To Have and to Hold (Finders Keepers #4)

Chapter Nine

Percy arranged his legs so his knees didn’t brush against Cecily’s opposite him. Her travelling cloak lay discarded beside her as she peered out of the window. In prior years, she had left the travel arrangements to him, but this time, she had arranged almost everything.

To reward her efforts, he’d chosen to share the carriage with her rather than riding alongside, as was often his way. That was as far as he was prepared to go, however. If she wanted conversation, or to speak whatever was so obviously on her mind, she would have to do so of her own volition. So far, they’d been silent as they’d left London and changed horses.

Instead of making idle small talk, he laced his fingers on his chest and examined her in the hazy late-June sunlight. Soft auburn curls fell around her face, the ribbons of her bonnet pinning them against her cheek. She huffed one away, and he watched as the lock of hair fluttered in the wake of her breath.

Poetry had never been a form of expression that he had mastered—and now he lamented it, wished that he knew how to capture that tilt in her expression when she raised her gaze to his. That dawning realisation.

If he could, he would have wrapped it up in words and committed them to paper so he would never forget.

“I was thinking that we should extend the pond,” she said.

He almost laughed. Instead of a heavy conversation about the future of their marriage, approached like a battleground scarred by past victims, she’d chosen to begin the conversation with this.

A pleasant surprise.

He arched his brows, giving her free rein, the way he would offer his horse its head. “The pond?”

“Yes. I read a book recently about duck husbandry.”

He could barely contain his smile. “Naturally.”

“It befits my position to have an opinion about household matters.”

“Of course. And what matter is more a lady’s domain than ducks?”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Never.” The curl of a smile escaped his lips, and he wrestled his expression back under control. She would never know how lovely she looked when she scowled, all dark beauty like storm-clouds and rain on a hot summer’s day. She was lightning and thunder and everything that was fiercely lovely about nature, and he was the parched ground who so desperately needed to taste her.

A flush climbed up her throat and spread, blotchy, to her cheeks. “I thought you would want to be a part of a discussion on what changes I wish to make to your house.”

“It’s your house, too,” he said gently. “Though of course I always value your opinion.”

“Is that so?”

“I would be fascinated to hear more about these ducks.”

Finally, a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Now I know you’re laughing at me.”

“Not at all. Tell me, in great detail, if you please, your intentions for the pond. Do you have any other plans? I thought perhaps we could extend the orchard. I have a hankering for plums.”

Her nose wrinkled. He rather wished he could kiss it. “Plums?”

“Do you dislike them?”

“My mother grew them.” She spread her fingers across her skirts, smoothing the material. Percy was, confound him, reminded in rather vivid detail of what lay underneath. “We had plums with everything.”

“Then we’ll grow something else. Apples? I used to go apple-picking as a boy.”

Her smile grew, though he saw her bite the inside of her cheek to prevent it from spreading any further. “And how many years ago was that?”

“Wretch,” he said easily, not missing the way she glanced out of the window to hide her mirth. “What fruit would you prefer?”

“I like apples.”

“Then apples it will be.”

“How about an orangery?”

“This is a sudden and unprecedented interest in our garden.” He tilted his head as colour spread fiery fingers up her throat. “Any particular reason why?”

“I thought I should—make an effort to be a better wife. I know wives are supposed to oversee these things.”

“Forget whatever preconceived notions of what wives are supposed to do.” His voice had hardened, and he made an effort to soften it. “I only want you to do what you’re comfortable with.”

“Yes. About that.” Her colour only deepened, and she glanced away. No sign of Boudicca today; rather, she looked more fragile than he had ever seen her. “The masquerade.”

He inhaled. “Yes.”

“You kissed me.”

The technicality—that she had been the one to initiate—did not seem worth mentioning. “I did.”

Almost absently, her eyes fixed on a distant point, she brought her fingers to her lips, tracing them in a way that brought about a sudden and inconvenient bulge in his trousers. “I liked it.”

“You did,” he said, his voice lower, rough. “You liked it when I kissed you as Odysseus.” He shifted in his seat, and her gaze dropped, catching at his groin and the erection he’d failed to hide. If her cheeks had been red before, now they burned, rioting against the vivid shade of her hair. “The question is,” he continued, “why you won’t allow yourself to kiss me like that when you’re my wife?”

Cecily had known—of course she had—that the question was coming. It was a deserved one, and one that necessitated discussing a man she no longer wanted to think about.

“I am—” She looked at her hands, then back at him. He settled back into his chair, hands clasped around his stomach. By the looks of it, he intended to wait. For however long it took. An excellent choice, given she didn’t know how to answer.

She spread her fingers across her skirts again, noting the way he glanced at them. His nostrils flared and he looked back at her, a light burning in the back of his eyes.

“I don’t know how,” she said quietly. “When we first married, I thought . . . I thought I only ever wanted to be with another man. Of course, I didn’t have a choice in the matter, and I resented you.”

He inclined his head. “I’m aware.”

“I know you want a reason, or an excuse, but the truth is, I convinced myself I hated you for so long, it became easy to not . . . Respond. And at the beginning, I felt so angry with you, I told you I didn’t want . . .” Her cheeks flamed. “Well, anything. Which you obliged. Then, later, even when you were pleasant, when you treated me well, I told myself I could never forgive you, and that you would never compare to William.”

His jaw clenched. “I should have said more to turn you against him.”

“No. I think . . .” She twisted her hands together. “The man I had in my head, the one I thought was William, doesn’t exist. You didn’t compare, because no man ever could. It was only when I discovered the truth . . . I’d been living a lie for so long.” Her eyes stung and she closed them, willing the tears to remain in her throat and not break free of her eyelids.

“Then why Odysseus?” Percy murmured, his voice closer now.

“After William, it was a relief to dance with you. And as Odysseus, I didn’t have to think of anything else.” The tears gathered on her lashes, hot and wet, and she prayed they didn’t fall. “No past. No future.”

“Mm.” His hand, warm against her cold skin, touched her face. “When I was someone else, you had forgiven me.”

“I already had,” she whispered. “I just didn’t know it. I’m sorry for being so cruel.”

His laugh ghosted along her cheek, and his arm slid around her shoulders, pulling her into his body. Dimly, she recognised that his thigh now pressed against hers, and he must have crossed the narrow space to her side of the carriage. But her face pressed against the curve of his neck as she leant into him, and the logistics of their position stopped mattering.

He smelt like home. Like woodsmoke and wool and cologne. His other hand came to cup her cheek, smearing away the wetness there. Her heart, which for so long had been dormant in her chest, gave a little lurch. Or perhaps a flutter. She wasn’t well-versed in its movements, having never felt anything from it before. Yes, she had flirted—a great deal—but none of her beaus had meant anything to her. If anything, they were designed as punishment.

Look, I am still desirable, though you claimed me. I am not yours .

“Do you regret marrying me?” he asked. The same stupid, fateful question she had asked him. The truth sat on her tongue, though it took courage to utter it.

“No. No, I haven’t for a long time now.”

“Then at least I did something right.” Something pressed against her head, his lips perhaps, even as he eased his arm away from her and returned to his position on the other side of the carriage. He raked a hand through greying hair, silvery strands falling back into place with careless dishevelment, and Cecily longed to run her fingers through it.

She thought over their interactions over the past few days. Their flirting as Odysseus and Circe, and his teasing of her now. His obvious attraction, so blatant it almost intimidated her. Every instinct told her that their marriage was salvageable.

He had not stopped wanting her when he retreated from her entirely.

For years, she had taken him for granted; she did not think she should continue to do so now.

I will have all of you, or I will have none at all .

The implication was clear: if she could not love him, or convince him that she did, then she may still run the risk of losing him, no matter how much he wanted her.

Fear struck through her.

He frowned, as though sensing the direction her thoughts had gone in. “What’s the matter?”

“How am I to know?” she burst out. “How will I know if I love you?”

His smile was gentle, just enough that it made her want to cry all over again. “You will know, my witch. Love is not always what you think it ought to be, but when you find it—or it finds you—it will make itself known.”

He spoke as though love were its own entity, something out of her control entirely. But she could not allow that to be the case—she would hunt this elusive love down, if that’s what it took, so she could finally give Percy the life he deserved and the wife he wanted. She would force herself to love him, and then he would never leave her.