Page 29

They began to walk across the market square, toward a wide street on the opposite side, where the signs were not as interesting as the one where the dressmaker could be found: bookkeepers, lawyers, cobblers, among others.

It could not have been more than ten paces from the carriage when Teresa noticed a stillness where before there had been bustle and noise.

Puzzled, she glanced to her right, spotting the women who had been laughing raucously.

They were not laughing now. They were whispering behind their hands, hurrying to avert their gazes.

It was the same among a group of men who appeared to be in the midst of their luncheon.

A gaggle of children joined the pattern, though they stared outright, pointing and whispering until their mothers smacked their hands and instructed them to look away.

Teresa peered up at Cyrus, uncertain of whether or not he had noticed.

“Do not mind them,” he said, his gaze fixed ahead.

Imbued with a sudden desire to defend her husband, or at least shield him from those unkind looks and whispers, Teresa slipped her hand out of the loop of his arm.

Boldly, she took hold of his hand instead, turning his palm upward. Flashing a smile up at him, she drew a letter on his skin with her fingertip.

“Guess what I am saying,” she said, desperate to distract him.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is it a game?”

“If I say yes, will you make me stop?”

He mustered a shrug. “No, I suppose not.”

“Very good, then.”

Carefully, she began to spell out a word upon his palm, stifling a laugh as she did so.

They continued to walk throughout her secret spelling, Teresa having faith that Cyrus would not let her stumble or step into something unpleasant.

He, in turn, kept his attention on the opposite street, though she could tell by the clench of his jaw that he was concentrating on the word.

“There,” she said, once she was done. “I can do it again if you did not catch it the first time.”

He hesitated, then gave a nod. “Once more.”

Liking the way his rough palm felt, even with her gloves on, she observed every line, crease, and blemish. He did not have the hands of a nobleman, but those of someone who had worked hard, beyond the four walls of a study. Yet, she had never seen him do anything that would require such exertion.

Were these calluses formed when he was younger?

Getting distracted, she focused on shaping the letters.

As she did, a small but very real smile began to creep onto Cyrus’ lips, and a sound that was nearly a chuckle rumbled in his throat. That glimpse of possibility, of a warm man beneath the frosty exterior, was more beautiful to Teresa than any hilly walk or wander in the lush countryside.

“I told you not to complain if you were bored,” he said, glancing down at her, a faint flash of mirth in his eyes. “Truly, you cannot possibly be bored already. You have not yet met my accountant.”

She laughed merrily, savoring the joke. “What did I spell?”

“Boredom,” he replied, that hint of a smile lingering.

“I shall do another one,” she told him, as they reached the entrance to the wide street.

“There is no need,” he replied softly. “I appreciate your efforts, but I do not need to be diverted from everyone’s stares. It is not unfamiliar to me.”

She raised her chin in defiance, holding tighter to his hand. “I, too, am accustomed to disapproving looks. That is why I cannot bear to have anyone else suffer them. So, if you do not mind, I shall continue my game.”

He paused right there in the street, stepping in front of her, his other hand coming up to grab her shoulder. Not roughly, but as if he meant to steady her.

He stepped closer than anyone would have deemed appropriate in such a public place, his hand squeezing hers before she could begin to write another word.

“If you ever receive a disapproving look or an unkind word again, you will tell me,” he said, bringing her hand up. “Nobody has the right to speak to my wife with anything but respect.”

She laughed sadly. “How I wish you had been there during the past three years to stand at my side and say that. It would have saved me a great deal of trouble and strife.” She expelled a sigh. “It is funny; no matter where I hid or what I did, they would find me.”

“Your tormentors?” he said, surprising her.

He remembered… She had used that word when referring to Lady Juliet.

Indeed, she recalled his confusion when she had mentioned that she felt sorry for the woman.

Of course, now she understood why that might have been difficult for him to understand, for she doubted that he would have felt any pity for his tormentors.

She nodded. “Yes, them.”

“They will never insult you again, Teresa. As God is my witness, I swear that,” he promised thickly, as his fingertip began to draw a word upon her palm.

She frowned down at the ticklish sensation, the movement of his fingertip dulled by the silk of her glove.

Seemingly realizing what the problem might be, Cyrus slowly began to peel her glove away. Shocked, Teresa’s head turned this way and that, concerned that people might be watching, that it might cause a scandal that would ruin her reputation.

You are married, you dolt! She blushed at the reminder, willing herself to focus on what he was doing.

Yet, with that surprisingly sweet, intimate touch, both of them standing so close together, it proved to be a struggle to concentrate on the slow draw of his fingertip as he wrote the word again. The gloves, perhaps, had not been the problem.

“Once more,” she asked quietly, her voice wavering.

“Once more,” he repeated, etching the word for a final time.

Teresa’s eyes widened slowly as she realized what he had written, every stroke deliberate, the word so simple and yet so breathtaking in its impact: M. I. N. E.