“Did you have an enjoyable time tonight?” he asked for lack of anything else to say.
“Yes. You?”
He closed his eyes and racked his brain for something to say to her. For a reason he couldn't fathom, he wanted to talk to her. To have that same ease they'd had at the dinner party continue now and into the future. He wanted to be certain the Ice Queen was gone forever, but he couldn't find the words to say to her.
Beside him, Juliet fidgeted. Her head bobbing just a bit as her weary neck tried to support it. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against his chest. Without the merest protest, she made herself comfortable in his embrace and rested her cheek against his chest.
Instinctively, he brought his free hand up and idly traced her exposed cheek with the pad of his thumb. He paused his gentle movement and took hold of one of the stems of her spectacles then slid them off and tucked them into his breast pocket.
She nestled closer to him, bringing her hand up to slip it inside his coat and rest her fingers on his thinly covered chest. He waited a moment for her to be still and find a comfortable angle, then resumed his aimless caress of her cheek.
“I did,” he whispered a few minutes later.
She stirred. “Hmm?”
“I had a good time with you tonight.”
A slight moan was her only response.
Patrick picked up the lap blanket from the seat next to him and covered them with it. He wouldn’t want her to get cold during the ride. An hour and a half later the carriage came to a jarring stop and yanked Patrick from his slumber. Heart racing, he peered out the window, and sighed. They were safely back at Briar Creek. They hadn’t had a carriage accident like that abrupt stop might suggest. Regaining his breath, a strange sensation settled over him. They were at Briar Creek. When they had left earlier, they had been nothing more than two people inhabiting the same house who had been trying to remain civil toward each other in an effort to be a good example for his daughters. Now what were they? He looked down at her sleeping form. Something had changed tonight, but what? And what did it mean?
Cruxley opened the door and Patrick shooed him off. He wasn’t ready to get out yet, and seeing as how Juliet hadn’t so much as stirred when Cruxley pulled the carriage to such a jarring halt, it was fairly safe to assume she’d not mind waiting a while longer to go to bed. Bed? Which bed? His mind spun. Panic, excitement, nervousness, desire, and uncertainty all thrummed through him. What happened now? Where did he take her?
“Juliet,” he said.
No answer.
“Juliet,” he said a bit louder.
No answer.
He gave her a little shake. “Juliet, sweet. It’s time to get up.”
Nothing.
Patrick muttered a curse under his breath. If it weren’t for her soft breath hitting the front of his shirt, he’d think she was dead. Not that it mattered overmuch that he’d have to carry her into the house. No, he rather liked the idea of carrying his bride. But where was he taking her once he crossed the threshold?
Briar Creek was large by anybody’s standards. Three stories high, built in an oversized U-shape with more than sixty bedchambers excluding the family suites and the servants’ rooms. His stomach clenched at the mere thought of the servants’ rooms. He’d been furious when he’d found Juliet in that little room that connected with the schoolroom. She didn’t belong there. She wasn’t a servant. She had no business inhabiting a room barely larger than a closet. She belonged in the room meant for the viscountess. The one meant for his wife. His stomach clenched again. Tighter this time. For as much as he hated the thought she’d ever taken up residence in the room intended for the governess, the thought of him taking her into the viscountess’ room was far worse.
Granted, she was the viscountess and had every right to have that room, but he couldn’t take her in there. He couldn’t make himself go into that room even if there was a pistol aimed at his head, a dagger piercing his back, and noose wrapped around his neck. Nothing could make him enter that room. Nothing.
He brought his right hand up to massage the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes to block out the images flashing in his mind. Images of Abigail. Her standing in a flannel nightrail by the foggy window with a cup of hot chocolate in one hand and beckoning him over to her with the other. That image faded only to be replaced by a memory of her intense hazel eyes peeking up at him after she’d just woken up in his arms. He swallowed, but that painful lump that had lodged itself in his throat in the last three seconds was still there. He blinked rapidly to dispel the memory, only to have it replaced by the most brutal memory of all. Bloodstained sheets. Lifeless fingers hanging over the edge of the bed. Heavy eyelids. Pale skin. Death.