Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Nicholas opened the door to Sophia, a finger to his lips. The night had been long and arduous; Isadora's sleep had not been restful, and though she hadn't woken, he had soothed her from more than one nightmare. Even now she lay pale and still, claiming a headache.
Aside from tending to her, bathing the sweat from her brow, and feeding her a little bit of broth mixed with tincture Cook had sent up, Nicholas had done nothing else.
Lying in her bed without leave to touch her as a husband was its own trial, but he would do anything to see her feel safe with him first. She deserved that much at least.
Kissing her more than on her temples as she fell asleep would have to wait. And anything more would have to wait still longer.
There were plenty of things he still wanted to say, but he would give her time to recover first.
Sophia, on the other hand, had been desperate to see Isadora since recovering from the shock of the near-kidnap, and Nicholas had delayed only until he was sure the visit wouldn’t overtax either of them.
“Quietly,” he murmured, guiding her to the bed.
Sophia stopped short. “Papa, your face—are you hurt?”
For a moment he didn’t understand. Then he remembered the faint bruising at his temple and under one eye from the bout, and touched the tender skin, wincing before he could stop himself.
“Not in any way that matters,” he said, summoning a smile. “And I shall be perfectly well now that I have you both again.”
“But you never didn’t have us…”
His smile slipped tragically, but Isadora’s eyes flickered open, and she reached out both arms in that sweet, tender way she kept for Sophia. “Soph!” Her voice croaked a little, and Nicholas went to pour her some water. “Are you all right?”
“Papa punched the man for me,” Sophia said in a serious voice.
Nicholas put his forehead in his hand, shielding his face.
Isadora glanced at him, a smile twitching at her lips. “Well, I suppose it’s good he knows how to.”
“He was a bad man,” Sophia nodded, still deathly serious. “Papa was right to punch him.”
“We are agreed there.” Isadora patted the coverlet beside her. “Come and tell me about the kittens. Are they behaving themselves?”
As Sophia hopped up and chatted, first about the kittens and then about the painting she had done while Isadora was recovering, Nicholas sat on Isadora’s other side. Her hand twitched closer to his, and he interlaced his fingers with hers.
He thought he heard her sigh. And, to his foolish delight, she didn’t pull away. His thumb swept the back of her hand, and he vowed never again to do anything to hurt her.
Never, never again.
So this was what love truly felt like.
Not the terrible, overbearing anger he’d known with Grace—that endless cycle of fighting and forgiving—but a bone-deep contentment in simply holding her hand, and a certainty that he would protect her from whatever might come, no matter what.
If he loved her, he trusted her; and she had been loyal all this time, when he had given her every reason not to be.
He could trust that. He could trust her.
He held her hand when the nurse came for Sophia, held it when Sophia hugged her and left, and held it when Isadora turned to him with a question in her gaze.
“I never did ask what will happen to Mr. Sherborne,” she murmured.
“He’s awaiting trial.” Nicholas’s fingers tightened in hers. “Likely he’ll be sent to the colonies. There’s a chance he’ll hang, though I can’t say that would please me, after hearing his side of the story.”
“Such is the law.” She sighed and sat up further. “Remove my bandage, will you?”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not fully recovered, but I won’t be an invalid the rest of my days. Besides, it would frighten Sophia.”
He huffed a laugh and reached around her, unwinding the bandage until it came away in his hands. Isadora’s honey-glazed eyes stared up at him, a crease between her brows—all tangled hair and pale skin and exhaustion—and he loved her more than he could ever have put into words just then.
So he said the only thing he could. “I love you.”
She blinked, flinching. “Pardon—”
“I thought I knew what love was. You taught me otherwise.” He brushed a knuckle down her cheek. “I know you need time, and I’m prepared to give as much as you need—but you deserve to know I am desperately, madly in love with you, and have been for far longer than I ever wanted to admit.”
“You… love me.” She said the words as though she tasted them in her mouth before passing them to him.
“Endlessly. You are my last thought at night and my first every morning. Hell is a world where I can’t be by your side, and it was almost a world of my own making. I will spend every day of the rest of my life making it up to you.”
She made a choked sound, almost like a laugh, half like a sob. “You want to be with me for the rest of your life?”
“That ought to have been my intention from the very beginning, but at first I saw you as nothing but a glorified nursemaid. Now I understand the truth.” He held her gaze, his own utterly serious. “Sophia is not the only one who needs you.”
Her eyes were damp, looking into his as though she had never seen him before. Her chest rose and fell. She swallowed hard, and her fingers found his. “You love me,” she said again, but this time it wasn’t a question—more a statement of fact. An assurance. A certainty.
“For far longer than I ever admitted to myself,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. If you give me time, I promise I will make it up to you.”
She nodded, lips pressing together, and for a moment, he felt a rush of nervousness that even after this, even when she understood the full extent of his feelings, she wouldn’t be able to forgive everything he had put her through.
All he could do was hope.
Her fingers squeezed his, and she leaned closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. “You know,” she murmured, “I dreamed of this moment. You, telling me you loved me. I thought if we could just be married long enough, it was sure to happen. Only…”
“I know,” he breathed, his heart squeezing. “I’m so sorry.”
Her big eyes rose to his. “I love you too,” she said, the words so unexpected, he almost drew back in surprise. “I just thought I was the only one.”
“No, no.” He drew her closer, kissing her hair, her temple, her forehead, anywhere he could reach. “No, sweetheart. You are not. I just never let you know the way I ought. That is my fault. But you are not alone in this. Not at all.”
She turned her head and returned his kiss with sweet intensity, and desire stirred in him.
He had not meant to begin anything of the sort—he’d come to her bedside with the most noble intentions. But now he burned to have her, to make her his in a way more than physical.
Before, when he had visited her bed, he had been consumed with lust, and perhaps he had loved her then, too, without knowing it. But now things had changed; the words they’d exchanged left a mark on them, as tangible as if she had carved them into his skin.
I love you.
This time he would go slowly, tease every gasp and moan from her until she knew, and accepted, and let herself be nourished by how deeply he loved her. He would give her no chance to forget it.
Desire still coarsed in his veins—but it was more than desire now.
When he thought of her he saw the woman who had stood before Sherborne and shielded Sophia with her life; who insisted on breakfasting with him; who had claimed his daughter as her own from the first day; who had waited in her bed for him even when he never came.
He saw the light of her smile, heard the magic of her laugh, felt the quiet affection in her hands.
He rolled over her, and her legs parted as he trailed kisses along her jaw. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “Say the word, Dora, and we can lie here together with nothing more.”
Her fingers clutched at his hair, tightening, tugging, and he heard the rapid patter of her breath. “No,” she whispered. “Not again. I want it all.”
All, he could do.
He continued moving down her, running his hands along all the curves he had neglected, finding the gentle ridges of her ribs, the swell of her hips, the softness of her stomach. He pressed his nose between her breasts, then took one into his mouth, dampening the chemise.
Slowly, slowly. Although the sound she made had his heart kicking in his chest. There was need, and then there was this—this transcendent feeling that made him want to lodge himself in her chest so he might reside by her heart.
Underneath him, she writhed, and he raised his head, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Yes?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“You know.” She stared up at him with round eyes. “You’ve always known.”
“I want you to say it.” His voice came out unintentionally husky.
“You. I have always wanted you. The way you make me feel is—” She gasped as he slid his hand up her bare thigh. He was almost painfully hard, but he wanted to make sure she was perfectly satisfied before he found release inside her. His fingers brushed her damp curls, then slowed.
“How do I make you feel?” he pushed.
“Like I’m falling apart,” she gasped, and he rewarded her honesty by sliding his fingers into her wetness.
Her eyes rolled back in her head, and he watched her face to know what he should do next.
Where he should touch her. She claimed he made her feel as though she were falling apart, but she should also know how it felt to be put back together.
He would teach her that, even if it killed him.
And every day for the rest of their lives.
“Like this?” he murmured, stroking her in slow circles. She panted and canted her hips under him, as though she were desperately seeking more. “Is this what you want, sweetheart?”
“Yes, yes…” She looked as though words had almost forsaken her. “Yes, that. More. Don’t stop…”