Wrapped in a thick robe with a shawl knotted about her shoulders, without further words she crossed to the door, opened it, glanced out, then impatiently beckoned him to follow.
James made his way across the room, stepped quietly into the corridor, and shut the door. Mary held a finger to her lips, then proceeded to lead him through the silent house. Into the front hall and up the main stairs, she walked confidently but made little sound; James did his best to emulate her, praying they wouldn’t encounter any members of the household on some midnight excursion.
Mary led him around the gallery, then down a corridor; she halted outside a door, glanced at him, and tipped her head toward the panels. “That’s her room. Everyone’s been in bed for an hour, so she might be asleep. Make sure she doesn’t scream.”
James inwardly frowned. Before he could respond, Mary blithely went on, “I assume you can find your way back out?”
“Yes. Of course.” It hadn’t been a complicated journey.
“Good. You’d better make sure you leave early enough to escape notice—I don’t want any repercussions over this. Just leave the window closed—I’ll lock it when I go down in the morning.”
There really was no limit to her brassy bossiness, but she had helped him tonight, an
d for that he was grateful; she hadn’t had to agree, but beneath her self-assured schoolma’amish arrogance, James sensed she really was anxious over Henrietta, and he could find no fault with that.
Closing his hand about the doorknob, he inclined his head.
With a regal nod, Mary glided on and away.
He didn’t wait to see where she went but turned the knob, opened the door, slipped through, and quietly closed it behind him.
Although no candle burned, there was enough light to see. Two wide windows were uncurtained, and moonlight washed across the polished boards to lap about and across a large tester bed. The head of the bed and the pillows remained in shadow, but even as he started across the floor, James heard a rustle, then saw the covers move.
Mary’s admonition about making sure Henrietta didn’t scream blared in his mind.
“James?” Henrietta sat up; instinctively holding the sheets to her chest, she peered past the spill of moonlight into the gloom beyond. “Is that you?”
Even as she whispered the words, the thought that it might not be him, the fear of who it might be instead, flared in her mind but was immediately doused by some rock-solidly sure part of her that—somehow—knew beyond question that the indistinct figure shrouded in gloom was James.
“Yes.” He walked into the moonlight and crossed to the bed.
She looked up at him, drank in the sight. He halted beside the bed and looked down at her in the same way—as if just seeing her, setting eyes on her face, looking into her eyes, was an end in itself, a balm to both mind and emotions. They both took the minute, used it, then she held out a hand. “I’m glad you came.”
He closed his fingers firmly around hers. When she tugged, he obliged and sat on the side of the bed, facing her. “I had to see you. I needed to speak with you. I asked Mary to help me, and she let me in.”
Henrietta smiled fleetingly. “I must remember to thank her.”
His gaze rose to her head, to the bandage still circling it. “How’s your head?”
“Sore where the ball grazed, but otherwise it doesn’t hurt.” Curling her legs beneath the sheets, leaving her hand in his, she shifted closer, propping on her other arm, letting the covers slide to her lap. She was wearing a fine lawn nightgown; regardless, she had no reason to hide from him. Leaning closer, head tipping, she murmured, “Indeed, otherwise, I’m perfectly all right.”
Because she was watching, she saw the shadow that passed across his face. He drew a tighter breath, then met her gaze. “That was just luck. Pure luck that you leaned forward.”
She held his gaze, gripped his hand tighter. “True, but fate took a hand and . . . I’m still here.”
His voice lowered. “We’re still here—as I see it, as I feel it—there’s no longer any me or you, only we and us.”
She studied his eyes, then her lips lifted. “I’m glad you feel that—think that—because I do, too.”
A minute ticked by while they simply looked at each other, while they drowned in each other’s eyes, marveling anew, reveling again in the connection, in the power of what now bound them.
The flaring intensity peaked. Moved by it, compelled, she shifted, fluidly coming up on her knees to lean closer; placing her hand on his shoulder, she tipped her head and set her lips to his, and kissed him.
She parted her lips and drew him in, then let the kiss spin out, and he kissed her back; releasing her hand, he raised his and gently, so gently, framed her face, careful not to press against her wound, and held her steady, balanced on her knees before him, so the kiss could extend, could stretch and evolve, so they both could savor.
So they could calm their inner demons, exorcise their fears, and through the caress, through the intimate sharing, be once again assured—of the other, of them.
That they were still there, were hale and whole and still together. That their joint future was still there, theirs to claim, waiting for them to own it.