Rosamund
He crossed to the wardrobe, opened it, and withdrew a simple, loose cotton nightgown. He came back to me and gathered it over my head, guiding my arms through the sleeves the way one might dress a child.
He smoothed the fabric down over my body, his knuckles brushing my hips, and I felt a slight hesitation before his hands fell away.
He bent, scooped me up from the pool of discarded clothing, and carried me to the bed. He laid me down carefully, drew the covers up to my shoulders, and tucked them around me with a gentleness that warmed me more than the blanket.
"Sleep, okay?" he said. "I'll wake you in time for the banquet."
As he turned to leave, I reached out and caught his hand.
He stopped. Looked down at our joined fingers, then at my face. "What is it? Do you need anything?"
I shook my head and lifted the edge of the covers, moving deeper into the bed, making space. Then I looked at him and patted the empty stretch of mattress beside me.
