Feeling returned to his extremities and he moved to the worktable where Cook had left out bannocks under a wire dome, per Scottish tradition. Apparently it was to keep the fae hungrily occupied instead of roaming the castle at night for mischief. Wynn had never heard of that tradition, but then, he didn’t hail from the deeply superstitious Highlands like some of his kitchen workers did. If there was one person in the house he wanted to keep happy, it was the cook and so the bannocks stayed. Except for the one he stuffed in his mouth to feed his growling belly. London was a long train ride.
Trudging up the servant’s stairs, he came out into the Stone Hall and sighed with relief. Home. Music plucked his ear. Was someone up at this hour? Dropping his bag on a bench beneath an ancient targe and broadsword, he followed the strains of the recorded melody. He’d always appreciated music but never had the ear for it; he could never tell the instruments apart. At the double doors of the Grand Hall he stopped dead in his tracks at the ethereal sight floating across the floor.
Svetlana dancing.
No, not dancing. It was more than that. She moved as if her skin and bones had peeled away to release her very soul. A piece long laid dormant was resuscitated as her arms circled high over her head, stretching herself into existence. Her pale arms and legs extended in graceful arcs with the airy folds of her robe wrapping and unwrapping around her movements like butterfly wings. Moonlight weaved between the strands of her plaited hair, refining it to pure silver. The music surged. Faster and faster she spun until she was no more than a ribbon of silver.
The air clenched in Wynn’s lungs. In that single moment his heart was irrevocably and irretrievably lost with no hope of ever reclaiming it.
The music ended. Svetlana stilled on the points of her toes. Her eyelids fluttered open, and her eyes locked onto his. Slowly she lowered her feet flat to the floor. Her position settled into one of familiar cool reserve, yet there was a rawness lingering along her edges, a shimmering residue of her soul that had yet to be drawn back in.
A smile played about her lips. “You’re home.”
Her voice drowned his battered ego and flamed a desire to come alive as she had been. To come alive with her. The war, the medical board, pride, and death fell away until nothing stood before him but her. The one he loved.
He crossed the distance between them in a matter of strides and took her face between his hands, hesitating long enough to inhale her gasp of surprise before covering her mouth with his. She tasted of mint, soothing yet with a sharpness that pierced through every part of him. Her body eased against his as she responded to his touch with equal fervor. She stole into him, lighting fire to his veins, and blood, and bones until he was wholly consumed with her brightness.
Svetlana pulled away. Cool air brushed across Wynn’s heated lips. “Is this how you greet your wife?”
“Would she rather I didn’t?” His voice came out ragged.
“She would rather you had done it sooner.” Her fingernails dragged across the back of his neck.
It was all the encouragement he needed. Pouring every unspoken word and tenderness into the kiss, he held her as he’d dreamed of doing for so long. Never would she doubt the way he felt about her, how much he wanted her, how much he needed her. For so long he thought she called to a lost part of him, but he now realized it had never been lost, merely half formed. She gave him promise of being whole.
“I’m glad I didn’t stay in London one more night.” He touched his forehead to hers, savoring her nearness.
“I was expecting you to send word on when you were to return. I should have remembered your need to surprise me at unexpected moments.”
The past week came rushing back, the full weight of it no longer to be ignored. He leaned back and steadied himself. He loathed to break the moment, but it was past time to confess.
“My days in London—”
She placed a slender finger against his lips. “Shh. There is plenty of time to tell me later.”
“I need to tell you what really happened—”
“Tomorrow. Can we not have tonight?”
If they were ever to move forward, honesty must thrive between them. To hold back the truth was selfish. Or was it selfish to cleanse himself of his lies and ease his conscience when she pleaded for one single night together? How could he deny her?
“Wait right here.” He jogged out to the hall and rifled through his valise to pull out a thin leather box and a velvet pouch. Back in the Grand Hall, he placed the box next to the phonograph and crooked his finger at Svetlana. “Hold out your hand.”