Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

C ora considered the concept of shame as she blinked into wakefulness. Outside the window, the sky—seen only from between a sliver of space between two dark, heavy curtain panels—curled fluffy clouds through blindingly blue space. She'd drifted off to sleep like that last night—light and weightless, satisfied in body but oh so satisfied in another way. She'd felt warm, happy, safe, content.

And now, with Liam's heavy arm resting across her waist and his face buried in her tangled hair, she could not shake those feelings, though they were so very foreign to her. She lay trusting in his embrace. Cora stretched and felt her bottom rub against something hard and thick—Liam's shaft. They should have done more last night, but the day had drained her entirely. She barely remembered him undressing her. His tender ministrations seemed but a dream. His hand lay limp on the mattress in front of her—large and strong and with a smattering of crisp, golden hair trailing down the veined forearms, the thick wrist, the lithe fingers. A masculine hand, capable of smashing a man's bones. A husband's hand capable of soothing her and, equally, blooming lightning across her skin. Everywhere he touched, the realization of a dream she never thought she'd live. Only read about. Because men in life, as opposed to those in books, were brutes.

This man, though? Liam? Far from a brute. More of an eager-to-please puppy.

His breath tickled her ear, and a warm shiver of anticipation crept like ivy through her blood.

She peeked over at him, careful that her movements did not disturb him. His white-blond hair mussed, his expression boyish, his strong jaw relaxed, and his lips, which she'd not paid much attention to before… perfection? His top lip slightly larger than the bottom and shaped like a bow, their shade a happy place between pink and peach, and oh , how they felt on her skin, how they made her feel adored and desirable.

A necessity to kiss him now, to touch him, to wake him up so they could continue what she'd been too tired and sated to continue the night before. Gently, she turned in his arms. Where to begin? He lay on his side, his broad shoulders curved in, one leg draped over her hip. She trailed her fingertips lightly over his shoulder, down his arm, and onto his slim hips. Then she followed the line of his forearm down to the mattress, where his untucked linen shirt pooled between them. Biting her lip, and guided by her thumping heart, she grasped that loose linen and snuck her hand beneath it. Ah, there, the warm, taut skin of his abdomen. Hair there, too. Her fingers followed a trail of it up to his chest.

He shifted, made a husky noise in his throat, and used his leg to drag her closer until no space remained between them. Tangled legs and embracing arms, his nose rubbing against hers, her palms flattened on his chest, stroking. She found his nipple. If felt delicious when he played with her there. Would it feel the same for him? She circled it, brushed the pad of her thumb over it, and Liam's arm's tightened around her, but she wriggled free. He made a sound like a snort, a protest, but she ignored it, pulling his shirt higher, pushing him onto his back.

"You are awake," she said, propping herself on her elbow to look at him.

He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "And you are here . In my bed."

"Quite convenient."

"Convenient for what?"

"This." She traveled down his body and pressed her lips just below his navel, gaining a hiss of pleasure for her efforts.

His hands grasped for her, cupping the back of her head, scratching at her shoulder, and she kissed a line up his abdomen, flicking her tongue across his nipple when she reached his chest. The higher she rose on his body, the lower on her his hands wandered, exploring down the length of her spine, cupping her bottom, squeezing and knocking her breath out of rhythm. His breath gone chaotic, too. She yanked at his shirt, hateful thing. It had stood between them too long. No more. Now the time to rip at anything separating them. Including this bit of linen.

She tore it up and over his head, and he helped her discard it. Oh. Oh, what a beautiful man, all lean muscle laid out for her alone. She bent to kiss it only to find herself forced to sit up as he did so, stripping her shift off her in the same movement.

She gasped, and then she moaned as his mouth found her breasts, and the last barrier between them—that frail, pale bit of muslin—fluttered discarded to the floor.

Only his breeches now, and she tore at his fall with trembling, needy fingers. With the last button flicked open, he kicked off the offensive garment and wrapped her up in his arms, flipped them so he straddled her. He'd been above her on their first night together, but it was all different now. That restlessness in his eyes unleashed and shaking through his frame, focused entirely on her. How could a gaze set her ablaze?

His did.

And she delighted in burning.

Delighted more in touching him, in rubbing her palm up his chest, over his shoulder, and down his back. More muscle there, twitching beneath her touch. Had this man married her, bed her the first time, she would not have felt unwanted, unnecessary. This Liam let his desire for her consume him.

His hands on her breasts, his tongue there, too. As he had last night, he kept one hand on her breast as he glided the other down between her legs, found her clitoris and circled it, stroked his fingers into her sex.

"You're ready." His voice a rumble against her neck where he kissed her, marked her.

"Since waking."

He growled near her ear, "You're mine now. And I will wait no longer, do you understand?"

"I do." And what a wicked, wanton, and wonderful reality it was.

"I consummated our marriage before, but now, I'm taking you . All of you. And giving you myself. Do you understand?" He nipped her neck, her earlobe.

She could offer only a breathy sound, a tight nod of her head as an answer.

"Do you understand this is no consummation, Cora? This is a claiming. Me of you. You of me."

"Yes," she moaned, clutching at his shoulders. "Please, Liam." Her body demanded him. "Now."

His mouth crashed into hers as he placed himself at her entrance. Teeth and tongue and pleading for more, for everything.

Not a consummation.

A claiming.

Yes .

Poised, every muscle tight and straining. He left the kiss only to catch her gaze, holding it with the promise to never let it go. She bit her lip, waiting, waiting, and he—

A knock on the door. "Liam?" a small voice said. "Are you sick? Mama's worried."

His jaw ticked.

"Ignore it," she said, scratching her nails along his back.

But he did not move, remained frozen above her, ready, ready, ready—

"Liam?" the same little voice said. Bethy.

"Do you think he's dead?" another little voice asked. That one, Mary.

Liam's eyes blazed with fury.

Cora flung her hands over her face. To laugh or cry, she could not tell.

"Papa says a fight broke out in the village yesterday." That, Henry's voice. "He could be hurt."

"Mama said not to bother him," Bethy whispered.

"Liam!" Mary bellowed.

"Bloody hell," Liam said between teeth clenched so hard they'd likely pop right out of his head soon.

"Tell them you're not dead," Cora whispered from behind her hands.

"I'm not dead," Liam shouted. His jaw twitched again.

Silence from behind the door, then, "See!" Bethy cried. "He's not dead. Liam, did you know we have a new guest?"

"I'm sleeping," Liam growled. "The guest can go away."

Cora swatted his shoulder. "Be nice."

"There is not a man in all of Christendom who would expect me to be nice at this very moment."

She did laugh then, flinging her arms around his neck and burrowing her face into his chest.

He collapsed on top of her with a deep chuckle.

"I don't think I should go away," Mary said. "Cora will want to see the new guest."

"Later," Liam groaned.

"Why does she think I want to see the guest?" asked Cora. "And I wonder who it is."

"The door might not be locked," Henry said matter-of-factly, as if he'd stated the weather.

Cora sobered, grasping about for the blankets. "Are the doors locked?"

"Hell." Liam launched to his feet, pulling a blanket with him to wrap around his waist and reaching for the door right as it popped open.

Three sets of eyes blinked up at him, then traveled lower to inspect the blanket. Their heads tilted in different directions, then Mary peeked around Liam's form and spied Cora. Mary waved.

Cora pulled her sheet higher up her shoulders so only her head remained visible and offered a weak smile, a nod.

"As you see, I am not dead." Liam pointed a finger down the hallway. "But I am busy at the moment."

"Busy?" Henry asked. "What are you busy doing with no clothes on? A bath? I hate baths."

"Go." Liam stabbed his finger toward the hallway.

"But doesn't Cora want to see her papa?" Bethy asked.

An odd buzzing sound began in her head. Surely she'd misheard. "My father?"

Bethy's head bobbed up and down. "Got here just this morning. Tall angry-looking man with a big chin and small ears."

"Bethy," Henry hissed, "you're not supposed to talk about that."

Liam took a step closer to his brother. "Did the man say he was Mr. Eastwood? Cora's father?"

All three tiny heads bobbed now.

And Cora felt as if the bed was falling away from underneath her. Her father. Here? "Why?"

"Dunno," Mary said, then she plopped two fingers into her mouth.

"Tell him he can wait." Liam closed the door and almost immediately a volley of footsteps tumbled down the hallway and out of earshot. He rested his forehead against the wood with a groan.

"Why is he here?" The buzzing had stopped inside Cora's brain, but a chill now crept up her arms. She rubbed at them, unable, no matter the friction of her palms, to rub up some warmth.

"Do not worry about him," Liam said, straightening and heading back to the bed. "He can wait for you."

As he pressed one knee into the mattress, she swung her legs off the opposite side of it. "I don't think I can wait."

He flopped to the bed with a groan.

"I do apologize, but this is so… so very odd. Why is he here? What could it mean?" She rushed to the door connecting their rooms. "I must dress."

"I'll be right behind you," he sighed, covering his eyes with the back of his hand.

Oh, look at the man, laid out like a swooning heroine. Her feet itched to find her wardrobe, but the rest of her itched for something else. She rushed to his side and dropped his hand away from his face. His mouth parted, and she kissed it, pouring every last bit of her wanting into it until he rose up on his elbows and kissed her back, a kiss more skilled than it had been in the garden when they'd sealed their fates. They'd been practicing, and it showed, and oh, she had to pull away.

She rested her forehead against his for a long moment, catching her breath, licking her lips, watching dusty morning sunlight turn his hair gold. She groaned as she pulled away from him.

He nodded at the door. "Go and dress. I will, too. We'll see about this new distraction together."

She rushed through the doorway, forgetting to close it behind her, and she heard him yell out as she ran for her wardrobe, "I'm going to make sure that the next time I strip you naked and attempt to claim you, there are no damn interruptions."

And for some reason, her body tight and buzzing with unfulfilled desire, her father waiting downstairs for who knew what benighted reason, she laughed. Not her usual laugh, the bitter sound that said she knew the world for what it was. She laughed with abandon and glee and something that felt suspiciously like hope.

"One more cursed interruption," Liam said, "and I'm going to set fire to Norton Hall." He meant it, too. But mainly he meant it to put some color in his wife's cheeks. They'd gone preternaturally pale the closer they came to the drawing room, where everyone currently had gathered.

Liam had only met the man once, at he and Cora's wedding. Then Mr. Eastwood had been all smiles, hundreds of teeth, and too many nose-to-knees bows to count. The word obsequious came to mind. Liam had barely noticed but for a slight irritation, his entire mind and body preoccupied with his new wife. She'd been pale that day, too. How had her father greeted her at the wedding breakfast? How had he treated her before? Liam could not remember the man exchanging a single word with her.

But considering her mother… considering Cora's pale cheeks… perhaps she preferred it that way.

The door rose up before them like a razor-edged cliff, and he locked their arms together. "You do not have to go in."

"I do not. You're right. But I will."

And then they were sailing into the drawing room, Cora's head held high, her jaw set at the exact angle of defiance.

"Good morning, love," his mother said, raising her cup of tea at him. She sat at the head of a grouping of chairs near an empty fireplace. The children played on the floor behind her, Angus and Mr. Eastwood sat on either side of her.

"You found clothes." Bethy giggled. "That's good."

"You looked like a roman soldier," Henry added.

Mary swallowed a piece of toast. "Cora looked like—"

"Children," his mother said, quiet yet sharp, "no more chatter please."

"I am guessing, Isla," Angus said, pinning the children with a glare, "we have just discovered where the children disappeared to a quarter hour ago."

"So sorry, Liam." His mother winced. "Does it help to know you are not the first man they've accidentally seen in a sheet?"

No, it did not help.

Angus sighed. "They have no sense of privacy, and if a man doesna remember to lock the door…"

Liam cleared his throat. "Perhaps this is not the best conversation to have with a guest present."

"Father," Cora said, tearing away from Liam's side, "such a surprise. What brings you to Norton Hall?"

Mr. Eastwood creaked upward, standing taller than Liam by several inches. His dark hair receded just as many inches from his brow, and it was styled slickly against his skull. The children had not been wrong. His ears were small. He flashed a glance at his daughter, then bowed low to Liam.

"My lord, I thought it time for me to visit my son-in-law. When I heard from Mrs. Eastwood that the two of you had retired to the country for an interlude, I took it upon myself to follow you."

Who else would follow them? His family, her family, the royal family. Was every mother and father and child to descend upon he and Cora's interlude and interrupt the bloody hell out of it?

He smothered his rising irritation and summoned a smile. Somehow. "We are delighted to have you, Mr. Eastwood. I'm sure you look forward to many delightful hours with your daughter."

"I have heard there is excellent fishing here," Mr. Eastwood said. "You have a well-stocked lake, my lord?"

Cora hid her face, her shoulders slumped a bit, and pink had stolen back into her cheeks, though not the way Liam liked best. Was she embarrassed or resigned?

"I have been told it is well stocked, but I have not yet tested that information myself."

Mr. Eastwood boomed a laugh and clapped Liam on the shoulder. "We shall have to go fishing, then, my boy."

Angus stood and stepped between them. "I shall go, too. Haven't fished in much too long." Liam's stepfather was shorter but broader than the banker, and he looked like he wanted to fight.

Irritated or amused? Liam could not choose between the two.

Wait a moment… yes, he could. Irritated. Most definitely. He grasped Cora's shoulders and guided her toward the chair next to the one her father had recently vacated. "You must catch up with your father."

"Oh, the girl has nothing to say to me, I'm sure." Mr. Eastwood stepped around Cora as if she were a dog who might leave unwanted hairs on his newly cleaned trousers. "It's better to have men about to speak with, isn't it?"

That was not a question Mr. Eastwood expected an answer to.

Liam answered anyway. "Nay, it's no'."

Cora smothered a chuckle behind her hand, then sank into the chair. "You have recently spoken with Mother, then Father?"

"Yes," he grumbled. "Damn woman tried to lord it over me." He huffed, looking at Angus as if he expected sympathy from that corner. Angus simply sat down next to his wife once more and crossed his arms over his chest. Mr. Eastwood did not seem to notice no one agreed with him. "She thinks to live in a viscount's London home? Thinks she's better than me because of it?"

Cora sighed, hung her head.

"You!" Mr. Eastwood swung toward his daughter. "Ungrateful girl, letting her get the better of me. You should have kicked her out."

"If mother wishes to stay at our townhouse, she may. It's not—"

"Yes, she may, but then I may come here . To be with the actual viscount." He held on to the edges of his jacket and pulled himself up tall.

Liam tried not to blame God too much for making a man like this and attaching him to a woman like Cora. "Is that the only reason you came?"

"It is reason enough. I finally have a son! What are we doing today? I passed a nice little village on my way here, and you know"—Mr. Eastwood winked—"where there's a village, there's always a willing little who—"

"Mr. Eastwood!" Liam's mother rose slowly to her feet. "There are children in this room." She shook her head. "Not for long. Come, children, let us go where there is more appropriate conversation."

Cora hurried after his mother and her ducklings. "I do apologize."

"It's not your fault, dear." Liam's mother patted Cora's shoulder. "Even roses bloom in horse shit."

"Mama!" several tiny voices said at once.

Liam's mother herded the children out into the hallway. "I apologize for the vulgarity. No one is to repeat it. As of right now, the appropriate conversation starts. I don't want to hear anyone…" Her voice faded, and Liam found himself in possession of a flustered wife, a snorting stepfather, and an oblivious father-in-law. Hell.

Cora collapsed against the doorframe, and Liam found her side. "Are you unwell?"

"Just tired." She wouldn't look at him. "So terribly tired." And he'd bet it had nothing to do with a lack of sleep.

"I am sorry your mother is so uncivilized," Mr. Eastwood said. "Must be inconvenient for a man such as you."

Angus trembled. Angus growled. Angus charged across the room, head lowered. Oh, Hell. Liam leapt, charging after his stepfather to the tune of Cora's shocked little shriek. Liam pounded into Angus before Angus could reach Mr. Eastwood, and somehow Angus shrank back across the room with him.

"Do not cause a scene," Liam hissed.

"Ye heard what he said about your mother."

"And I'd like to punch him, too, but—"

"Of course ye would! Ye're a good boy."

"But I can't. He's Cora's father. And a guest here." And if Liam knew anything, it was that viscounts didn't allow guests, no matter how odious, to be tackled in their drawing rooms by broad Scottish giants. "Go." He maneuvered Angus toward the door.

"I'm too angry to go. I think I need to demand satisfaction."

"No duels! Go to my study. Pace. Talk to the Edmonds. I don't care. But I am begging you not to kill Cora's father."

"It's all right. I'd not really notice." Cora was gliding across the room from door to window, her gaze vacant, her jaw set hard.

"That's a nice way to talk to your father," Mr. Eastwood said. "Say, Liam, can I call you Liam, should we fish today? The weather looks good for it."

Angus growled.

Did the man have no fear?

"No," Liam said. "I'm in no mood for fishing. I think it would be best for you to spend a few hours with your daughter. I would hate to get in the way of you two."

"It's no use, Liam," she said, looking out the window. "He doesn't want me. Never has." Those last two words barely audible.

Indeed, Mr. Eastwood appeared not to have heard them at all. He ignored all but Liam. "Hunting, then?"

"No!" Liam shoved his stepfather out the door. "I'm going to go calm Mr. Murray, and you are going to sit in this room and ask your daughter questions and chat with her about the weather and show her you care!" One final shove pushed Angus out into the hallway, and Liam fell out after him. He hurried the other man down the hall. Didn't want to hear his father-in-law reject Cora, prayed he wouldn't say anything too terribly mean out loud.

Once inside his study, Angus paced like a caged lion.

"What were you thinking?" Liam demanded. "You attacked him!"

"He deserved it. He disparaged your mother! And spoke out of turn before the children. Either one alone is a tackling offense. Together?" Angus snorted, cracked his knuckles. "The man is lucky he's still breathing."

"I can't deny it." Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd wanted to tackle the man, too.

"I will always defend your mother. She's a rare gem, and I am a lucky man. Few men get a second chance at happiness if they let it escape them once."

"You are a good man, Angus. Few would take on another woman's children as if they were their own. And I had no idea you were a widower."

Angus opened his mouth, closed it, shifted, then offered a smile much weaker than the others. "No' a widower. Never married until your mother. Only woman who's ever had my heart." He paused, his eyes murky with musings, then he finally said, "Your father was a good man, too. He would have done as I've done—accepting another man's child as his own. And ye are much like him."

"You knew one another?"

"Nay. But your mother speaks of him." His voice light with a shadow of something more serious shading it. "He would never have tackled anyone."

"No, he would not have."

Angus stopped prowling and curved inward. "I…" He shoved a shaking hand through his hair. "I dinna often control my passions. I did so too often in my youth, and I've learned no' to hold back in my old age."

Liam snorted. "Old age. As if you're doddering. You would have laid Eastwood flat."

"Aye." Angus grinned. "And what a horrid rug he'd make."

"Aye," Liam said, imitating his stepfather's burr, "but a better rug than a father."

Angus laughed. "God knows I'm proud of ye. Ye're a good husband. And I've embarrassed ye." He winced. "Let me make it up to ye? How can I?"

"Just don't kill the man. Until I say you can. And then you must let me have at him first." Liam dropped into a chair. "Do you know, Cora and I had planned to spend the day much differently than we are. I'm afraid I won't be able to take two steps now without Eastwood shadowing me."

Angus towered over him, arms crossed over his chest. "I'll distract him."

Liam tilted his head, raised a brow. "Murdering someone is not distracting them."

"Nay. I'll play nice. And I'll keep him away from ye. That's how I'll make it up to ye."

"How?"

"A tour of the house. The stable. Every item of ancestral value. I'm sure he'll want to view them all."

"But he's a bore. Are you sure, Angus?"

"In any possible way," Angus said. "I'm yours to command. I'll even keep the children away."

Liam leapt to his feet and strode for the door. "I accept. And your penance starts now."

He found Cora and Eastwood right where he'd left them. They sat across from one another, Cora staring a hole through her father's head, and her father reading a book, one leg crossed over the other, foot swinging.

"Oh, there you are!" he said when Liam entered. "How shall we spend the day?"

Cora rolled her eyes, and Liam caught her up out of the chair. "My wife and I will spend the day however we please."

Eastwood uncrossed his leg. "But I—"

"Will certainly enjoy the tour Mr. Murray has volunteered to take you on. An insider's tour."

"That Scotsman is not an insider."

"He is as much as you are."

Cora gasped.

Angus stepped into the room, cracking his knuckles. "It's ye and me, Eastwood, uncovering the ancient mysteries of one of England's most prestigious titles."

Liam weaved his hand with Cora's while her father gaped like a fish. "We're going."

"Going where?" Cora asked.

He made for the door, Cora stumbling after him to keep up.

"But where are we going?" She dug her heels into the carpet. "I'll not budge another inch until you tell me—ack!"

He picked her up and flipped her over his shoulder.

Cora's gasp rang throughout the drawing room and spilled heat along his lower back.

"Put me down! This is terribly undignified, Liam! In front of your family! In front of my father!"

"That's a man who knows how to treat a woman." Eastwood chuckled.

"On that we can agree." But Angus sounded rather surprised at the circumstances.

Behind Liam, Cora's arms moved, and she groaned. But he was too busy absconding with his wife to feel any shame. If they didn't want to witness such displays, they could stay out of his home. He'd do as he pleased here. And what he pleased was an unimpeded hour or two with Cora.

He didn't set her down once he passed the threshold and stepped into the sun, and as he crossed the lawn, she went limp, hanging on either side of him like a rag doll.

"Well back there, Cora?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, quite. Shoulders are underrated modes of travel. And one you quite approve of. I see I must become accustomed to it."

He patted her arse, gloried in her gasp, and carted her toward the lake, not setting her down until he stood just before the boathouse.

"In the mood for water sports?" she asked, hands on hips as she tilted her head back and surveyed the old building.

"Something like that. I have it on good authority this is an excellent place for an interlude."

"Oh?" She opened the door and stepped into the musty darkness, batting her lashes at him over her shoulder. "An interlude , as if we're attending a musical?"

He followed her and shut the door behind them. "Hm. I do intend to make you sing."

She laughed, and he reached for her, but she darted away. In the dim gray light of the boathouse, with the sun spilling in at the open end, he saw her shadow gliding toward the dock.

"I wish he had not come." Her shadow hovered at the end of the dock, then stepped over it into a waiting, rocking boat. The sound of gentle splashing, of wood groaning. She sat, her body outlined by the light of the open end of the boathouse behind her. A regal silhouette, but still, somehow, a sad one. "He came here for you ."

"I'll send him away. If Angus doesn't throw him out of a second-story window first." He joined her in the boat, sitting across from her. He could see her better here, her blank face and pinched lips. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, to hunt for the storms behind the shadows in her eyes.

"Good luck. Once he's set his mind on a course of action, it's difficult to dissuade him. I come by my stubbornness naturally, you see." After a thoughtful moment, she said, "If he were a cruel and violent sort of man, it might be easier to accept his inattention, to fault him for it, to not feel as if it's my fault. But he's… jolly. I guess that is why so many women like him. He makes them feel special."

His fingers wrapped around the edge of the wooden seat, its sharp edge biting into his skin. But that bite not as sharp as her chin lowered in defeat.

"But not you."

"He wants what he admires, and he admires what he wants. But he's never wanted me." Liam took her hand, and she let him, turning her hand so they were palm to palm, fingertips to fluttering pulses.

God, didn't he know what that felt like. A father could keep your body living and healthy but leave the soul starved. And then you grasped for any sustenance, anything that might fill you up and leave you sated, show you how to be so he'd see you, admire you. Cora spoke for herself, but she might as well be looking into Liam's own life. He felt her wounds as if they were his own. Because they were. All his life he'd tried to be like others—his father, his peers, his cousin, the peerage. In all that time, he'd never found someone like him. Until Cora. Both lonely and unwanted as they were.

No more. For Cora, at least. Because he wanted her. For her bravery and her quick wit, for her stubborn soul and her kind heart.

His duty to be Cora's husband? His obligation to make her happy, to please her in the bedroom and out of it? Perhaps. But more than duty now. Something sweeter that Liam had never dared hope for. He wanted to soothe and warm and praise her because she was Cora, and Cora was… the sun and the moon, midnight and noon, wife and lover and friend and… beloved.

"I think," Cora said, her voice small and gray in the shadows, "my mother might have wanted me if my father had. But he didn't. So, she found me worthless, too. I used to think being quiet and good and obedient would change things. But it simply allowed them to ignore me more. An obedient girl needs no watching. She watches herself."

"You? Obedient? Ha."

A short flash of her teeth. "I decided not to be one day. Or… no… it wasn't quite like that. I found a way to acquire what my parents denied me. And to use my reputation to get it. No one suspects a good girl of writing and reciting erotic poetry."

"Including me, I'm afraid."

Her eyes glittering, she scooted closer to him until their knees touched. She squeezed his hand, and the smile growing across her lips made him want to cry. Because he'd never seen her like that before—effortlessly happy without reservation or fear. "Do something for me, Liam?"

He'd buy a fleet of rowboats and sit within them, doing whatever Cora pleased if it made her smile exactly like that.

"Anything. What do you wish?"

"Only for you to listen. I'd like to recite one of my poems for you. Now"—she pulled away from him to sit up straight and tall—"row me out into the light."