Bound To Bea

Chapter Thirty Six

When Noah awakened the next morning, Beatrice was not by his side. He rose to his feet, finding his discarded nightshirt on the floor, and once he had slipped it on, made his way to the door that connected his room to Beatrice's.

He found her there, perched on the edge of the massive bed, her head bowed as she clasped her hands before her. Her wild red hair was tamed into a loose braid that hung over her left shoulder.

"My love," he called, gaining her attention. She raised her gaze to him, her eyes dimmed by sadness. "Are you alright?" He frowned, confused, as he crossed the room to sit beside her.

"I have nothing to wear," she murmured, turning from him to glance down at her borrowed nightshirt.

"Of course. Forgive my negligence. I shall have my servants pack your bags and bring them here immediately."

"I do not wish to stay here." Her declaration surprised him, causing his frown to deepen.

"What do you mean?"

"I want to return to my home."

"This is your home. Unless you would rather we journey to Camden immediately."

She rose to her feet, and turning from him, made her way to the window. Pushing the purple curtains aside, she stared straight ahead into the cool morning.

"I was speaking of the home I shared with Oliver. I wish to return there."

Noah watched her. Even with the oversized nightshirt that hung loosely on her form, he knew where every curve of her body lay. He had her entire body committed to memory, and last evening, while his hands and lips explored her body, he vividly remembered her consenting to remain with him, despite the opinions of the rest of society.

What changed? Unless, of course, she had simply been intoxicated by passion when she agreed to stay with him. Perhaps she hadn't been thinking coherently; perhaps he must once again convince her to stay like he did the evening before.

Rising to his feet, he crossed the room to stand behind her. Wrapping both arms around her waist, he pulled her back against himself and kissed her neck, evoking a soft gasp from her lips.

"Do you not wish to remain with me?" he whispered huskily against her neck. "Have you grown weary of me in such a short time that you would rather return to the comfort of your dead husband's home?"

She tensed, her back stiffening at his words.

"Bea—" he tried again, knowing he had somehow managed to upset her. But she shook her head, silencing him.

"It is not as you think."

"No?"

"No."

"Then what is it?" He trailed his lips up her neck, pausing on her earlobe, causing her to lean back against him as a soft sigh of satisfaction drifted from her lips. "What is it?"

She ran her palm up and down his arm, where it lay clutched to her waist. "I do not wish to be away from you," she whispered. "Indeed, the thought nearly seems to be more than I can bear."

He released her then, circling her until he was standing before her, and as he stared down at her pale face and tear-filled eyes, he knew she was keeping something from him.

He touched her face. "Then don't; neither think of it, nor bear such ridiculous notions."

She glanced down. "It is not you I wish to be away from." Her soft whisper caused his frown to return. Who else was here but him?

"You're displeased by my servants?" Perhaps she had overhead a busybody saying something out of place?

She shook her head, and in that second, realization set in; if she wasn't displeased by him or his servants, it left only one person out.