Page 73

“We cannot wait.”

There was a sharpness in his voice that he had not intended, but he could not bring himself to apologize. His eyes had begun to water, and he knew too well what would follow.

She caught up with him and slipped her hand into his.

“Then we shall hurry.”

He looked down at their joined hands for the briefest moment before returning his attention to the path.

They crossed the garden together. Marina kept herself between him and the rising sun whenever she could, though the light was spreading so quickly that the gesture could offer little protection. Ambrose felt the familiar heat gathering beneath his skin. Every time he blinked, his eyes stung.

The manor seemed much farther away than it had during the night.

He cursed himself silently. He had spent his entire life avoiding precisely this situation. He knew the hour of sunrise almost as instinctively as he knew his own name. Yet he had allowed himself to forget it because he had been enjoying the company of a woman.

And now she was witnessing the consequences.

“Are you in pain?” Marina asked.

“A little.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it.

They reached the terrace steps. Ambrose gripped the balustrade as he climbed, blinking against the tears that blurred his vision. Marina stayed close beside him.

“Just a little farther,” she murmured.

She reached the doors ahead of him and pulled one open. Ambrose stepped into the entrance hall, and the sudden dimness brought such relief that he stopped for a moment, drawing a long, unsteady breath.

Marina closed the door behind them.

“Come away from the windows,” she said.

Thankfully, most of the curtains on the ground floor had already been drawn. She guided him into a darker corridor, where the morning light could no longer reach him.

Only then did Ambrose stop.

He released her hand and pressed his fingers against his burning cheek. His eyes continued to water, and he could feel the inflammation spreading across his face. The worst of it would take time to subside. He knew that from bitter experience.

“Ambrose?”

He turned slightly toward her.

She was watching him with an expression of such open concern that he immediately wished she would look away.

“Please let me see,” she said. “I might be able to help. At least allow me to examine the symptoms.”

An old, familiar anger stirred within him.

He was not helpless. He was not some fragile creature waiting to be pitied.

He turned toward her fully and lowered the hand that shielded his face, revealing the reddened skin and watering eyes he had spent so many years concealing.

“I do not need your pity!” he snapped.

Marina lifted her brows. For a moment, she simply stared at him. Then the confusion in her expression gave way to something firmer.

“This is not pity,” she answered. “I simply want a chance to take care of my husband.”