Chapter 12
Philip tried not to worry as Lily slept through supper. She’d been drained and raw but held her poise when they rode back to Boar’s Hill, silent as the wind rushed around them and bruise-colored clouds hung low in the night sky.
But when he’d led her to their room and helped her shed her cloak and jacket, her boots and breeches, her knees had buckled and her eyelids drooped shut. He’d carried her to bed with a promise of rest and a meal after she awoke.
And hours later, well past the time when the viscount and viscountess had bid them goodnight and the remaining members of the household had gathered in the parlor, she still hadn’t descended from their room.
He’d put her through so much that night, exposed so many wounds she wanted to remain sealed. And while he was grateful she’d finally opened up to him, had he pushed her too far? Philip told himself not to panic, but he wasn’t listening to his own assurances.
“Should we wait for Lily?” Marigold asked him as the siblings and their spouses formed a circle around the low table in the darkened parlor, but he shook his head.
“She was tired after the ride into Oxford,” he said, hoping she wasn’t using that as an excuse to hide from him again.
She’d let her walls tumble in his presence and trusted him to ease the harm he’d caused her.
But if she retreated now, he didn’t know if he would have time to make things right before she sent him away.
The door swung open, and Timothy entered, balancing a wide, shallow serving bowl. James trailed behind him, wielding a bottle of brandy.
“Are you ready?” Timothy’s mouth curled into a mischievous grin, and a collective shiver of excitement spread through the group. He laid the bowl in the center of the table, and everyone inched closer before kneeling to be within reach.
“Can ye explain the rules again?” Callum asked. “For Ben, no’ for me, of course.”
Ben scowled, and Violet bumped her shoulder against Callum. “It’s simple. You want to get as many raisins from the bowl as you can without burning yourself too badly.”
“Is there a prize?” Archie’s eyes were greedy as Timothy poured brandy over the plump fruit.
“A prize for what?”
Philip snapped his gaze to the door where Lily stood, her eyes soft from sleep and hair loosely plaited over her shoulder. She still wore her shirtwaist but had changed into a simple navy skirt.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “Snapdragon,” he said, his voice oddly tight. “Will you join me?”
She hesitated for a moment before moving to sit beside him, and his shoulders slumped in relief. She smelled of sleep and snow, sugar and leather. “I’m terrible at this.”
“I remember.” His chest warmed as her shoulder touched his, and she didn’t pull away. “Rose always got the most.”
The sister in question wiggled her fingers and grinned. “And I intend to do it again.” She winked at Ben, who stared at her with open adoration. “Watch the master at work, darling.”
Excited whispers sparkled around the table as Timothy lit a match and touched it to the edge of the brandy. A collective gasp went up as the liquor ignited, flashing high for a moment before settling into dancing blue and yellow flames, a conflagration contained in an innocent-looking pool.
“We’re supposed to stick our fingers in there?” Ben scoffed. “I’ll let you handle this, Rosie.”
Lily rose to her knees. “You won’t get burned if you’re quick about it.”
Nervous anticipation knotted in Philip’s chest. The game carried little real risk to anything besides a carelessly draping sleeve or lock of hair, but the desire swelled to wrap her up and keep her safe from anything that could harm her, nonetheless.
The irony stung, knowing he’d caused more harm than some burning brandy.
“Why is it called snapdragon?” Ben asked, and as if on cue, a loud pop erupted as a raisin burst, sending sparks dancing into the air and across the liquid surface.
Callum scoffed. “Ye English are insane, ye ken?”
“You don’t play this in Scotland?” Alex asked.
“We dinnae play with our liquor. We drink it.”
Violet shot her fingers out, snagged a raisin, and pulled back with a yelp. “There. I’m winning.”
“Like hell you are,” Rose growled, grabbing her own while Ben beamed at his wife. Fern, meanwhile, quietly plucked one fruit after another without drawing attention.
They continued in this fashion, shrieking and howling with laughter, cheering each other on and celebrating when Callum and Ben caught their first raisins.
Lily had settled further against Philip, and he risked bringing a hand to her hip.
She stiffened, but relaxed before he could move his palm away.
For a moment, he glimpsed the couple they could have been, had he not left.
His wife at ease, smiling and laughing, trusting him to protect her.
“I can’t eat any more.” Marigold’s cheeks were flushed. “I’m d-dizzy from the brandy.” Archie curled his arms around her and dragged her onto his lap.
Lily rubbed her hands together. “This one’s mine, then.” But as she reached out, a flame sparked and splashed hot brandy onto her exposed wrist. She hissed and pulled her arm back, wrapping her hand around the wound.
Philip was on his feet before she could catch her breath, bringing her arm towards him, but the light was too low to see clearly.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice tight.
If she said yes, he might toss the entire bowl out the window, followed by Timothy for having the damn fool idea in the first place.
“I’m fine.” But she sniffed, and he knew she was lying.
“Where are your bandages?”
Her eyes were dark when they met his, flashes of blue flame dancing over her hazel irises and casting half her face in shadows. “Salisbury has some in the china room—”
They were moving before she finished. He led her with an arm around her waist as they traversed the darkened hallways, descending the servant’s staircase to the china room.
He lit the gas lamp and lifted her onto the table at one end of the narrow chamber.
Only when he was certain she could stay upright by herself did he open the cabinet above her head to search for supplies.
“You don’t need to do this.” Her voice was breathy, thin, and he ground his teeth together to stop himself from carrying her into town to find a physician.
“You’re hurt.”
“Not badly.” She curled her fingers around the edge of the table and craned her neck to see what he was doing.
He opened his mouth to respond as he moved a bottle of carbolic aside, but what he saw stopped him cold.
The vial of laudanum was nothing unusual, the cloudy blue glass and dropper as familiar as his hand.
The text on the label blurred as he blinked, the blood rushing in his ears suddenly deafening.
He clocked the level of liquid on instinct, calculating how many doses it contained, how long it would last.
Being confronted with the tool that destroyed his marriage and nearly claimed his life made his insides curdle, his stomach lurching and threatening to rebel.
Still, his fingers itched with the desire to unstopper the bottle, knowing the sweet euphoria that would chase a single taste, the bliss waiting just beyond the glass.
“Philip? What’s wrong?”
He yanked his gaze to his wife, his wife, her cheeks flushed, her pupils still blown wide despite the soft glow from the lamp.
The temptation of the drug would always be there, crawling beneath his skin.
The only difference was now he had the strength to fight it back, to make a better choice.
Lily was the reason, the panacea for the opium’s attacks on his determination.
He would never go back, would never leave her alone again.
With a sharp inhale, he lifted the bottle and dropped it inside a soup tureen, then released his breath slowly through pursed lips.
The craving subsided, dulled to a thrum in his chest, a tingle in his skin.
“Nothing,” he said as he closed his hand around a tin of camphor salve and forced the muscles in his face to relax as he snapped the cabinet shut.
After opening the tin and setting it on the table beside her, he took her forearm in his hands. He uncuffed her sleeve and rolled the fabric up, exposing the delicate bones of her wrist and arm. The burn was an angry red slash on her otherwise unblemished skin.
“Does it hurt badly?” He dipped two fingers into the salve.
She shook her head but winced when he brought his fingers across the wound, dabbing the protective ointment in place.
“Thank you.” Her words startled him, low and bare. Honest.
He turned her wrist over and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. She tasted like brandy and salt, spice and heat.
Her breath caught. “Philip…”
He kissed the pad of her thumb. The tips of her fore and middle fingers. Her ring finger, his lips brushing over the band he’d placed there years ago, the symbol of the bond he’d forsaken. “You still wear your ring.” He nipped the fingertip, then soothed it with a flick of his tongue.
When she spoke, her words were mere breath. “So do you.”
He pulled her smallest finger between his lips and sucked gently before releasing it. A low, needy whine sounded in her throat, and her hips shifted on the table as her knees fell open.
“I’d never take it off.” He stepped into the space she’d created, his upper thighs bumping the inside of her legs as he kissed down the length of her wrist to her elbow.
His pulse thundered so violently he wondered if he’d be overcome and collapse at her feet.
“I’m your husband before anything else.”
She released her lower lip, the tender flesh red and plump. “And you’ll take care of me.”
He nodded, leaning in so his nose brushed against the side of hers with the movement.
She meant giving her the pleasure he’d denied her for so many years.
But her words were weighted, lined with the lead of broken dreams and unmet promises.
His response meant far more than what would happen in the next few minutes.
Their lips were so close the air between them crackled. “I’ll always take care of you.”
“Will you?” Her eyes glistened, moisture gathering on her lower lashes. “Do you promise?”
He tensed his hands on her hips, tugging her the slightest bit to the edge of the table. His cock, hard and ready, pressed against the fastenings of his trousers, and the friction drew a moan to his lips.
Leaning close, he brushed his lips against the skin beneath her ear and watched goosebumps erupt in his wake. He whispered words he’d vowed at their wedding but broke within a day. “I promise.”
She leaned back to meet his gaze, her hand in his hair pulling him close, so close, her mouth nearly touching his.
When I kiss you properly, it will mean forever.
She pulled in a trembling breath, as though frightened by what she was about to do.
Hell, it terrified him, too.
And she kissed him.