He made love to her with urgent, ungentle hands and lips, touching, stroking, pressing, sucking. She touched him with warm, gentle hands and made strange low sounds in her throat. He had no time to undress. Need was a pulse that drowned out even the sound of the falls, and a pain that drove him onward to release and oblivion and obliterated conscience. He undid the front of his breeches, his fingers fumbling with the buttons.
He tried to mount her slowly. She was slick with wetness, but the passage was tight and virgin. He felt the barrier. He felt it stretch and thought it would never give and release her from pain. But then it was gone, and he eased his full length inside her. He could hear someone sobbing. Himself. She was crooning to him with unknowing sounds.
He waited in an agony of patience, giving her time to adjust to the hard and painful invasion of her body. He had his hands spread beneath her in an unconscious attempt to cushion her against the hardness of the ground. His face was buried in her hair, which had come loose from its ribbon.
He tried to take her slowly, but she had lifted her legs and wrapped them about his own, and pivoted her hips, so that his pain was enclosed in a cradle of soft, warm womanhood. He drove into her, far too deeply, far too fiercely, half aware that this was all wrong. It was all give on her side, gentle, generous giving, and all take on his side, harsh, selfish taking.
But she gave.
And he took.
He heard himself shout out as he burst and spilled into her. He heard himself sobbing as one of her hands smoothed over his back while the other softly played through his hair.
And then for a few blessed moments or minutes or hours he lost himself. For a few moments he found what he had blindly sought for a whole year and longer, and rested in it.
9
SHEgazed up at the stars, finding the formation that always reminded her of a giant soup ladle with a slightly bent handle. She lay still and quiet and uncomfortable, cradling his too-thin body with her arms and legs while he slept. She would hold him all night if necessary.
She knew she had deceived herself. She knew she had come because she loved him. She knew she had come to comfort him. She had known and admitted those facts before she came. But she knew now that she had come with the sole purpose of giving—of giving herself, if that was what he needed. And she had known deep down that her mere sympathetic presence would not be enough, as it had used to be. She had known that the passing of the years would have made all the difference. Even then, seven years ago, when he had been leaving her, the change had been coming. He had begun to be aware of her as a woman, and so the possibility of pure friendship had been disappearing.
Of course, she had always loved him as a woman loves a man. Even at the age of fourteen she had known that her love for him involved the whole of her person, body as well as mind and emotions.
She had come tonight to give her body for his comfort if that was what he needed.
And so she had betrayed the promise she had made to herself just that morning. Worse—far worse—she had betrayed another promise. She had involved another person in her betrayal. Other people. She thought of her own family, and of Lord Powell’s. He had written to them that morning and sent the letter on its way.
Tomorrow she would know bitter remorse. She would live with guilt and remorse for the rest of her life. She doubted she would ever forgive herself.
It was all her fault. Entirely. He had been completely frank with her. He had not only given her the chance to stop it and to escape to the house, he had urged her to do so—more than once. And she did not have the plea of innocence. She had known—deep down she had known—almost from the first moment. Perhaps before the first moment. Perhaps she had known it before she left her room.
It had been different from what she had expected. Not sweet union, sweet romance. It had hurt. Constantly, from the first moment. From the moment he had started to push into her. He had felt too big. She was still sore. He was still inside her, though she was no longer stretched painfully by his hardness. There had been no shared emotion, no shared tenderness, as she had dreamed there would be in such an intimate act. It had not been an act of love—not in the romantic sense, anyway. She did not believe he had enjoyed it. But then it had not been done for enjoyment.
She could not feel sorry. She could not feel the wrongness of it. She could onlythinkabout her own guilt andthinkabout her sorrow for those innocent people she had wronged tonight. But she could not feel sorry.
He was at peace. For these few moments at least he was at peace.
She thought of the kind of grief and guilt that could still torment him so even after a year. Of the kind of love there must have been to have left such a storm of darkness behind it.She was exquisitely lovely, Emmy... Is it any wonder I tumbled head over ears in love with her?
She stared upward at the stars, her fingertips still absently massaging his head through his hair.
And then she knew that he was awake. There was tension in his body, a vibration in his chest. He had said something. He drew free of her body and lifted himself to one side of her, sliding an arm beneath her neck and about her shoulders as he did so. Cool air rushed at her naked body, but he reached over and drew his cloak about her. She could see his face quite clearly in the moonlight.
He gazed at her for a long while before he spoke. “You have given a great and reckless gift this night, Emmy,” he said at last. “I cannot condemn you. I am too touched by your enormous generosity. I can only wish that I had had firmer control over my desires. I will forever regret what I have just done to you.”
No, not that. No regrets. It had happened. And it had happened because he had had need of her and the need had shown itself in physical form. She had come to bring him comfort, not more guilt. No, not regret. Not forever. Forever was too long a time.
“No,” he said, “I know you will never blame me, Emmy. You never did. You never asked anything for yourself, did you? You encouraged selfishness in me, and I readily took advantage of what you offered. All those years ago and again tonight. Well, it will be my turn now. My turn for the rest of my life.”
Though she did not catch every word he spoke, she could see the bitterness in his face. But he did not give her the chance to reply. He set his mouth to hers, his lips closed, and kept it there for a long time, one hand firm against the back of her head.
“I hurt you,” he said when he finally put a little distance between them.
She did not reply. It had been merely a physical thing. He had nothurther.
He put a handkerchief into her hand, but she looked at him, uncomprehending. And so he took it from her and used it himself, setting it gently against her sore and throbbing flesh, cleansing away what she guessed must be blood, folding it, and pressing it lightly but firmly against her again, soothing her.
She turned her face in against his chest and closed her eyes. She was soothed by the vibrations, though she did not know what he said. If it had been important he would have lifted her chin so that she could see his lips. His hand massaged her head as hers had done for him just a few minutes before.
