Page 40 of The Lover’s Eye

“There’s a very healthy rodent who’s quite at home in my chamber, and there could hardly be more distance put between us. Perhaps it sounds silly, but I’ve already grown accustomed to sleeping next door to you. I don’t wish to change that.”

Her eyes went downcast in that bashful way that robbed him of breath. But the effect was a little altered just now, with her in only a nightdress and her hair swept around her face and shoulders. The sight made him want to unpin every style he’d ever seen it in … Among other things.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I can’t remember the last time we had guests stay here. You are welcome to … to share my bed, if you wish.”

He looked at her alertly, noting the way she toyed nervously with her lips, rubbing them together and smoothing her fingers over them. “I did not mean to imply that,” he said, “I apologize for coming to you—”

“Giles, it is fine,” she said, giving a light laugh. “We are married, after all, and I’ll not have you subjected to this, this—what did you call it?”

He smiled in spite of himself. “A very healthy rodent.”

“See? You must stay.” She went to the dressing table.

Giles was mesmerized by the sight of her hair, long and luscious, as she worked her brush through it. It was only when she swept the dark locks over her shoulder and began parting sections with her fingers that Isobel turned to give him a quizzical glance. “What?”

“What?” he echoed.

“You’re glaring like I’ve offended you.” He hadn’t known he’d been giving a look at all. “I saw you, in the mirror. What were you thinking?”

His jaw clenched. “I was only wishing you might leave your hair loose.”

Amusement glimmered in her eyes, and to his delight, her fingers slid free from the braid. “Very well.”

Giles removed his dressing robe and climbed into her bed. The quilts were cold through the thin linen of his nightshirt and drawers, but the bed was infinitely more comfortable than the one he had just vacated. He gave a sigh of relief.

“I realize this house pales next to Cambo House,” she said, slipping into bed beside him with slow, catlike movements. “But I do love it.”

He had to force himself to breathe, to think coherently enough to hold conversation. They were not even touching, but the nearness of her presence, the faint warmth of her body already soothing his cold one, flustered him to his core.

“I enjoy seeing where you’ve grown up,” he said. “Perhaps you can show me around tomorrow, take me for a walk.”

He turned to smile at her, but found Isobel’s features tense. She lay on her back, staring blankly above. “When you came to my door tonight, I first thought you might be … dreaming, again.”

No. He hadn’t walked in his sleep in ages; it was impossible. And yet … The recent nightmare could have been harsh enough to trigger it.

Icy fear permeated his chest. It was horrid to think he might have done or said something to Isobel while unconscious, that a foul interaction could have passed and he’d not even known to address it. “I used to walk in my sleep often, but I—can you tell me what happened?”

“I was making a guess, really,” she said in a small voice. Giles wished he could see her expression, but the bed hangings kept her face from the firelight. “A few nights ago, I couldn’t sleep. I heard you, and I thought you might be … Well, I thought you might be coming to me.”

This revelation should have been welcome news; a reason to soar. But what Isobel said next isolated him, left him to be devoured by his fear.

“But I heard you pass, and I looked. I saw you enter the blue room, Giles.”

“Blue room?” His voice was stern. It was his shock speaking, but he felt her stiffen beside him.

“I don’t know what else to call it. The room you told me was under renovation.”

“I also recall telling you not to enter it,” he bit out.

His pulse quickened with anxiety for an event past altering.

He felt certain it had occurred on the same night as his nightmare, for he had slept little since.

It felt like Isobel was close to exposing some deep and hideous part of himself, that slice he was petrified she might discover.

“You left the door open, Giles, and perhaps if you had not forced me into silence, I wouldn’t have gone in. You think I wouldn’t rather bring my concerns directly to you? That I liked walking into that room a fool, only to learn from Finch it was—was hers ?”

The tenor of her voice had continued to grow, the warm breath of her outburst brushing against his cheek. He was the ultimate fool. Within five minutes of sharing a bed with his wife, he’d driven her into a bad temper.

“It was never hers, just as nothing at Cambo House ever was, Isobel. You are my wife, it is you I want to share—”

“Do not attempt to flatter me,” she said, her voice tamped into smooth reserve. “Perhaps I will endure this rodent myself and leave you in peace, lest you push me to break my promise.”

She made to rise, but Giles caught her by the arm. “Isobel, no .”

She stilled beneath his touch, and he gently pulled her back into bed, heaving a great sigh. “Please, stay.”

He was forced to take her silence as acquiescence as she settled back onto her pillow, the distance separating them seeming greater than before.

Giles knew he must say something to soothe her.

He wanted to quiz her on just what Finch had said— the rotten old bastard —but that could be handled upon their return. What was needed now was reassurance.

“Isobel,” he began, moistening his lips.

He had yet to remove his hand from her limp arm.

“I consider it the most fortuitous work of my life that I married you. When you accepted my proposal, I … I can’t even begin to explain.

I was consumed with happiness. I still am.

” He trailed his fingertips down to her hand and squeezed the cool softness of it.

“I care for you deeply. You must believe me when I say there is nothing else.”

There was so much more he wanted to say to assuage her doubts. Isobel had possessed a part of him since that first day when he’d walked in on her in his library. An inexplicable connection, a link unperturbed by distance and rationality.

And slowly, with each glance, each conversation, each insuppressible I wish she were here— the claim had grown to be his whole heart.

Giles loved her.

A part of him had known it all those months ago, when a few words from Pemberton had been enough to send him running to Cumberland for just a glimpse of her. For just the opportunity of offering his help. Isobel’s pain had long been his pain, along with her struggles, her joy, her dreams.

It gutted him to see that, just now, she was pained. Because of him. His past and his fool promise.

Giles squeezed her hand again, debating whether he should just tell her—that he loved her, that he had only ever loved her—but the profession would feel cheapened, somehow.

Isobel’s mind had drifted to that dark corner of disbelief.

She was likely to hear his words as nothing more than a desperate act to cleanse her mind of Aurelia.

“I care for you, too,” she said at length. “And that is precisely why it hurts.”

Giles detected a faint tremble in her voice and his heart clenched in answer.

“Come,” he said, reaching for her. To his relief and deep satisfaction, she inched into his open arms. He wrapped them snugly around her until her head rested against his chest, the length of their bodies brushing against each other.

“If you feel such things, why have you not come to my bed?”

The words momentarily stunned him, inciting fast growing heat in his body. He had wanted this for ages; to lie with her until all other cares faded from importance—but had Isobel been wanting it, too?

“I haven’t wanted to rush you,” he said.

Her hand slid between them, smoothing over his chest and up the side of his neck. Her thumb found his lips and traced them, her voice a whisper. “It’s not rushing if I want you to.”

The blatant encouragement was enough to drive Giles mad. He reached up to cradle her face and the silky feel of her hair spilled over his forearms, eliciting a pang of yearning. All his thoughts were for Isobel.

He lifted her face and kissed her, his movements restrained to feathery, slow touches.

No matter how feverish his desire, how urgent his need, he was only capable of these tender grazes, as though fearful too much of her might break him.

Her mouth was precious sweet against his, her responsive lips even more gut-wrenchingly provoking than he remembered.

Isobel pressed into him, robbing his pace of both its gentleness and lightness. She kissed him like she was trying to quench her thirst, like she needed him. Like she wanted him.

Her hand slipped under his shirt and trailed up his back, and the feel of their bare skin meeting was enough to make Giles groan. He pulled himself away. “Isobel, are you certain?”

She took one of his hands and pulled it slowly down, pressing his fingers into the swell of her breast. Her heart was racing beneath the thin cotton, and his answered in wild concert.

“Yes,” she said, her smile palpable in the word’s shaping. “I’m certain.”