Chapter Twenty-Two
So much for distance.
The wolf pack had begun early that night.
Either Persephone’s nervousness at their noise had rattled him or the pack had drawn closer to the castle than usual.
They were louder than they used to be. And Persephone was closer now as well.
She’d tiptoed through the door only a few moments earlier.
After her usual whispered “Adam?” she’d hurried, much faster than on previous nights, to the bed and climbed up.
A particularly menacing howl erupted outside. Adam heard Persephone quietly groan. “They’re getting louder,” she whispered to herself.
This was the precise reason he’d decided to stay away from his wife.
Hearing the distress in her voice, Adam felt sorely tempted to reach out and touch her.
He found himself wondering if she would feel less afraid if he held her hand.
He quickly dismissed that thought. She’d probably run from the room as fast as her legs would carry her.
Adam felt the bed shift as Persephone changed positions.
She did that a lot during the night. It had bothered him at first, but the last couple of nights he’d found himself waking up if she hadn’t moved in a while.
He’d peek, convinced she had left the room, only to inevitably spot her in her mountain of blankets.
Then he’d lie there, watching to be certain she still breathed.
Which only proved he was losing his mind.
Only an idiot would jump to such a far-fetched possibility.
“Thank you for my letter, Adam,” Persephone whispered. He could tell she had turned to face him. She didn’t usually.
He was so tempted to open his eyes. Why? He had decided to keep his distance. How much greater distance could a person achieve than being sound asleep?
“Linus sounds happy,” Persephone continued, her voice never rising above a whisper. “He didn’t mention Evander, which worries me a little. It was always his way to avoid topics that were upsetting. But he did promise to keep writing.”
Why did Persephone feel more comfortable talking to him when he was asleep?
“I hope Linus writes to Papa. He and the girls will be worried about him as well.”
Adam felt her shift again, and then a bundle of blankets brushed his arm. That distance he meant to maintain was disappearing quickly.
“Thank you, Adam,” she said once more. “I know you don’t like it when I thank you for the things that you do, but I really am grateful.”
Persephone seemed to settle in after that—the only problem being that she settled right beside him.
At what point had Persephone begun to smell like lavender? At what point had Adam learned what lavender smelled like?
Soon, Persephone began making those noises that meant she was sleeping. Adam opened his eyes. She couldn’t have been more than inches from him.
Lavender. Adam shook his head. He would never have thought he would notice something like that. Or notice that a lock of Persephone’s hair had fallen across her face. That had to be driving her absolutely mad.
What was he thinking? Persephone was asleep. She wouldn’t even notice her hair.
Adam, however, couldn’t seem to notice anything else. Even in the dim glow cast by the embers in his fireplace, her hair seemed to shimmer. Cautiously, slowly, he reached out and touched a wisp of it. Soft. Adam brushed her hair back from her face.
She really was too pretty to be married to him. Did she regret accepting him? He hoped she didn’t.
She’d said she had enjoyed kissing him. Those hadn’t been her exact words, he acknowledged. She’d said he kissed well. Very well, Adam amended.
Deuce take it, he wanted to kiss her again.
Adam flipped abruptly on to his other side, shifting as he did to the very edge of the bed. Distance, he reminded himself. That was vital.
Persephone had the uncanny ability, he was discovering, to leave him thinking and doing things he would otherwise never think or do. And his thoughts had begun to dwell on her more than could possibly be healthy.
He vowed, as he lay there uncomfortably on his side, to keep a room’s length between them from that moment on. During the daytime, at least, he corrected. The wolves frightened her, after all. He’d simply hang off the end of the bed until the pack learned to keep quiet.
Part of him hoped they never did.
* * *
For a moment, Persephone felt nothing but shock. She’d been riding, that much she remembered.
“Persephone?” Adam’s voice came at her from what felt like miles away.
She blinked a few times. The world around her would not come into focus.
“Persephone?” Adam sounded rather urgent.
“Adam?” A few more blinks and she could make him out. He knelt beside her, which meant she was lying on the ground. And he looked worried. “What happened?”
“Honeycake threw you,” Adam said. “Are you hurt? Can you sit up?”
“I don’t know.” Persephone felt extremely confused. She couldn’t decide if her bewilderment came from the fall she only vaguely remembered, or the fact that Adam was touching her face and looking at her as though he were genuinely worried.
“Let me help you,” Adam said.
He’d never offered to do anything for her before. He’d brought her a coat once, and more or less threw it at her. Adam slipped a hand underneath her and lifted her with no visible effort to a seated position, still not releasing her.
“Does anything hurt?”
Persephone shook her head, unable to look away from him. She’d never seen him like this: fretting and nervous.
“Why were you on Honeycake?” Adam ran a hand down her arm, as if checking for breaks. “Honeycake is less docile than Atlas. You aren’t ready for a challenging mount.”
“Atlas twisted a knee.” John had told her as much when she’d arrived for her daily ride.
“And you? Did you twist or hurt anything?”
“You asked me that already.”
“A person can be killed being thrown from a horse.” Adam helped her to her feet.
“Not at a walk.” Her wits gradually returned as her head slowed its spinning.
“No, I guess not.” Adam had never before sounded so distracted.
He didn’t look away. Six weeks of seeing nothing but the side of his face, and suddenly Adam was staring at her.
He touched her face once more, so gentle, so caring.
Persephone closed her eyes. Why couldn’t he always be this way? “You’re certain you aren’t hurt?”
“I imagine I will be sore.” She leaned her face into his palm.
“I don’t ever want you to ride Honeycake again,” Adam said into Persephone’s left ear. The last time he’d been that close to her, he’d kissed her. Persephone felt her face flush at the memory. “You will stay on your feet until Atlas is available again.”
“Yer Grace,” John Handly’s voice interrupted.
Persephone bit back a sigh of frustration.
To her surprise, Adam didn’t pull away. She felt his arm wrap around her and pull her closer to him.
She opened her eyes and found herself eye to shoulder with him.
She didn’t let the opportunity pass by, but laid her head on Adam’s shoulder, pleasantly surprised to feel him hold her tighter.
“Is Her Grace well?” John asked.
“I don’t want my wife riding Honeycake,” Adam said, that tone of authority in his voice.
“Honeycake is usually very calm. I can’t explain it. It was almost like something spooked ’er.”
“I do not want Her Grace on Honeycake.”
“Yes, Yer Grace.” John pulled respectfully at his forelock.
Persephone closed her eyes once more, savoring the feeling of being held. She’d always imagined the comfort of being in the arms of her husband. So few of her schoolgirl dreams had proven accurate during the short weeks of her marriage. She was determined to prolong the moment as long as possible.
“See to Honeycake,” Adam instructed John. Then, bending his head toward Persephone, he said, “Your abigail can have a hot bath prepared for you—that should help with any stiffness.”
“There really is no need for this much fuss,” Persephone said, thoroughly enjoying every moment of fuss.
“You’ll disagree when you are too stiff to come down to dinner.” Adam led her from the paddock.
“This is very kind of you, Adam.”
“Nonsense.” He dismissed her gratitude, just as she knew he would. His arm remained around her waist. “You’ve been thrown from a horse, Persephone. Any decent gentleman would be concerned.”
“Then thank you for being decent.” She leaned against him as they walked.
“You’re welcome,” Adam answered with noticeable unease. But, Persephone realized with a smile, he hadn’t brushed away her gratitude. It wasn’t an enormous stride, but it was something.
“Her Grace has had an accident,” Adam informed Barton the moment they passed through the doors of the castle. “Have a hot bath brought to her dressing room and have Cook prepare a pot of her bruise ointment.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Barton hurried off to follow through with the orders.
Persephone was actually smiling by the time they reached her room. Other than while holding her letter from Linus yesterday, she had seldom smiled since coming to Falstone.
“The kitchen can send up a tray if you would rather not come down for dinner.” Adam grew more distant.
“Adam?” She looked up at him. He shifted his face away. “When Atlas is well again, can I come riding with you and Harry?”
“Atlas can’t keep up with Zeus,” Adam said.
“Couldn’t you rein Zeus in a little? Or let me join you at the end of your ride, when Zeus has slowed down.”
“You should keep to the paddock.” Adam stepped back a little.
Persephone followed, staying close to him. He’d held her so lovingly, so tenderly. Why was he moving away? She wanted him to hold her again, to make her feel wanted and needed, if not precisely loved. “I would like to try riding out,” she said. “Atlas wouldn’t throw me like Honeycake did.”
“I’d rather you not take that chance.”
“But you would be there.” She reached out, laying a hand on his chest. He stiffened. Persephone forced herself to stay as she was, despite the disappointment she felt at his apparent displeasure. Why had he grown so suddenly distant? Had she only imagined him warming to her, at least a little?
“That is no guarantee—”
Something about that admission, about the vulnerability in his voice, tugged at her heart.
She tipped her head up and laid a soft kiss on his lips.
He didn’t pull away but didn’t seem to be returning the gesture.
Hoping against hope that he wasn’t as disinterested as he seemed, Persephone reached up and touched his face with her hand.
Fast as a flash of lightning, Adam had hold of her wrist and pulled her hand from his face. She stepped back from him, surprised but mostly disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hurting at his rejection of her affections.
Adam released her wrist and turned away. “The bath should help,” he muttered as he walked away. “And the ointment.”
“Adam,” Persephone called after him.
He didn’t turn back.
Persephone sighed. Obviously she’d misinterpreted his concern. She’d most certainly misunderstood his kiss the day before. He’d kissed her with what she’d falsely interpreted as tender feeling. That he didn’t welcome her kisses had just been made painfully obvious.
In those brief moments when Adam had held her after her accident, Persephone had felt stirrings of affection. But he’d pushed her away. She didn’t understand him, didn’t know what to think about Adam, about their marriage.
She’d always thought that affection would grow between them. She’d hoped that the tenderness she’d seen in him just moments before would remain. Instead he’d grown distant and cold. She’d taken a risk and reached out to him, only to be rejected.
It wasn’t in her nature to give up entirely, but for the life of her she couldn’t help feeling discouraged.