He lifted his glass in a silent toast. “Your family does indeed sound amazing. I suspect, though many might wonder at the illegitimacy of our daughter, they do not gossip about it.”
Our daughter. The ache in her heart grew until her eyes burned. She looked down to her plate and took several mouthfuls before she dared to lift her head again. He was looking at her, but Fanny could not decipher his expression. After eating, they cleared the table without speaking, resting everything on the table in the small kitchen. She was painfully aware that the fraught tension between them had dissipated, and he now seemed very contemplative.
“I bid you good night, Simon,” she said, walking away.
At the door, she paused when he called her name. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as he sauntered over.
“Do you mean to sleep outside?”
Fanny laughed. “I only meant to walk for a few minutes.”
It was perhaps the only thing that might save her from brashly kissing him once more. Now that he knew she had not been lying about their attachment, Fanny wondered how he would proceed. Truly, she did not understand herself what she hoped from him, but it was not this contemplative silence. If Simon did not remember writing the letter or the feelings that prompted him to do so, was it fair of her to have any sort of honorable expectation?
“Perhaps you could play chess with me instead, Fanny.”
She stared at him, wondering if he remembered that he had been the one to teach her how to play, and they often had, and he had praised her for mastering the game so effortlessly. “I would be delighted.”
Somehow they ended up on the small cot, a chess set between them where they played several rounds before retiring to bed. Fanny lay beside him for the second night, her heart pounding and very aware of Simon beside her.
“Are you to make do without my chest as a pillow tonight?” he murmured.
* * *
Simon mutteredand tossed restlessly in his sleep. He felt those icy dark waves of the oppressing dream closing over his head. He could not escape it, and in the depth of it, he looked for the phantom. A shadowy figure he could not see, but one that always centered him against the pain and terror that came with war and fighting. For the first time since waking from his deep coma, the phantom shimmered until it formed a figure—Fanny Fairbanks. She reached for him, tenderly cupping his cheek and singing a song. A simple folk song but the beauty and purity of her voice soothed him, pushed the darkness at bay and when he came awake, it was without the frantic thrashing of the past nightmare.
Simon inhaled raggedly, grateful that he had not been sucked into the terrible nightmares that were memories of wartime. The soothing song continued. His heart pounding, he pushed from the bed and sat up. There she was, sitting on the chaise, looking out the small window and singing the song that had penetrated his dream. The very song that had lived with him for months as he recovered. He had gone to bed last night thinking it was going to be another long night. He would not sleep. There was no sense in trying to sleep with the little hellion snuggled so shamelessly into his side.
How wrong he had been. There had been a sense of wanting scratching under his skin, and he had wanted to kiss her and do wicked things. He had not acted on them, uncertain of his thoughts about her, even though he knew what the honorable actions to take were. Simon did not like to rush but to plan carefully and act with wisdom.
Beyond the desire, he had felt…comfortable. He had closed his eyes and held her to him, a bit amused to feel her smiling against his chest. Simon had fallen into blissful sleep before the damn nightmare disturbed him.
“You look pale,” she said.
There was a short, tense pause while he absorbed that. “I had another dream,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“About the war?”
“And more delightful things,” he said not wanting to revisit those horrifying memories.
A smile curved her mouth. “Are those delightful things about me, by any chance?”
“Of late do I dream about anything else?” he gruffly demanded.
She clasped her hands before her and canted her head to the side. “What was it about?”
“I was attempting to teach you to swim, and you damn well nearly drowned me.”
Her eyes widened, then she chuckled.
“So it was a memory then,” he said, rubbing his hand over his morning stubble. “I taught you to swim.”
“Yes, and I daresay our forced proximity is working, Simon.”
He couldn’t bear to tell her that he’d had variations of these dreams before, and they only mere wisps with little substance. Just teasers that drove him to distraction. He noted then she stared at his naked chest, far longer than her usual, scandalous peeks.
“You have several scars.”
Simon lifted a hand to the one close to his heart. “I do.”