There was a delicious languor in his body, and Alex slowly realized that the stabbing pain in his side that had nagged him for the last months was gone, replaced by a dull ache that was trivial by comparison. As awareness returned, he found himself lying on his side in a warm bed, with some kind of bandage constricting his chest. The rosemary fragrance was stronger, and the realization slowly dawned that he was not sleeping alone. Dark rosemary-scented curls were within tickling range of his nose, and he had no doubt to whom they belonged.
Christa lay curled up against him, her back fitting against his stomach, her breathing soft and steady. Alex discovered with some amusement that his arm was around her and his left hand cupped one full breast. It was a superlatively comfortable way to sleep, and for a few minutes he simply lay still and enjoyed it, loath to explore the ramifications of the situation because that would require returning to a reality that would not be an improvement.
After an interval of mindless contentment, Alex sighed and lifted himself slightly on his right elbow. Christa rolled onto her back, her long lashes dark against her face. There were shadows under her eyes, and he wondered how she had come to be here. Wherewashere? And how long had he been out of his head?
Christa gave a sleepy cat smile and her lashes fluttered. Then her eyes snapped open, fully awake, her gaze a little wary. Alex reached out and slipped his fingers into her silky curls, brushing the dark hair back from her face. “It wasn’t a dream then,” he said quietly.
She relaxed and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, my lord, I had not meant to fall asleep. We are at Stornaway. Jamie Fiske and Bob Willson went for the physician and have not yet returned.” Time enough to worry about their safety later; at the moment, pallid sunshine from the window indicated a clear day dawning.
He smiled wryly. “Under the circumstances, surely ‘Alex’ would be more appropriate.” She smiled in assent, then he continued, his face and eyes grave, “I’m sorry, Christa. The last thing on earth I would have chosen would be to hurt you.”
“You did nothing that I did not consent to, Alex. And there is nothing I have that I would not freely give you.”
He drew a deep breath, his emotions too deep and tangled to express. Christa’s generosity was as warm and honest as the rest of her, and she had given him a gift that could never be repaid. “And you would have quietly returned to your place if I hadn’t woken first, and left me to think last night was just a dream?”
“It would have been better that way, Alex.” Christa hesitated, and her eyes slid away from his. “But since it is too late for discretion, there is something I would ask of you.”
“Anything in my power,ma chérie.”
With some difficulty she said, “Would you . . . could you make love to me? Properly awake this time. I would like to have that to remember.” She added hastily, “Unless you are too weak. You were delirious for nearly two days.”
Alex laughed and pulled her close, feeling her delicious curves against his body. “I may be convalescent, but I’m not dead. Which is what I would have to be not to respond to you.”
He released her and pulled the blanket down a little, exposing her upper body to his view. “You are so beautiful,” he said huskily. “I have never known your equal. You humble me.”
At first Christa felt shy under his gaze, but she relaxed as she looked into his amber eyes. The warmth of his admiration was obvious as he sketched the contours of her face, his fingers delicate on her cheekbones, lightly brushing her lips before he traced the lines of her neck down to her breast.
He whispered, “With my body I thee worship.”
With Alex’s words the last barrier dissolved, and Christa herself reached out, testing the texture of the blond curls above the bandage, touching the lines of old scars, feeling the warmth of firm muscles shifting beneath the fair skin. When she was nursing him, her concern had been for his welfare. Now she was free to respond to him as a man, not a patient, and to glory in the beauty and strength of his powerful body.
As she had requested, Alex began to kiss her properly, as deeply and thoroughly as if they had all the time in the world. Christa sighed blissfully and gave herself up to the sensations, trying to store enough memories to last a lifetime. His gentle lovemaking was the antithesis of last night’s turbulent passion and introduced her to a whole new spectrum of feeling and response.
This time when she cried out, it was not from pain.
Alex held Christa close in the drowsy aftermath of loving, his hand stroking the sweet curves of her back from the silky hair at her nape to her rounded hip. Her eyes were closed, and he could feel the soft touch of her breath against his shoulder. With wonder he realized that he had never experienced such intimacy and peace in his life, and his joy caused the blinders to drop from his eyes.
The truth was so simple: he was in love with Christa, with her warmth and wisdom and laughter, and he wanted to be with her always. There was no law of God or man that said they couldn’t marry, and only the blindness of class difference had obscured that basic fact. Had Christa been anything but a servant, Alex would have recognized that he loved her long since. And surely it had been love on her part that had literally pulled him back from the brink of death.
There would be a scandal, of course, but it would pass in time. Noblemen had always been allowed considerable latitude. And if the talk didn’t die down, he wouldn’t care unless Christa did. Sybil Debenham would be angry, possibly hurt, but he doubted that her feelings ran very deep. Alex would have to resign his commission in the navy, but that was no great loss since he had only taken it to escape the muddle he had made of his affairs on land.
It was all so clear, so right. He felt himself drifting into sleep again, and with the last sparks of consciousness he said softly, “Marry me, Christa. Please.”
She stiffened in his arms and raised her head, the clear gray eyes meeting his in shock. “Marry you?”
Her soft voice was startled, and something more, something Alex couldn’t analyze in the moments before sleep claimed him. To make sure there was no misunderstanding, he whispered again, “I want to marry you, if you’ll have me.” The effort of maintaining awareness became too great and his eyes closed.
Christa was rigid with shock as she slipped from the warm bed. She studied Alex’s peaceful sleeping face, reaching out to touch his cheek and the strong line of his jaw. Tears gathered in her eyes as she brushed the thick waves of gold hair from his eyes, knowing that never again would she be this close to him. It was so like Alex to take responsibility for having “ruined her,” even if it meant destroying his own future. She had no doubt that his offer was sincere, and equally little doubt that it was made from duty rather than love.
Resolutely she turned away and went to her small room to dress before returning to build up the fire. As usual, her mother had had an aphorism that suited the present circumstances:It is unfair to hold a man to promises made just before, during, or after making love.
Yet it would be so fatally easy to take Alex at his word, to accept his offer of marriage. As she went about feeding the horses and boiling water for tea, she struggled to discipline her unruly thoughts. It was very noble of the viscount to offer his good name, but she really had no desire to see him martyr himself. There would be a devil of a scandal if he threw over Sybil Debenham, and it would likely ruin his naval career. A viscount jilting a lady to marry a servant?
Alex would never live it down. His brother and sister would suffer for it too; the scandal might destroy Annabelle’s chance for a respectable marriage, and the disgrace would follow Jonathan into the army.
At this point her logic always faltered. She could still be considered a countess, in spite of the actions of the French Assembly, and if Alex loved her, perhaps they could have brazened it out. But countess or not, Christa would be tainted by her time belowstairs, and she was still penniless and without family. Society would more easily forgive a man who married a demimondaine than one who married a servant.
And Alex had said nothing of love. Guilt and duty were a poor foundation for marriage, and he would soon resent Christa for what she had cost him. On the whole, she would rather be dead than the object of his anger or hatred.
