His gaze had fixed on the ceiling. He wasn’t speaking to her—or at least, not the real Georgiana. She might very well have featured in his drugged dreams.
“I’m here, Thom.” Cradling the back of his head in her palm, she tipped him forward and brought the spoon to his lips. “You need to swallow this. It will help your throat.”
She didn’t know if he heard or if he simply swallowed in automatic response to the broth being spooned into his mouth. Not a single drop spilled, even now. He’d always been a fastidious man. Not overly concerned by his appearance—he just preferred neatness and order in all things.
That was something Georgiana had learned about Thom before she’d ever met him. Eight years ago, her father had hired him on as chief mate of his whaling ship, and within a day, the gossip from Skagen had been laden with the complaints of the sailors taken to task for sloppy stations and berths. At the dinner table, however, her father spoke nothing but praise.
Although she’d heard much about him, five months passed before Georgiana had actually seen her father’s new chief mate. And although Thom gave little thought to his appearance beyond keeping himself neat, she had not been able to stop thinking of it.
Not because Thom was handsome—though he was that. His dark hair held just a hint of curl, in a sensibly short style that he trimmed himself. Taken one at a time, his features were too heavy: thick slashing brows over deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, and a wide mouth. But the strong frame of his angular jaw and cheekbones prevented the boldness of his features from overwhelming his face, and complemented his height and breadth. Altogether, he made a striking figure.
But it hadn’t been his face or his size that had captured her interest. It had been his stillness. It had been the intensity of his gaze when he’d looked at her in return. It had been his quiet manner, and how he used as few words as possible when he spoke, so that each one felt significant—like a promise.
So when Thom had asked what would make her happiest, Georgiana had told him. After years of watching her mother pacing in front of the window facing the sea, her gaze searching the horizon, and waiting weeks and months for Georgina’s father to come home, she’d known exactly what would make her happy. A husband who will hold me in his arms every night. And she’d believed Thom when he’d sworn that he would.
Then the morning after they were married, he’d sailed off in the salvaging boat her father had given him as a wedding gift.
With a sigh, Georgiana put aside the empty bowl. These weren’t memories that she wanted to revisit. Their wedding night had been painful enough—and she’d understood that remorse and guilt had driven him away, despite her asking him to stay. But it didn’t explain the second and third time. That last visit, he had not even waited until morning to go. He had not even waited long enough to spend his seed inside her, but abandoned Georgiana in the middle of their coupling—even though it hadn’t hurt that time, and he’d had nothing to be sorry for.
Nothing to be sorry for, except staying away for four years. That had been more painful than anything she’d experienced in their bed.
But those years had apparently treated him well. Despite the fever and bullet wound, he appeared healthy. Shadowed by dark hair, thick muscles carved his broad chest and strong thighs, their shape well-defined even at rest. He was just as handsome. Like many men at sea, he wore a beard to protect his face from the elements—and kept it neatly trimmed, so that even after two days’ growth his whiskers didn’t look unkempt.
The last time Georgiana had seen him, he’d been clean-shaven. Each night he’d taken her to bed, he’d always taken a razor to his beard first, and his skin had been smooth when he’d kissed her.
But not now. Frowning, she ran her fingers down the short, silky strands covering his jaw. He wasn’t clean-shaven now, despite the rumors that he’d been in another woman’s bed.
When she’d first heard the whispers, her instincts told her not to believe them. This beard told her the same. And it was hardly solid evidence that he’d been faithful during his absence—he could grow a beard within a few weeks, after all—but whispers were no more substantial. Georgiana preferred to trust her instincts over rumors.
Not that it mattered. His fidelity had never been the problem; his absence was. But believing that he’d been true to his vows hurt less than believing he hadn’t been.
And she would not think about how substantial his new arms were.
Those arms moved restlessly at his sides, steel fingers clenching. He turned his cheek against her palm.
“Georgie?”
His voice didn’t sound so painfully dry now, more like his own; her name was a low, deep rumble.
“I’m still here, Thom.” Right where she’d been for years.
His unfocused gaze looked beyond her shoulder. “I failed you, Georgie.”
“Yes.” A hard little laugh escaped her. “Yes, you surely—”
“I was coming to stay. To hold you every night.” A rough hitch of his breath was like a hook through her chest. “But I lost it. I lost it all.”
Coming to stay? Her heart suddenly seemed pinched in a vise. She couldn’t breathe.
It meant nothing. The words of a man blissed on opium. And even if they were true, he’d said them far too late.
But despite the stern reminder Georgiana gave herself, almost a minute passed before she could speak again. “You were coming to stay?”
He didn’t respond. Still only seeing the Georgiana in his dream—or perhaps seeing nothing at all now.
She tried again. “What did you lose, Thom? Oriana? Your crew? And who shot you?”
Silence. She wanted to shake his shoulders and rouse him. To make him answer. But there would be time for answers tomorrow.