She hadn't slept at all that night, but had lain awake starting at every noise. Worry for Rhys, as well as worry for herself and Gussy, had kept her awake. She'd been more than happy to leave the “Bell” the following morning, as had Gussy, who'd slept on a pallet beside her during the night.
The second day of their journey had been equally trying. The continued rain had slowed their progress considerably, further deepening the ruts in the road. They had spent the better part of the afternoon mired down in the muck and had only made it as far as Grantham the following evening. Rhys had worked alongside the coachman and the footman to free the vehicle, but it had been a long and dirty process. Their accommodations had been much better at least, staying at the Angel and Royal. Rhys had come to her that night, but they had both been too tired to do more than sleep. Despite that, it had been a comfort to wake in his arms.
Emme was quickly realizing that his touch could provide her with more than passion. That she desired his touch not just in the bedchamber, but relished the simple touch of his hand or a sweet kiss petrified her. She recognized it as a sign of growing infatuation or perhaps something even more disastrous. Being infatuated with one's husband could be a dangerous thing. She could imagine nothing worse than loving him and not having that love returned. If that happened, how long would it take for love to turn to hate, for jealousy to rear its ugly head? She had never spoken with him of fidelity. She had no idea if he kept a mistress but it was only safe to assume that he did. Those thoughts plagued her and the better part of the journey was spent pushing them away.
Rather than focusing on her feelings, Emme turned her attention back to the journey and the difficulties they had faced. She thought of the previous night, the third of the journey, spent in Bedford, at a place called the Butcher's Arms. That night had been the most difficult by far. Her exhaustion from the journey had made her even more vulnerable to her “gift.” The inn's ghosts had allowed her no peace. She'd done everything in her power not to sleep, knowing that if she did they would have her walking the halls. She'd known that Rhys had sensed something was not right with her from the moment they entered the inn, but she had not been able to tell him.
Though he was no longer as certain of the black and white nature of death as he had been, he still was not a believer. He'd said as much. Now, under the scrutiny of his gaze, she squirmed.
"Tell me,” he said, simply.
He would think her mad, but she wanted to tell him. She also wanted him to believe her. “You won't believe me,” she said, resignation in her voice.
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and took her hands in his. “I cannot see what you see and I cannot hear what you hear. But I no longer doubt that it is there."
"There were restless spirits at the inn last night. I could sense them immediately. That is why I tried not to sleep, but it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Now I see them asleep or awake. Apparently, seeing Melisande so clearly has altered my gift considerably, and now they are everywhere. I know you must think me mad. Sometimes I think myself mad."
"No,” he said simply, and brought her hand to his lips. “I don't think you're mad. But I don't think that what you have is a gift. It's a heavy burden and there is no need for you to bear it alone."
She didn't know how to respond to that. It humbled her and terrified her at the same time. Between the lack of adequate sleep, her worries over her growing feelings for her husband, and her jangled nerves from being in so many new places she simply couldn't cope. Reluctantly, she drew her hand from his and settled back against the seat, attempting to shore up her emotional defenses.
Rhys didn't protest as she pulled away from him. He couldn't gauge her mood, but he knew instinctively that pushing her would be a mistake. He focused his attention out the window of the coach and watched as the woods gave way to the outskirts of the city. He would find out what was behind her mood but it would require patience. With that in mind, he closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat, willing himself to obtain a few moments of rest.
Entering London, the noise grated on her nerves and she fought back the urge to snap at Gussy, who was fidgeting on the seat beside her. She'd been irritable the entire day. She'd been so short with both Rhys and Gussy all day that everyone in the coach had finally lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Snow fell as the late afternoon sun faded to dusk. The snow and the dimming light made traffic even more difficult.
She couldn't help but wonder what awaited her once the coach stopped. Rhys had told her little of the townhouse. She knew that it was on Upper Brooke Street, an impeccable address. Her own family's home was on Swallow Street, a much less fashionable area of Mayfair. As the carriage rolled along Charing Cross Road, and toward St. James Place, she felt both relieved to be in familiar territory and petrified of what would happen once they were back amongst London society. The carriage slowed, mired in the congested traffic of the city.