“It’s mad, I know.” He paused, and she knew he battled for composure. “But through all the bloodshed and destruction, I’d think back to this house as a site of perfect happiness, until I was convinced it couldn’t possibly be as I recalled it.”
His intense tone made Digby whine and bump his grizzled head against his master’s hip. Canforth laid one elegant, scarred hand on the dog’s neck and looked around. “You’ve even put up the kissing bough. Did you guess that I was coming home?”
Stupidly Felicity blushed. During her honeymoon, kisses had been infrequent. In fact, she and Canforth hadn’t acted much like a honeymoon couple at all. He’d treated her with respect and kindness. And she, so young and inexperienced, hadn’t known how to ask for more. Especially once she reached the conclusion that Canforth had no argument with a temperate marriage.
“I held a party for the staff before I sent them off to their families for Christmas.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “So did you kiss a handsome footman or two?”
She affected an airy tone. “Oh, these days, the grooms are prettier than the footmen.”
He laughed and stepped fully into the room, Digby at his side. “You’re warning me about the competition?” He stopped under the colorful ball suspended from the ceiling. “Shall we, wife?”
Puzzled she looked at him. “Shall we what?”
He pointed up at the woven ribbons and mistletoe and holly. “After nearly eight years, a kiss doesn’t seem too much to ask.”
Heavens, she hadn’t blushed this much since she was a new bride. “You want to kiss me?” she asked shakily.
He rolled his eyes. “Flick, you’re my wife, and it’s been a long, cold road since last I saw your pretty face. For charity’s sake, give me a kiss. On my honor, I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”
That was the second time he’d called her pretty. Despite telling herself it meant nothing, warmth flooded her veins. “I’m sadly out of practice.”
“I should hope so.” He stretched out his hand. “But I think we’ll manage the basics.”
With hesitant steps, she approached Canforth and took his hand. The shock of contact zapped through her like lightning.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured in surprise, as he drew her closer.
“I told you it’s been a long time.”
He positioned her under the mistletoe bough and placed his hands on her slender shoulders. “There’s no need to be frightened.”
Except it wasn’t exactly fear she felt. She was nervous and keyed up, but not scared. She avoided his eyes, not wanting him to see her tumultuous reaction. Logic had told her that the end of hostilities in Europe meant her husband’s return. But as the months went by, with Canforth posted from one capital to another, she’d started to think he might stay in the army. True to the impersonal tenor of their letters, he’d never mentioned his long-term plans.
When nothing happened, Felicity made herself look at him. The sight of that vile sword cut made her want to scream and rage.
He winced under her stare. “The surgeon who sewed it up said it will fade with time. Give me another twenty years or so, and I’ll be back to the dashing devil you married.”
Self-disgust ripped through her. He made a joke of it, but she saw that he’d interpreted her anger and compassion as revulsion. “Oh, Canforth, you mistake me,” she cried, daring to move closer. “I hate to think of you being in pain.”
The flash of uncertainty in those deep-set gray eyes told her that he didn’t quite believe her. “I got out pretty lightly.”
“But I can’t bear it when someone I…” Love. “..care for suffers.” Her hand hovered over the raised flesh. “Does it hurt to touch?”
He watched her with a strange fascination. “No. Not now.”
She bit her lip, hoping she wasn’t breaking the unspoken truce they’d always operated under. But she couldn’t let him think she found his appearance repulsive. “Will you trust me?”
“Only if you can bear it.”
She saw the bone-deep weariness beneath his happiness to be home. The years had been hard for her. How much harder must they have been for him, far from everything he loved? She didn’t count herself in that list. Love had never been part of their marriage, even if she’d loved him from the first moment she saw him, tall and commanding in his scarlet uniform, across a crowded ballroom.
“Oh, Canforth,” she said, her heart breaking anew. Gently, she laid the tip of her index finger at the top of the scar.
At the contact, he recoiled, then stood still and tense beneath the mistletoe. She blinked away more tears and slowly traced the slashing arc. For some reason, she expected the scar to be cold, but the puckered, shiny skin was warm. Just as much part of him as the rest of his face.
He closed his eyes, thick russet lashes fluttering on his prominent cheekbones. She’d always loved this hint of softness in such an overtly masculine being. Under her fingers, he remained as taut as a violin string. How could a man who had withstood cannon fire fear a woman’s touch?