He pressed on the door and entered.
Patience nursed Lionel sitting on a trunk. Items from her closet, like the fetching dress she’d worn for their wedding were laid out on her bed.
“Packing, Patience?”
“Yes.”
He pulled closer, close enough to see the crown of Lionel’s head, his dark hair against her tawny skin. “You know, if you were going to leave me, you should have done it like the others, before the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“One-word answers. They are still annoying coming from your sweet lips.”
“We should follow a battle strategy.”
Half listening, still staring at her exposed bits of bosom, he clasped the chair arms. “What are you talking of, Patience?”
“Let’s go to Wellington. Let’s go now.”
“Patience. That’s not possible. One doesn’t show up at the battlefield as if it were an invitation to a party or the theater.”
“I’ve never been to a dinner party or the theater here in England. The ghost you are jealous of never took me.”
“Maybe I want you to be dreaming of me. Maybe I see you tiptoeing about me and I want you to react, to express some sort of frustration at our plight. Fight with me like before, even if I can’t chase you.”
“You did chase. You r-rolled into here.”
She wiped Lionel’s mouth, and for a moment she was exposed, such a lovely round essence of motherhood, of womanhood, of a goddess.
“Excuse me, what were we talking about, Patience?”
She shook her head. “Lionel, are you full?”
The baby yawned smacking his gums.
Busick had studied the signs of contentment. He took the boy from her arms. When he was assured the napkin needed no refreshing, he placed Lionel in his lowered crib. “There, little one.”
“Thank you,” she said when he came back to her.
But he wasn’t done being the helpmate she needed. He took her palm in his and drew her to his lap.
Her long legs curled about his good one as he powered the chair, moving those wheels in reverse. Back inside his bedchamber he cracked the door.
“Our boy will sleep a few hours, that should be long enough for me to make amends.”
Her posture relaxed, as her head dipped to his shoulder. She smelled of soap and lavender and tears.
That last one wouldn’t do; it would never do. “I’m sorry, Patience.”
She held him tight, her arms draping his neck then his shoulders. “Why aren’t you happy with me?”
“You should be adored and ravished. I haven’t been able to make you secure. It has to be me in this chair.”
“No. It’s just you. You thinking I’d deceive you about being happy in your arms.”
Her lips found his neck, and she curled into him, seductive and luscious in his arms.
“Patience, this contraption makes no difference to you?”
