A wraithlike shadow sat on the wagon's front seat. It turned, spoke to the driver in a quiet, subdued voice. "They will help me carry him in. Thank you."
Her voice, so familiar, washed over him. "Selena?" he whispered, his knees weakening. The loneliness left him in a rush. She was home. Sweet Jesus, she was home.
She turned to him then, and in the pale moonlight he saw her face, cloaked as it was by a huge, black cape. "Ian." That was all she said, nothing more, just a whisper that was his name.
Maeve screamed, "Selena's home!"
Edith and the queen and Lara rushed down the stairs, shouting, arms waving, skirts flapping. All four women and Andrew hurtled down the stairs, tugged Selena down from her perch on the wagon and enfolded her in a huge, laughing hug. Everyone was talking at once.
Ian stared out, feeling oddly anxious. Something was wrong. She'd said his name, but not the words, not the phrase he ached to hear from her lips. And why wasn't she beside him, clinging to him, smothering him with her sweet kisses?
Johann came up beside Ian, stood beside him in the open doorway. "You haven't moved," he said.
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Ian couldn't answer past the lump in his throat. He felt achingly, obviously, vulnerable.
Did she still love him? The question came out of nowhere, sharp and painful. In all this time, all these months, he'd imagined her pining away for him, as lonely and depressed as he was.
But maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe this Elliot truly had been her love for twenty-two years, and her time with Ian was just a pleasant interlude. ...
"Don't torture yourself, Ian," Johann said, "though I know how much you enjoy it."
He turned to his friend. "What if-"
Johann dismissed the fear with a wave of his hand. "What ifs are for writers and children."
Finally the jabbering crowd grew quiet. One by one, the inmates peeled away from their goddess and filtered back toward the house, until only Selena stood at the wagon.
Ian stood there, waiting, his heart hammering, his throat painfully dry. She stood stiffly, her hands clasped nervously at her waist, her voluminous cape bill
owing gently around her ankles. Her face was a pale-too pale-oval amidst the darkness of the hood, her eyes wide and mysterious.
He leaned infinitesimally forward. Now she'd speak, now she'd say the words he needed so desperately to hear. I've come home, Ian.
She moved toward him, her booted feet crunching on the stone path. At the base of the steps, she stopped, and he thought-crazily-that she was afraid to come any closer. "My husband," she said softly.
He nodded. Yes. Tell me you've left him.
She pointed weakly back at the wagon. "My husband is wounded. He needs your help, Ian."
He froze. Everything about the moment-the hope, the dreams-everything shattered at her simple words.
She blinked up at him, unsmiling, her hands coiled at her waist. She knew how she was hurting him. Damn
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her, she knew what he needed right now, and she said nothing. Did nothing.
The minute drew out, breathless and poignant, and no one moved or spoke. Then Andrew directed the driver to start unloading Elliot. Johann raced down to help, but Ian couldn't move. He just stood there, his insides broken, staring at Selena.
There weren't even tears in her eyes. She, who cried when a flower died, was dry-eyed now.
He forced his gaze away from her. It hurt too much to look at her and he turned his attention to the wagon. As if released, Selena hurried to help Johann and Andrew. The three of them carried Elliot on a stretcher up the steps.
Ian stepped to the side. 'Take him to the empty bedroom on the second floor."
The crowd funneled up the stairway and dispersed at the top, turning to the left and disappearing. All that was left of her was a trace of scent, completely foreign. Lavender, he realized dully. When had she begun to smell like lavender?