His fingers had stopped moving but still he held her, his grip firm as if he was afraid to let go of what he was holding.
A strand of hair had fallen over his forehead. He looked rakish, and younger than his years. For a moment she saw the man she’d fallen in love with. The student who had been so wrapped up in his subject he’d barely known whether it was day or night. In those first few years he’d lived in college and she’d occasionally arrived at his rooms to find him unshaven with bloodshot eyes because he’d been reading all night.
She was the one who had forced him into the shower and then dragged him to breakfast in their favorite café, tucked away in one of the narrow cobbled side streets that were a feature of the ancient university city. He’d devoured bacon and eggs while telling her about his plans to join a dig that summer. He’d talked about pyramids and burial chambers, about gods and burial rituals. Right from the first moment they’d set eyes on each other in the Bodleian Library, she’d been captivated. She’d been taking refuge from a hot, sweaty summer. He’d been absorbed in research. She’d loved his passion, and she’d envied it.
She’d chosen to read English literature, because her parents had pushed her in that direction and she’d found no reason to argue. She enjoyed it, but not in a million years would she have described it as a passion.
Once they were married, her life had fallen into a pattern. She’d tended the girls, she’d tended Honeysuckle Cottage, she’d tended her garden. Somewhere along the way she’d forgotten to tend her marriage. She wasn’t a martyr. She didn’t take all the blame. Nick was at least half as responsible, but somehow that didn’t make her feel better. Their marriage hadn’t exploded or died a dramatic death; it had simply withered and died of neglect.
She felt a spasm of regret, but under the ache was an emotion far, far more dangerous.
She fought against the rebellious swirl of feelings that rose up inside her.
The only way seemed to be to remove herself, so she stepped back and scooped up her wet clothes. “I’ll take that shower before hypothermia sets in.”
He didn’t answer and when she glanced at him there was a tiny furrow between his brows as if he was trying to figure out what had just happened.
If he’d asked, she wouldn’t have been able to tell him.
Her heart had been as frozen as her skin, but his touch had thawed it and now all she felt was pain and more than a little confusion.
She locked the bathroom door, stripped off the last of her clothes and stepped under the hot water.
By the time she’d dried her hair and dressed, he’d made hot drinks and that brief moment of intimacy had passed.
“We had a delivery while you were in the shower.” His voice sounded so normal it made her wonder if the awkward moment earlier had all been in her imagination.
“What type of delivery? Please tell me it’s not a crate of champagne.”
“An envelope. It’s addressed to you—from Catherine.”
She took the envelope from him and opened it, smoothing the page. Would he notice that her hand wasn’t steady? “It’s an itinerary.”
“For what?”
Maggie sat down hard on the sofa. “This is awkward. Catherine has arranged some special activities for us.”
“Why is that awkward? It’s thoughtful. What sort of activities?”
She fiddled with the envelope. “Couples activities.” She didn’t look at him. “Romantic activities.” And then she was thinking of that moment again, the moment when his touch and breathing had altered.
Nick joined her on the sofa. “Why would she do that?”
“Apparently I told Dan this was a second honeymoon for us, and he passed that information on to her.” She looked at him. “Sorry.”
His eyes gleamed. “That’s what happens when you drink too much champagne.”
“That’s what happens when someone forces me onto a plane.” She flopped her head back against the sofa. “How can one small modification of the truth create such a ripple effect? And I don’t want you to answer that. If you say ‘I told you so’ I’ll push more snow down your pants.”
“I would never say I told you so. That would make me smug. I have many faults, but I’m never smug. I have sympathy with human frailties.”
She lifted her head. “You’re saying I have frailties?”
“No, you’re perfect, apart from the occasional small modification