Page 63 of Lyon of Least Resistance

She loosened her grip on his wrists and he took her hand.

Heavens, her fingers were as cold as ice!

He massaged her hand until it had warmed a little, then lifted it to his lips.

“James?” she whispered.

“Yes, my love,” he said. “It is I. Your husband.”

Understanding shimmered in her eyes and she glanced toward the window, the light of the dawn giving her skin a pale-blue hue.

“Dawn,” she said.

“Yes, my love,” he replied, kissing her fingers. “It’s almost dawn.”

“May I see it?”

“You need no permission.”

She climbed out of the bed and approached the window. Her hair hung loose, flowing down her back in thick black waves. Then she reached toward the window and placed her hands on the glass.

Unwilling for anyone to disturb her little ritual, James retreated to the door and closed it, then watched her devour the view as if it were the first time she’d seen the open countryside…like a prisoner who, after a lifetime in the darkness, had been granted the freedom to look into the light.

She shivered and hunched her shoulders. James spotted a shawl draped over the back of a chair and picked it up. Then he approached, holding his breath lest he scare her off, as if she were a mouse emerging from her burrow, wary of predators, and he the clumsy oaf needing to show that he was friend, rather than foe.

As a man, James was expected to have a greater experience of the world. But his wife must have endured enough suffering for a hundred lifetimes.

Taking care to move slowly lest he spook her, he placed the shawl about her shoulders. She flinched, but remained where she was while he took her hair in his hands and lifted it over the shawl, letting it fall down her back. Then he drew close until their bodies touched, her back against his chest.

She stiffened for a heartbeat, then relaxed, and his heart sighed with contentment as she leaned into him. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she removed her hands from the window and took his, tilting her head back until it rested against his shoulder.

They stood, in silence, while the light on the horizon increased to a warm-yellow glow and the birdsong increased into a chorus. Then he caught a flash of light as the edge of the sun peeked over the top of a distant hill.

Cordelia drew in a sharp breath, then exhaled, shuddering.

“Are you well?” James whispered.

She nodded against his chest. “You cannot begin to imagine how wonderful it is to see the dawn. It may be insignificant to you if you’ve grown up with such a view, but to me…” She sighed, and a smile curved her lips. “It’s an abundance of riches that I cannot believe I’ve been gifted with.”

He swallowed the surge of shame as he compared his pampered upbringing with the life she had endured. While he had indulged in the luxuries and pursuits of a viscount-in-waiting, the woman in his arms was…

Don’t even think of it.

At length, when the initial flush of birdsong abated, she spoke.

“Forgive me, James. I didn’t mean to wake you. I-It was just a bad dream.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he whispered, dipping his head to press a kiss in her hair.

“I don’t have them often, but…”

“I understand.”

She turned to face him, tipping her head up. “Do you?”

He placed his hand on her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I would never have asked you to relate your history if I’d known how much it would cost you.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, and his soul cried out at the small gesture of trust, even though he’d done nothing to deserve it.