A Momentary Marriage(57)

James watched her leave the room, then turned to his cousin. “I think I may be delirious again.”

“I told you Grandmother is fond of you.”

“I would have thought anything more than not fiercely disapproving of me would have been a step up for Lady Eugenia.”

“Are you all right?” Graeme moved closer. “I mean, really. Not for Mother’s or the dowager countess’s ears. Just me.”

“I am beginning to believe I shall live, yes. In exactly what state of health, I’m not sure.” James swung his legs off the bed and stood up. “I’ve spent the day walking back and forth across the room. So far I haven’t managed to stay on my feet much longer than five minutes. But it’s better than being flat on my back in bed.”

“Perhaps you should come to the hall to stay for a while. We’ve plenty of room.”

James gave him a sardonic look. “I’m not that feeble.”

“You’re not well,” Graeme countered. “If someone here is trying to kill you, how are you to stop him?”

“I’m well protected.” James waved toward the door. “Most of my family has a healthy regard for Dem’s teeth.” He paused, then added with a grin, “Besides, you should have seen Laura bar the door to Patricia and Archie.”

Graeme’s expression lightened. “I imagine that would be a sight.”

“All she needed was a flaming sword.”

At that moment the door opened, and the subject of their conversation stepped in. Graeme promptly popped to his feet. “Laura.”

“Montclair.” She gave him a formal nod.

James glanced from Graeme to his wife. They looked equally uncomfortable. What did Laura feel when she looked at Graeme? Regret? Bitterness? Yearning? James sat back down, suddenly exhausted.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted.” Laura turned toward the door. “Excuse me.”

“No, no, pray don’t go on my account. I was about to take my leave,” Graeme assured her. He glanced back at James and away.

“Is it raining outside?” James asked.

“What?” Laura looked surprised. “No, it’s quite lovely.”

“I just thought . . . is your hair wet?” James looked at Laura’s hair, not in its usual neat coronet of braids, but knotted loosely at the base of her neck and, yes, definitely dark with dampness.

“Oh!” Her cheeks flooded with color. “Well, when I got home I, um . . .”

“I should go,” Graeme said at the same time. “No doubt you’ll want to, uh . . .” With a vague nod, Graeme left the room.

James lay back against his pillows, linking his arms behind his head and idly watching Laura as she went to her vanity table. “That’s a different dress.”

“Yes. I bathed and changed clothes after I returned from the ride.” Pink bloomed along her cheekbones.

“Ah. Then that’s why your hair is wet.” And no doubt that was also why she had stumbled on the words earlier; it wasn’t the sort of thing to say in front of another man. But something a husband could be privy to. He wasn’t sure why that thought pleased him.

“Yes.” Looking into the mirror, not at him, she reached up and began to remove the pins from the heavy knot of hair at the base of her neck. It was only loosely done and it easily tumbled down, spilling over her shoulders. “I came to dry it by the fire.”

“I see.” His mouth suddenly dry, James watched her pick up a brush and comb and sit down in front of the fire. This, then, was another private intimacy afforded a husband, seeing the long fall of hair unbound, watching her brush it out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and Graeme.”

“Graeme was only fussing.” He dismissed him casually, more interested in watching Laura comb through her dark honey locks.

She leaned over, turning her face toward the fire, pulling her brush through the strands of her hair to the ends and letting it cascade down. James watched her, eyes half closed, desire coiling low in his abdomen. He didn’t mind the prickles of hunger. He welcomed the feeling of life stirring in him again, however little it would be satisfied.

This was enough for the moment, more than enough. He was alive and whole once more. And whatever lay in the past, whomever she had once loved, Laura was now his.





chapter 22


Laura glanced over her shoulder at the bed. James had fallen asleep. She tiptoed to his bed to pull the light blanket up over him. She studied his face. He looked vulnerable this way, his lashes long and dark against his cheeks, no mockery in his eyes or smirk to his mouth. She knew a momentary urge to stroke her fingers down his cheek. But that was foolish, of course. It might awaken him, and there was no need to touch him. Not really.