to his eyes, and his broad, straight shoulders heaved as he struggled for air.

Hands that itched to comfort him curled into fists at her sides. She longed to succor the man she loved with the warmth of her body. But that was impossible. Touching her body had driven him to this extreme.

She darted across to him, and, as she had last night, she knelt on the floor beside him. Unfamiliar discomfort stabbed her as she curled her legs under her.

In painful suspense, she waited for him to send her away. He was a proud man. He'd hate to know she witnessed this.

But he didn't speak.

Perhaps he wasn't even aware of her presence. It was torture to listen to him struggle against his weeping. He hardly made a sound. Only the thick, uneven rasp of breath betrayed his agony.

The iron control that had sustained him through Rangapindhi and beyond disintegrated. How blind she'd been not to realize the universe of pain he contained. She should have known. She wasn't stupid. She claimed to love him. He'd told her about India. She'd seen what his ordeal cost his gallant spirit.

But only now did she truly understand the devastation that haunted him. His inhuman strength had delayed this moment too long. So when he finally broke, it was like a mountain cracked before her eyes.

From the first, she'd cherished a childish, flawless image of him. In this shadowy room, that image crumbled to dust. Gideon Trevithick wasn't Galahad or Lancelot or Percival. He wasn't an invincible guardian angel who appeared from nowhere to rescue her. He wasn't indestructible and powerful and immune from weakness.

Helpless, hurting, guilty, she listened to the sound of his heart breaking. This man who battled so hard to dam his tears was all too human. He could shatter and fall and fail. He was fragile flesh and blood, and he'd suffered more than any mortal should.

Wrapping her arms around her raised knees, she stared sightlessly at the fire, the only light in the dark room. This wordless vigil was all she could offer. She was guiltily aware that what they'd done had initiated this excruciating outpouring. Her penance was listening to him struggle to smother his sorrow as if it were shameful or unwarranted. She wanted to beg him to stop resisting, to give in, to let the horrors of his Indian years finally receive their due.

He'd fought so long and so hard, and still he fought. His valiant heart wouldn't surrender.

Slowly, the worst of his grief pa.s.sed. Or at least the outward signs. His breath emerged more normally and not in broken, choked gasps.

After a long time, he spoke in a constricted voice. ”This isn't fair on you.”

She didn't look at him but continued to rest her cheek on her upraised knees. Weariness and sorrow weighed endlessly on her. ”I can bear it.”

They didn't speak again. She thought after a while he might have slept, exhausted by his travails. She didn't. Instead, she gazed dry-eyed at the dying fire.

Charis had loved Gideon Trevithick from the moment she'd first seen him. She'd loved his strength, his honor, his intelligence, his beauty. She still did.

But he'd been right to decry that love as a dazzled girl's emotion. It was a hothouse plant, green and lush but unable to withstand cold winds from the real world.

The last hour had changed that forever. The last hour had changed her forever.

The love she felt for Gideon now was more durable than stone.

Fifteen.

The afternoon wind off the sea was so icy, even Gideon noticed its biting power. Unusual for this time of year, according to the porter at the hotel, who wished him and Charis well when they left on their walk.

Gideon wasn't sure appearing in public was a good idea. Someone might recognize him. After the last days, he couldn't bear fending off another crowd as he had in Portsmouth. More, there was a small but significant risk of word reaching Felix and Hubert that he and Charis were on Jersey.

But Gideon couldn't bear being confined in their rooms any longer. The acrid memories of last night's pain and disappointment weighted the air. Worse, that clumsy bedding had left a brooding sensual awareness in its wake. Living in close quarters with Charis and knowing he couldn't touch her, would never touch her again, was slowly driving him out of his mind.

As the day progressed, he'd watched his own strain increasingly reflected in his wife's pale face. The tension between them had stretched and stretched until it became intolerable. He'd heard her sigh of relief when he suggested going out.

Thankfully, it appeared the cold kept most people inside. The few hardy souls on the promenade paid Gideon and Charis no heed as they strolled along the seafront.

So far it had proven a mostly silent walk. As it had proven a mostly silent day.

h.e.l.l, what could he say after last night's emotional storms? His gut clenched with humiliation at his behavior, both during and after their bleak coupling. How could he bear to revisit the black ocean of anguish? Or perhaps even more harrowing, how could he discuss his inept use of her body?

The silence was heavy as lead with what remained studiously unspoken.

Charis turned into the wind and paused to look across the gray rolling waves. The stiff breeze s.n.a.t.c.hed at her bonnet, and she raised one gloved hand to hold it firm.

At least she was dressed suitably. He'd called in a modiste that morning and ordered a wardrobe for his bride. The charming yellow ensemble Charis wore had been hurriedly altered to fit. Other garments would arrive over the next week.

It was the only time Charis had smiled all day, when she saw the designs for her dresses.

Gideon came up beside her as she leaned on the stone parapet. Beneath the bonnet's brim, her expression was pensive. Her lush, pink mouth drooped at the corners.

Ah, that soft mouth...

The continual low hum of desire made his head swim. Self-disgust followed fast.

Good G.o.d, he was a satyr of the vilest kind. After what he'd done last night, how could he think of touching her?

Turning, she caught his stare. From the color that invaded her pale cheeks, she guessed the heated direction of his thoughts.

She must despise him. She ought to despise him. He'd hurt her, then broken down and cried for the first time since his release from the Nawab's dungeons.

Her eyes darkened to green with some emotion he couldn't name. Although before last night's debacle, he might have called it interest. Her lips parted on a soundless sigh.

He jerked back as if she reached for him. But her yellow-gloved hands remained safely on the seawall.

His heart thudded like a drum. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. To his surprise, she laughed softly. Surprise and chagrin.

That low musical sound slid along his veins like honey and made him want what he could never have. He should be inured to frustration, but somehow the d.a.m.ned torture never ended.

”You look almost bashful.” Her husky voice bubbled with warmth.

”Good G.o.d, Charis...” He struggled to express his shock. ”You can't find our predicament amusing.”