Eventually their chatter gave place to longer silences, companionable at first, but inevitably more and more charged with something else. Lily was fully aware of the changing atmosphere, but she allowed it to be. Tonight she had chosen to put fear behind her, to relinquish her personal will to the unfolding pattern of her life. She allowed to be what would be.
“Lily,” he said finally, still apparently relaxed in his chair, “I want to make love to you. Do you want it too?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Here?” he said. “On the bed in the next room? In this cottage? To erase the memory of what happened the last time we were here?”
“It is why we are here, is it not?” she answered. “To weave ourselves into the magic, to be simply ourselves again, to be together despite all that has happened and is happening. Together as we have been outside in the pool and here by the fire. And together in—in there.” She nodded toward the bedroom.
“You must not be frightened,” he told her. “Not at any moment. However far advanced in passion I might become, I will stop the instant you tell me to stop. Will you believe that?”
“Yes,” she said. “I believe it. But I will not tell you to stop.”
She knew that she would want to. Before he came inside her, she would want to stop him. Because once he was in her, she would know. She would know if her dreams of love had been as insubstantial as most dreams are. And she would know if after all he found himself repulsed by the knowledge that another man had known her since their wedding day. But she would not stop him. This—tonight, all of it—was meant to be, and she would let it be, however it turned out.
“Come, then, Lily.”
He got to his feet and held out a hand for hers. She stood beside him while he banked the fire, and then took his hand again to go into the bedchamber.
13
They undressed without awkwardness or embarrassment, perhaps because they had bathed naked together just an hour or so before. He set his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him before drawing her close. She was small but exquisitely formed. His eyes focused, though, on the purplish, puckered scar on the upper side of her left breast. He traced it lightly with his fingertips and then lowered his head to touch it with his mouth.
I was this close to losing you forever, Lily?” he said while she ran one hand lightly over the scar that almost circled his left shoulder—the relic of the saber wound that had very nearly hacked off his arm at Talavera.
“Yes,” she said, and when he lifted his head she traced the line of his facial scar with one forefinger. “War is cruel. But we both survived it.”
He kissed her, merely touching his lips to hers while his hands rested on either side of her small waist, holding her a little away from his own body. She looked and felt, he thought, like a sweet innocent. He could almost imagine that it was her first time even though memory of their wedding night was strong in him. And he thought quite deliberately of the Spaniard, the partisan without a name—a name he did not want to know, though she might at some time in the future need to talk about him, and he would force himself to listen. He thought about the man and what he had done to Lily over and over again for seven months. He did not want to suppress the knowledge that she had been forced to be another man’s mistress.
“It matters, does it not?” She was looking into his eyes. “That there has been someone else?”
“It matters,” he said, “because it happened toyou, Lily. Because you suffered it all while I was recuperating in hospital and then was here, beginning a new life or, rather, resuming the old one. It matters because you were totally blameless while I was not. It matters because I do not feel worthy of you.”
She set the fingers of one hand lightly to his lips.
“The past is unchangeable,” she said. “It was war. This is the present, the only element of time we will ever have in which to create new memories. Better ones.”
Ah, Lily. His beautiful, wise, innocent Lily, who could see life as something so incredibly simple that it was profound. He took her hand from his lips with his own, kissed her palm, and then kissed her mouth. He wanted to restore all her lovely innocence. He wanted to restore his honor.
“I am not going to hurt you,” he told her. “I am not going to use you for my pleasure and give none in return. I am going to make love to you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, don’t be afraid. I know it. It is what you did the last time.”
He brought her against him, slid one arm about her shoulders, the other about her waist, parted his lips over hers, and kissed her more deeply. It was hard to go slowly. The memories of the searing passion of his wedding night were suddenly very vivid—and he had had no woman since. But she set her arms about him, arched her body against his, as she had done on that night, and opened her mouth. He pressed his tongue inside.
“It will be all right,” he murmured to her awhile later, forcing his mouth away from hers and feathering kisses at her temples, along her jaw, on her chin. “It is going to be all right.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes. Itisall right.”
He was as fearful as she—if shewasfearful. He had to make things right for her. And hewouldmake them right. He had heard from Captain Harris by the afternoon post and would surely hear from everyone else soon. Harris had given the answers he had fully expected. The Reverend Parker-Rowe’s papers had been abandoned with his body in that Portuguese pass.
He knew what the other answers would be too—what they must be.
“Come and lie down,” he whispered to Lily.
He lay on the bed with her, on his side, his head propped on one hand. She gazed back at him without apparent fear. Her eyes were dreamy with desire.
“I want to come on top of you,” he said. “It is how I can love you most deeply. But if my weight will make you feel trapped, if you would like it better, I will take you on top. Tell me what you want.”
