“Goodnight all. Thank you for this incredible journey.” He bowed slightly at the waist, and Ophelia felt a pang of longing for him. She wished he were joining her.
“Goodnight,” they all said in their own time without pausing their upward trajectory. To stop might mean to never start again. On the next floor, Ophelia went to her room, and the Vogels went to theirs.
In her room, Ophelia looked longingly at the bed, but then collapsed onto her chair to dislodge her boots. She had to pick the stitches from the gaiters and her stockings before she could untie the bootlaces. Once those were off, she felt almost energized, as if that was the refresh she needed to keep undressing. The thick woolen stockings were next, and it felt somewhat strange to not have anything between her outer dress and her legs. They’d not worn chemises because of the need for free movement of their legs.
After disrobing completely, she poured water into the bowl on her dressing table and used the rag to clean herself. Dirt and salt had mixed at her elbows and neckline. Once she’d scrubbed as well as she was going to without having a proper bath, she stepped into a fresh chemise, and it was like stepping into a brand-new life. Her bed was going to feel so good.
But there was a scratching at her door. Was it Justine, coming to check on her? She pulled on her robe but didn’t bother belting it as she opened the door.
It wasn’t Justine.
Julian stood there in his shirt sleeves. His dark hair was rumpled as if he’d been running his hands through it. He looked almost wild but for the singular focus as he gazed at her.
“Is everything all right?” Ophelia asked, drawing her robed closed.
“We should get married.”
It took her a moment to sort what he had said. “What about your concerns? My brother and Lord Fairport?”
“I don’t want to marry them.” He shook his head, looking very firm about that.
Ophelia laughed. “I don’t want to, either.”
“Good. So we are agreed?”
“Agreed.” She stuck her hand out, and they shook hands like the Americans. But Julian didn’t let her hand go.
“I need you, Ophelia. Today proved it to me.”
His broad palm was calloused and firm, and she remembered how it had felt all over her body back in Paris. How she wanted to arch into him. “I was terrified that I was going to lose you when you slipped.”
He nodded. “You caught me. And I’ll catch you. We can keep each other safe better than anyone else.”
She knew he meant more than just the mountain. He meant the whole world. There were people who could be shelters in the storm of humanity, and as Justine had always been one, Julian could be another. And she could be one for him. “What about—”
“I don’t care, Ophelia. Whatever it is, we can figure it out.”
And that was all she needed. She yanked on his hand, pulling him inside her room. She pushed the door closed, and him up against it. Pressed against the expanse of his chest, she looked into his coal-dark eyes. “This is forever.”
“At the minimum,” he said, his hands coming to cradle her jaw.
His mouth was at hers, and the communion she’d longed for was finally here. After so many months aching for him, he was hers.
“How do you smell of lavender?” He panted as he kissed along her cheek and neck.
“I washed—I didn’t want to go to bed feeling all that grit on my skin.” She managed to get the sentence out, even as her senses were filled with Julian’s smell and touch and feel.
He half-groaned, half-growled. “I shouldn’t be the one to bring dirt into your bed.”
Her vision swam more than it had after the port at dinner. “Then let me wash you,” she gasped as one of his hands palmed her arse, pulling her against him, the length of his manhood evident.
He released her, and she backed up to the dressing table. Indicating the chair, she said, “Sit.”
It took him a moment of looking at her, so long that she became self-conscious at how the dressing gown must be gaping open, letting him see her through the flimsy material of her clean chemise.
But then he sauntered over and sat, looking at her, never breaking the singular eye contact that connected them. She knelt and picked the stitches of the gaiters against his trouser legs. He toyed with her hair, and she couldn’t help but notice the shallow breaths he took as he wove the strands around his fingers. She helped remove his boots, as dirty and mud-encrusted as hers had been. Then she stood between his legs and unbuttoned his shirt until it was loose enough to pull over his head. She pushed the braces off one shoulder, then the other, enjoying brushing her hands over his capable arms.
He pulled the shirt off himself, and she dipped and rung out the rag from her washbasin. She ran it over his face first, cleaning his hairline and then around his ears. He closed his eyes as she cleaned his neck and shoulders. She rewet and rung out the rag again, sweeping over his pectoral muscles, and under his arms. Attending to each arm with care, after his right arm was done, he began caressing her in turn.
