“Thank you.” Her voice was graveled. She brushed the back of her hand against her eyes again.
In his chest burned a confluence of emotions. A tenderness and awe he could scarcely bear circulated with a cold, nearly apocalyptic fury. And he was already planning.
Even if she leveled an accusation of rape at Brundage, the only crimes peers could be tried for were murder or treason. If she so much as intimated he’d assaulted her, her character would be shredded and her reputation destroyed, while Brundage’s reputation might merely suffer a bit of a taint, if that. This was the brutal truth of their times, and such was the balance of power between men and women.
And Brundage had robbed her of enough already.
So she might not get formal justice.
But Hawkes was bloody well going to avenge her.
It was the prospect of this that brought him a measure of calm, for now.
They spoke of other things. He told her about his sister, and his mother, and the place he’d been raised. He told her what he’d already learned about her from Brundage. She told him about her brothers. Their conversation acquired a rhythm that felt easy and natural;they took up topics, digressed, returned to them. Their words were undershot with the peaceful pleasure and acceptance with which longtime friends shared things. There was laughter. It was bliss. There would be an endless trove of treasures to discover about each other. This they knew.
Finally, he noticed she was struggling to keep her eyelids aloft.
“Aurelie, you’re about to fall asleep sitting up.”
“You’re about to fall asleep lying down.”
This was also true.
With some effort, he got himself upright and moved to close the shutters and the curtain against the night chill.
And he stood there, wondering quite how to say what he needed to say. He needed to give voice to what they were both likely thinking now.
He took a breath and turned, and managed, evenly enough. “Our situation tonight is this: There is no wood cut for a fire beyond what we see here, and what I could gather. I do not think it will keep us sufficiently warm throughout the evening. And to get through this night without suffering or burning furniture I think we will need each other to stay warm. You are brave and resourceful and you’ve made a decision to live life on your terms. So now you have another decision to make, and that’s whether you trust me enough to sleep against me. If not, I will sleep in here on this settee.”
Quite a shifting array of subtle emotions moved across her face while he gave this speech. None of them appeared to be dismay, disgust, or fear.
What settled in was that soft inspection. And inscrutability. Perhaps a little amusement.
“Well, I wouldhaveto be very brave, wouldn’t I,to consider such a thing?” she asked him, brow furrowed.
Taking the piss, in other words.
“Sobrave,” he agreed.
She tipped her head. “You will be but a pillow?”
“My original life’s ambition was to be but a pillow.”
She studied him somberly. “This is of course the sensible solution, Christian.”
He couldn’t speak at all, because shouting “hosanna!” was inadvisable at the moment and it seemed the only appropriate word.
She rose to her feet elegantly, and shook out her skirts, then went to rummage about in the trunk propped against the back door.
She produced the coverlet Dot had given to her and handed it to him triumphantly.
“See?Essential,” he told her, impressed.
Rapidly, however, conversation dwindled to nothing.
Perhaps because awareness—or perhaps self-consciousness—was deafening.
He gathered up the other things with which they would cover themselves, and went into the bedroom, where they sat on opposite sides of the bed. There was no awkward discussion of which side either of them preferred. It was as if they knew just how to do this.