Chapter 13

December 21, 1822

Another nightmare woke Atlas, and he gulped in gray dawn light with the air, muffling his ragged breaths with a blanket shoved over his mouth. The dreams, once rare, ripped through his sleeping hours more often than not the last several weeks, and each one found him sweating, reaching for the trigger of a rifle or the hilt of a sword from the cold, hard floor of his bedchamber.

When his heartbeat settled to a slightly softer rhythm, he glanced at the bed. Clara slept soundly, as she did every morning, fresh sunlight spilling over her luscious form. Shadows reigned, still, in the cold corner he'd used as bed since the day he'd returned from the dairy. He groaned as he pushed out of the little nest he slept in each night and stretched. Damn, he missed his bed. His body demanded comfort, but he'd demanded they continue this hellish game of pretend until after Christmas. For his family's sake. His body's needs be damned.

And he couldn't very well share the bed with Clara anymore. She'd yelled at him a bit the first time he'd curled up on the floor, showing a fiery passion that had made him want to toss her onto the very bed she insisted he use and use it in a way she no longer wanted.

He'd slept in the dower house that night to avoid further temptation. Not something he could do every night without arousing his family's suspicion.

The hard floor his penance, his sacrifice. Over soon, though. Christmas fast approached, and then they'd reveal the true state of their marriage to his mother.

Good. It must end soon, or he'd go mad.

Because every damn day he wanted his wife more than the day before. Wasn't supposed to be this way. Love at first sight never lasted. A bright burst, a short life, a quick end. Something to be glad for before moving on to the next thing.

But Clara …

Clara. Pink and green and red, curves and color and apple. The most beautiful part of his day, the moments before she woke up. Her thick eyelashes shadowed her pale cheek, and her lips parted slightly in sleep. Her long hair escaped in wild tendrils from her plait, and if a curl crossed her eyelids, he tucked it behind her ear. And if the quilt had strayed too low on her form, he tugged it up to her neck.

Today, both were in need of fixing, so he did, trying not to linger, failing. Then, like every morning, he left her warm and rosy-cheeked and opened the door so slowly flowers likely unfurled beneath morning light before he could slip through and into the empty hallway. And finally breathe without taking in the clean scent of his wife along with the air. Like air. Soap and paint. He'd never again smell either without thinking of Clara.

But he should not be thinking of Clara at all. She did not want him to. And she had a point. They'd made great strides with the dower house in the month and a half since she'd come to Briarcliff, and he guessed that, perhaps, in a month or a little bit more, he'd be able to leave. He'd be able to visit in life the places he haunted while sleeping, the places that haunted him. He'd be able to see them green and glowing and breathe in the smell of air and sea and sun, not blood and sweat and gunpowder. And once he saw that soil could heal, maybe he could heal, too.

Everyone thought him already mended. Because he wanted them to, needed them to. But he wasn't. Not even close, and the most brutal wounds were those no one could see. He had to suture those first before…

Before what?

No looking beyond that moment. He hadn't looked beyond it in years. Leaving, traveling, healing, his only horizon.

He crossed the field that led to the dower house in the gray morning fog and let himself in. What was there to do today? They worked, still on the molding that would go around the ceilings of each room. Clara helped him when she could. When she wasn't resurrecting tables with chips and chairs with broken legs. She insisted on not just fixing them but refinishing them, claiming, rightly, that it would be better than spending money on new furniture.

Running his hand across a pedestal table she'd completed yesterday, he closed his eyes. A silky finish. But not as silky as her hair. He began to hum, an old tune he'd crafted before he'd met her.

But the words didn't come, neither the old ones nor any new ones. He had no new words since he'd left their bed. Tunes hummed through him, but lyrics kept their distance. How could the words come when everything had turned gray? Every flower, every sunrise, every damn blade of grass.

He stomped up the stairs to the room he'd been working on for weeks. The floor fixed now, smoothed and stained and shining. He'd moved on to other tasks, smaller ones that signaled the room would soon be finished.

Bypassing all tools, all tasks, he strode straight to the window, checked the lock. Still in place. As it had been for weeks now.

Not that Alfie had tried to climb through it. Clara had told him the window needed to be nailed shut for some reason or another. The boy had glanced at Atlas, frowned, then shrugged and ambled off, likely to find some other height to risk his life with.

Atlas turned from the empty square and sorted through his tools, studied the list Clara had given him of tasks to be completed.

A tap against the glass, and Atlas's heart leapt. He leapt to his feet and turned to the window. Empty. A rising wind had knocked a tree branch against the closed window.

Not Alfie.

Atlas rubbed his chest, tried to massage the howling knot out of his heart. But pacing uncountable laps around the room didn't do it. With a growl, he collapsed against the wall, sinking to the floor and reaching for his small knife, the ill-shaped chunk of wood next to it. The first slice shaved off a bit of his restlessness, and by the time a man's head formed beneath his strokes, he could breathe again, he could resist looking at that empty window.

Each tap of the branch against the window, though, so like a boy's fist demanding entrance, may as well have been a slice of his knife into his flesh.

Focus on the form taking shape, cut away everything that doesn't matter. Each snick of blade against wood, a note. Each breath from his lungs, a chorus. Until the form looked more boy than man. Should be perched in a tree.

Hell.

He pulled his knees up and hung his head between them. The closed window screamed at him. Blank, empty, going on forever that way.

Footsteps like gunshots down below. He startled to his feet. How long had he been slumped there? Enough time to finish whittling an entire figure for…

Not for Alfie.

Hell.

He flung the door open and teetered at the top of the steps for a moment, found a steady breathing rhythm and listening to the voices below. His mother and Clara, chatting as if he wasn't suffocating up here.

Time for the noonday meal, then.

He jolted down the stairs and grinned as he hit the very bottom one, three upturned faces coming into view. His mother, Alfie, and Clara, wearing breeches, as usual. His body leaping to attention, as usual.

"How's it faring, love?" Despite the endearment, he kept his distance, clinging to the bottom-most newel post. Difficult to find a way to pretend without getting too close to her.

She managed to smile at him, though it didn't touch her eyes. "Shall I show you what I've accomplished this morning?"

His mother, unloading a loaf of bread from a basket, looked up, her gaze darting between them.

He followed Clara across the room, careful not to touch her. "Do you need my help with anything?"

"No. I've finished the window seat." She knelt and ran a hand across the smooth wood. "What do you think?"

He thought his wife a siren, sunlight streaming through the window and igniting the flames in her hair. He dropped to his knees beside her, ready to worship.

But he didn't touch her.

And she didn't touch him. But she did glance over her shoulder at his mother. Clara only touched him when others were looking, and his mother had busied herself with setting up the table. Clara smoothed her hand back across the wood, and his hand followed hers across the seat's edge. Silky, corners perfectly joined with the window.

"Perfection."

She gave him a tight smile and stood, her gaze pulling him to his feet.

Why couldn't he look away from her? Why could he never look away? Even though looking ached more than the scar gnarled down his thigh.

"Th-thank you," she stammered, pacing away from him to join his mother at the table. She snapped a drop cloth over a table she'd recently repaired, Alfie dragged chairs across the room to the table, and the four of them sat, Alfie with the toy soldier in one hand and a chunk of cheese in another. He still carried the toys Atlas had made for him around, the soldier one always in his pocket or hand. He didn't seem overly worried that Atlas had melted into the background, tried his best to become a bit of furniture Clara had not yet fixed, dusty and falling apart in a corner of the dower house.

Beside Atlas, Clara was paint-smeared and lovely. He lifted a hand to brush a thumb across her cheek, to remove a bit of blue smeared there. She jerked away from his touch, and he let his hand drop to his lap.

Silence fed the table, then his mother said, "Is there something wrong, Clara?"

"No!" A word yelled a bit too loudly.

"Are the two of you at odds?" His mother glanced between them, her mouth screwed into a worried curl.

Atlas swallowed. "Everything is fine, Mother."

"I don't think it is. There's been a tension these last few weeks. Darlings, whatever it is, you can work it out. Perhaps you should meet with me tonight, and we'll discuss?—"

"No, Mother. It's nothing."

Clara laughed. "He scared me is all. I didn't see him coming." She offered Atlas a smile.

"Apologies," he mumbled. "You have a bit of paint. Right here." She let him lean close this time, and she let him lift his hand to her face, rub his thumb across her cheek and pull the blue from her skin. He held it up, showing her the paint. But was his mother convinced? Better to be careful.

He kissed the spot on her cheek where the paint had been.

"Thank you." She ducked her head, cheeks pink as roses.

"A lady who blushes often is well loved," his mother said. "I am glad to see all is well."

"Blech." Alfie scrunched his nose.

Clara and Atlas whipped up straight. Their bodies, which had slanted toward one another slightly to share the confidence of the paint and intimacy of a chaste kiss, snapped apart.

His mother ruffled Alfie's hair. "You'll not find affection so unappealing one day, darling boy."

Alfie's nose became nothing more than a series of wrinkles in the middle of his face.

Atlas ate slowly, savoring each bite. Each breath of Clara next to him.

Clara ate like her plate had caught fire. A bit of bread shot out of her mouth, and she froze. He rolled his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing. And then allowed himself to laugh because his soul needed to.

"In a hurry, little mouse?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed, and she chewed slowly, swallowed. "Little mouse?"

He poked her cheek, not daring a smile. "Cheeks full of cheese."

"Ah." She lowered the hunk of bread she'd been holding to the table. "Just anxious to return to my work."

Anxious to leave his side. Like every other day since she'd ended it. Bollocks. If only he were the carefree rogue of his youth, then he'd take what he wanted, take her body and her heart and make them his, no matter the consequences.

He picked up her bread, warm and soft between his fingers, and tore a bit off, lifted it to her lips. Scarcely breathing, eyes narrowing to slits, she took the bit of bread with her teeth, her plump lips brushing against his fingertips. God, he shouldn't, but he took her jaw in his hand before she could escape, and he smoothed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, sweeping away the crumb left there. A scoundrel would kiss her. Perhaps Atlas would.

"Another?" he asked.

"I can feed myself." She fought for the bread, her hand threading with his when he would not release it, her head hung low, and her gaze riveted on their tangling fingers.

"But I prefer to feed you, little mouse."

"Atlas." She looked up slowly, peeking at him through the spikes of her long lashes.

"Hm?"

"Mice bite. Did you know?" Her eyes flashed. She'd had enough.

He released the bread.

"Atlas," his mother said, and thank God because he needed some distraction, "would you gather some mistletoe for the holiday?"

Alfie bounced to attention, dropping the soldier to the table. "Mistletoe?" He looked to Atlas. "How do you gather it?"

"You'd like it." Atlas allowed himself to smile at the boy. "Much potential for climbing."

Alfie's entire being lit up. "Can we go, Atlas?"

"No, I don't think I can." He spoke the words into the table. "I'll be busy. You should ask Raph."

"You're always busy," Alfie muttered.

Atlas rubbed at his chest. The pain there unlikely to go away any time soon.

"Nonsense," his mother said. "You should all go! You must. We'll need greenery as well, and it will take less time if there are more to gather it all."

Alfie's head started bobbing. "Can we, Mama?" Faster and faster, a woodpecker of a boy.

Clara's mouth hung open for a hesitating moment before she said, "I… do not… think it a good idea."

"Why not?" Alfie moaned. "Atlas, please? Surely you can't be too busy." The boy would bounce himself right out of his seat.

God, he wanted to say yes. "Only if your mother agrees."

Clara's cheek bulged out as she chewed her bread, and she glared into the distance until she swallowed. "I'll consider it."

His mother stood, gathering the items of their small repast.

"Alfie, darling, I think it's time we return to the house for your lessons."

"Awwww." Alfie sank low in his seat. "Don't wanna."

She nudged him upward and slung an arm around his shoulder. "Focus well, and we'll spend an extra hour in the orchard today. You can climb all you wish."

Alfie's drooping steps perked up, and Atlas's mother swept him out the door with a parting wink at Atlas and Clara.

With the click of the closed door, Clara's chair scooted across the floor, and several inches appeared between him and her. She finished her food quickly and stood, brushed her hands on her skirts and disappeared into another room.

Atlas threw his bread down. A marriage of convenience, that's what they shared. He knew that. Knew also that she didn't truly need him. She needed his name. His family. His home. He had nothing to do with what she needed.

Her, however… he had rather begun to need her. Had not been able to shake that unexpected physical attraction that had flamed between them in the first days of their acquaintance, that had built into something sweet in the first weeks of their marriage.

He pushed his palms into his thighs to stand, allowing his fingers to massage the tortured muscle with a groan.

No, not need her. Couldn't be that. It was just that she always looked so lovely. And the sunsets had all turned gray these days. And sky reflected in the mirrored surface of the lake not as blue or bright. Fuzzy sheep and jolly cows and beautiful thoroughbreds offered considerably less joy than they'd used to. But the brief moments he pretended love to Clara—miracles, each one. The brightest, most beautiful spots in his day. Because the flush that rushed across her fair skin was deeper than a rose. And the sparks in her eyes when he'd pushed a bit too far more unfathomable than shooting stars. And the scent of her when he kissed her—temple, cheek, the butter-soft curls on the top of her head—more fragrant than a field of wildflowers.

He snorted. Where were all these pretty words when he needed to write a song? When he sat down at a pianoforte, the words quite drained away. Like making love to Clara, he'd not truly appreciated them until he no longer had them.

He hummed a happy tune to cast some yellow about the room and returned to his work. The space smelled of wood shavings and paint and every bit of it looked fresh and new. Light filtered through the window, but as he set to work, actually set to work this time, that light quickly faded to gray. He completed task after task until he'd conquered the list Clara had given him and the navy blue of dusk cast him in darkness.

Done. He was done here. Two rooms to go, and those, too, would soon fall to the quick progress he and Clara made daily.

Done soon. And then…

He'd start with Paris first. Revisit some of the roads and fields he'd marched across the last time he'd been there, see beauty in a scarred land's healing. If the land wasn't cannon blasted any longer, he would not be either. Then he'd go to the Netherlands, naturally, then Italy. Perhaps Germany after that. He'd like to see the Alps.

Alfie would like the Alps, would see their reputed heights as a crowning challenge. His eyes would glow with gleeful greed to climb those crags. And Atlas would have to stick him underneath one arm and run him far away to keep him safe.

He shook his head. Alfie standing beside him at the base of the Alps? Would never happen. He was safe here. With Clara. And Atlas needed to go.

Perhaps, when he returned, his nightmares would be gone, and the shadows that haunted his days banished. He would be no burden for them, then. He could stay then.

If they wished him to.

He eased to the floor and leaned against a wall, pulling a nearby knife and hunk of wood to him. He found the form of a soldier and waited for black to claim the sky.