Page 53 of A Momentary Marriage

“What?” Laura looked surprised. “No, it’s quite lovely.”

“I just thought . . . is your hair wet?” James looked at Laura’s hair, not in its usual neat coronet of braids, but knotted loosely at the base of her neck and, yes, definitely dark with dampness.

“Oh!” Her cheeks flooded with color. “Well, when I got home I, um . . .”

“I should go,” Graeme said at the same time. “No doubt you’ll want to, uh . . .” With a vague nod, Graeme left the room.

James lay back against his pillows, linking his arms behind his head and idly watching Laura as she went to her vanity table. “That’s a different dress.”

“Yes. I bathed and changed clothes after I returned from the ride.” Pink bloomed along her cheekbones.

“Ah. Then that’s why your hair is wet.” And no doubt that was also why she had stumbled on the words earlier; it wasn’t the sort of thing to say in front of another man. But something a husband could be privy to. He wasn’t sure why that thought pleased him.

“Yes.” Looking into the mirror, not at him, she reached up and began to remove the pins from the heavy knot of hair at the base of her neck. It was only loosely done and it easily tumbled down, spilling over her shoulders. “I came to dry it by the fire.”

“I see.” His mouth suddenly dry, James watched her pick up a brush and comb and sit down in front of the fire. This, then, was another private intimacy afforded a husband, seeing the long fall of hair unbound, watching her brush it out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and Graeme.”

“Graeme was only fussing.” He dismissed him casually, more interested in watching Laura comb through her dark honey locks.

She leaned over, turning her face toward the fire, pulling her brush through the strands of her hair to the ends and letting it cascade down. James watched her, eyes half closed, desire coiling low in his abdomen. He didn’t mind the prickles of hunger. He welcomed the feeling of life stirring in him again, however little it would be satisfied.

This was enough for the moment, more than enough. He was alive and whole once more. And whatever lay in the past, whomever she had once loved, Laura was now his.

chapter 22

Laura glanced over her shoulder at the bed. James had fallen asleep. She tiptoed to his bed to pull the light blanket up over him. She studied his face. He looked vulnerable this way, his lashes long and dark against his cheeks, no mockery in his eyes or smirk to his mouth. She knew a momentary urge to stroke her fingers down his cheek. But that was foolish, of course. It might awaken him, and there was no need to touch him. Not really.

This new desire to stroke his face or brush back his hair must come from the days she’d spent nursing him back to health—judging his temperature with a palm against his forehead, washing his face and chest with a cooling rag to quell his fever, rubbing his scalp to ease a headache. Touching him had become familiar. Easy.

And she liked it. There was a deep sensual pleasure in running her fingers through his thick, soft hair, in pressing her fingertips against his scalp, and it gave her a visceral satisfaction to watch his face soften and relax as she did so.

It warmed her, too, to slide her arm around his waist, his side against hers all the way up and down. To drag a damp cloth across his chest, feeling the padding of muscle and hardness of bone beneath his skin.

She must be a sensualist, given to unladylike pleasures—look at the way she had responded to his kisses when he was in a delirium. Without any love for the man, she had caressed him, kissed him, trembled at his touch. Truth was, she wished deep down that he had not stopped.

Laura returned to the fire and the lengthy process of brushing out her hair. She turned her thoughts to her accident this afternoon. It was enough to make one suspicious, given the attempt on James’s life.

However, it took only a few minutes’ reflection to see how unlikely it was that someone arranged it. Perhaps, in the short time between Tessa suggesting the idea and Laura leaving the house, one of the others could have sneaked down to the stables and tampered with the brake mechanism.

But how could Claude or anyone else have arranged for a bee to sting one of the horses at the top of that hill and set it off on a run? The idea was ludicrous. And to what purpose? She doubted James had told anyone how much of his fortune he was leaving to Laura. They would assume she had only a relatively small widow’s portion. No, she was simply starting at shadows. Thank heavens Graeme had not leapt to the same cynical thoughts, or he would have insisted on telling James about it.

She continued to brush her hair. It was a soothing, almost hypnotic ritual.

“I’ve kept you from practicing.” James’s voice from the bed startled Laura from her reverie.

She jumped, banging the brush against her scalp, and turned to him, fearful his mind was wandering again. “What?”

“Your music. Violin in the mornings. Piano in the music room. Sometimes I’d stop and listen.”

“Why didn’t you come in?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“I invited you one day, if you’ll remember.” Laura went over to the bed. “Do you like music?”

“I haven’t any talent for it, but I enjoy listening. I’m fond of Mozart. Among current composers, I like Tchaikovsky.”