“Harry,” she said, and reached out a hand to touch the seam of the worst of his old saber wounds, which slashed across his left hip. His body looked very much like an old battleground. “I came so close to never knowing you at all, did I not?”
She came into his arms again, all soft, hot, naked perfection.
He hoped he was going to be able to impose some control, some discipline, upon himself. It had been a long time. He wanted to make it perfect. For both of them. She had been a long time without too. But this was not just the lust of a long hunger. He could not recall ever wanting a woman as he wanted Lydia at this moment. She had crept up on him in her quiet, near-invisible way like all the dreams of love and perfection he had ever dreamed rolled into one. Yet she was no dream.Thiswas no dream.
He drew back the bedcovers and she lay down and reached for him. It was only after he followed her that he thought of the candle, its flame multiplied several times in the wings of the mirror over the dressing table. He had not asked if she would prefer darkness. He did not ask now. He wanted to see her, and her eyes were feasting upon him, scars and all.
His control was put to the test. She was all panting need as she pressed herself to him, moved against him, and kissed him, murmuring his name. Her skin was warm and smooth, her breasts small and firm, her nipples hard, her waist narrow, her hips flaring, her legs smooth, the place between her thighs hot and moist. He felt them all with his palms, his fingers, his lips, his tongue. But there was little or no rousing to be done. She was ready for him, open to him, eager, reaching, hot, and repeating his name.
He moved on top of her, spread her legs with his knees, slid his hands beneath her to lift her and hold her steady, positioned himself, and entered her. Slowly. She was tight, and he remembered again that it had been a long time for her. Butsotight. And then almost impossible. Until she flinched slightly and he slid with sudden ease to his full length deep inside her.
He lay still on her for a moment, savoring the tight, soft heat that encased him, and wondering, a bit startled, if … Considering an impossibility, shaking it off as absurd, but holding back the urge to begin moving so she could adjust to the feel of him. Then he slid his hands free, took some of his weight onto his forearms, withdrew, and pressed inward, once, twice, and again and again in the rhythm of sex. Slowly, while he watched her face so close to his own, her eyes shut tight, her teeth biting her lip. Her body was tense. She opened her eyes after a while and gazed into his, and he could feel her body relax even as her inner muscles tightened and then let go and tightened again as she learned his rhythm and matched it. She had stopped biting her lip. He kissed her.
Oh, God, this was … But there were no words. This was sex as it was meant to be. For she was not just a woman. She was Lydia. She washiswoman. Though not that either, for it suggested ownership, a one-sided thing. She was not his anything, just as he was not her anything. She was the completion of him, just as he hoped he was the completion of her. They werethey. But he was not thinking these things in sentences or even words.
Therewereno words.
He took her hands in his, palm to palm, raised them to her pillow, on either side of her head, laced their fingers, and lowered his weight onto her again before increasing the rhythm and the depth of his strokes until the need to spill into her roared like a torrent in his ears and set his heart pounding and his loins flaming. He waited for her, waited … But then could wait no longer.
He released deep into her, and heard her sigh against his ear. A warm, satisfied sigh. Surely, even though he had not felt an answering release. She whispered his name.
After a minute or two he moved off her to lie at her side. He slid an arm beneath her neck and she turned to him, nestling her head on his shoulder. She smiled and closed her eyes.
And he was left wondering. Not knowing for sure. And hesitant to ask. What an idiot he would make of himself if she looked at him in amazed incredulity. It was impossible anyway. Surely. Of course it was. She had been married forsix years.To a young, vigorous, handsome man with whom she had fallen headlong in love and married two months after she met him. Unless Tavernor had been impotent. Or preferred men. Both of which seemed highly unlikely.
No, it was stupid even to be wondering. It was impossible that she had been a virgin until a few minutes ago.
He ran his fingertips lightly along her arm to where it bent at the elbow and then down over her hip. He was warm and satiated. He could easily fall asleep—and perhaps sleep through until morning. That would not be wise. Although the candle was behind her and threw her face into shadow, he could see that her eyes were open again. When he kissed her, her lips were soft and relaxed.
“When dreams come true …,” she murmured. But she left it at that. She did not make a complete sentence out of it. She had dreamed of a lover. Ofhim. And she had just had him.
He kissed her, their lips lingering on each other’s, soft and warm. She sighed.
He would not let himself get hard again. Just in case … Even though it was impossible. And he must not let himself fall asleep.
He sighed too and kissed the top of her head. “I had better go,” he said. “It would not do for me to spend the whole night here.”
“No, it would not.” But she sounded regretful. “Thank you for staying, Harry. I am terribly weak willed. I was determined to turn you away, but I could not do it. You must not blame yourself, as I daresay you will try to do tomorrow. I asked—no, I begged—and you stayed. Thank you.”
He slid his arm free and got out of bed. He got dressed as she watched, leaned over the bed to kiss her good night, sliding his arms beneath her while she wrapped her own about his neck, and then left the bedchamber.
He lit the candle by the door after donning his cloak and then lit his lantern from it. He took up his hat while Snowball came to be petted. When he straightened up after scratching her back, he realized Lydia was standing behind the sofa. She was barefoot, though she was wearing a dressing gown, which she held across herself with both arms. She had hooked her hair back behind her ears. She was not smiling.
“Good night, Lydia,” he said.
“Good night,” she said, then drew an audible breath. “This cannot continue now, Harry. You must not come again. I am sorry. I really am. I amnotsorry you stayed, but …” She shrugged. “Iamsorry I have sent such muddled and mixed messages tonight. I—” She stopped and shrugged again, and he realized she was on the verge of tears.
He was not surprised. And he was not going to argue. For he knew now he was not in the market for an affair. Andshewas not in the market for a husband. So this must be the end, whether he was happy about it or not. He must see her again, however. In private. For he had thought of something he had assumed he did not have to worry about.
“Iwillcall tomorrow,” he said. “Not to stay long, though. I must ask you something.” Now, tonight, was not the right time.
“I am going to Eastleigh tomorrow with the Reverend and Mrs. Bailey,” she told him.
“The day after tomorrow, then,” he said.
“Perhaps.” She looked very unhappy. She was biting her lip again, and blinking rather a lot.
“Good night, then,” he said again, and let himself out of the house. He closed the door quietly behind him, looked cautiously both ways when he reached the gate, and hurried across the road onto his own drive. Yet he felt as though eyes were upon him, now when all was over between them and it would be particularly disastrous to be seen slinking away in the dark. He felt prickles across his shoulder blades and all down his spine. The consequences of guilt. For of course this really must be the end. He must honor her decision to be free. He must do nothing further to endanger her reputation in the eyes of her friends and neighbors.
