“Hush.” He pressed his palm to her cheek, holding her as he carefully worked the brush through the snarls in her hair.
The room fell silent. The crackle of the fire. The soft whisper of the brush. Rain falling against the windows. The storm outside, like the storm between her and Jonas, calmed.
He brushed her hair until it was nearly dry. He had to reach forward to catch the brandy glass. Lazy delight swirled through her at the glance of his hand over hers. Each stroke of the brush leached away another layer of resistance. After all the fear and anger, she slid into a fog of languorous docility. Perhaps soon he’d take her to bed. Surely he hadn’t meant it when he said she’d sleep alone.
He set the brush aside and lifted her into his arms. She murmured sleepily and nestled into his chest. She was warm. He was warm. Everything was delicious warmth. She smothered a yawn and shut her eyes.
Jonas…
She might have spoken his name aloud. She nuzzled his chest, drawing in more rain-fresh scent. She thought he growled softly in his throat. She wasn’t sure. She was so tired, she wasn’t sure about much.
He set her down on the bed, the mattress sagging beneath her, and pulled up the covers. His arms slipped away with what felt like reluctance and the loss pierced her drowsiness. She whimpered in protest and waited for him to slide in beside her.
She kept her eyes shut. Looking at him veered too near to admitting she’d stopped fighting. She heard him sigh. His clean scent flooded her senses when he pressed his lips to her forehead then briefly kissed her mouth.
She waited for him to join her in the bed.
And waited.
Struggling free of exhaustion, she opened her eyes to see Jonas methodically snuffing each candle until only firelight remained. In the flickering light, his expression was somber. He looked older than she’d ever seen him look before. She was so weary, it was difficult to summon real panic but she recognized something was wrong.
“J-Jonas?”
Without glancing at her, he trudged toward the door. “Goodnight, Sidonie.”
Alarm shattered her lethargy. “What—”
Even as she struggled to stand, to follow him, he left her alone, the door sighing shut behind him.
The rattle of curtains woke Sidonie. Last night’s storm had cleared to sunshine. She was by herself.
She’d only slept a few hours. Jonas’s erratic behavior had vanquished exhaustion. When he didn’t return, she’d gone looking for him. Eventually cold and lack of success forced her back to the bedroom.
“There be tea on the table.” Mrs. Bevan shuffled around the room collecting last night’s detritus. Damp, crumpled towels, the discarded blanket, ruined clothing. Sidonie blushed when the woman gathered the remnants of her extravagant gown, but Mrs. Bevan spared it hardly a glance.
“And good morning to you,” Sidonie muttered. She sat, piling pillows behind her. She shoved the sleeves of Jonas’s shirt up her arms.
“Maister said order the carriage when ’ee’s ready.” The woman still fussed around the room.
What?
“I… I don’t understand,” Sidonie said in a suddenly shaky voice that reflected her suddenly shaky heart. “Why would I want the carriage?”
Mrs. Bevan’s shrug was remarkably expressive for such a taciturn woman.
Because she wasn’t sure what else to do, Sidonie turned to the tea on the nightstand. Only after she’d filled the delicate china cup did she notice the bundle of papers tied with a blue silk ribbon on the tray.
Foreboding curdled in her belly. “What’s this?”
Mrs. Bevan cast her a disinterested glance. “Maister said give en ’ee.”
Sidonie’s h
and hovered over the packet as though it might bite. “Where is mais… Mr. Merrick?”
“Aboot.” With that uninformative answer, Mrs. Bevan left the room.
Whatever was in those papers wouldn’t give Sidonie what she wanted. She knew that to her bones.