OSWALD nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, the dim golden light from the wall sconces spilling softly across the room. He crossed to the bed and lowered Orlanda gently onto the mattress, as though she were made of porcelain.

She propped herself on her elbows, watching him as he straightened. His gaze roamed over her, not in the rough, claiming way she had once feared, but with something warmer, almost reverent.

He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it aside before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You know,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, “I’m not used to… taking my time.”...