by Edith Layton
She lowered her gaze as she piled preserves on the bread, and didn’t see how he stopped breathing when she said the word “annulment.” Nor did she see the look that came into his eyes as he watched her sitting by his bed, her long lashes half hiding her topaz eyes, the sunlight fingering her hair and gilding the slight peach down on her cheeks, showing up the purity of her profile, her skin, and her smooth white breast. He caught his breath and sighed. When she looked up, he spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
“A twinge,” he said. “Sometimes I forget what I suffered. Don’t worry, it’s gone already.” But the warm and considering look in his eyes stayed long after she had left him to rest after his hard-won breakfast.
*
He got better faster than anyone thought he would, but it was a fight in more ways than one. He ate and drank things that were strictly against the doctor’s orders, getting them by trickery, bribery, and flattery, and sometimes plain sympathy because he was always a favorite with the servants, more so now that he was an invalid. He hated being sick. He was always kind to his many nurses, although it was clear that being at their mercy rankled him. He was restless and impatient with his sickbed, so it was no surprise to anyone that Magnus was out of it before the doctor permitted, and so just as naturally had to go back to it when his body failed him. Though usually sunny-tempered, he growled with complaints when the doctor insisted he obey, worse when his own body betrayed him.
His spirit was willing, but the loss of blood and pain from the wound had cost his body too much for him to recover as quickly as he wished. He complained it was the bed rest itself that weakened him. From the way he sometimes greeted his family in the mornings—pale, damp with perspiration, and breathing hard—they suspected he was getting up before them so he could defy them on the sly. He denied it vigorously. But the chairs and tables he sometimes knocked over on these secret expeditions spoke volumes about his treachery.
“And your slippers are right by the bed,” Cristabel said evenly one bright morning well over a week after he’d been shot, “which is odd, since we deliberately had your valet leave them in the wardrobe last night. Cut line, my lord, we have you. You’ve been sneaking out of bed, and I know it.”
“Look at me, wife,” he commanded, and she did, without a blink, though she still couldn’t get used to the way he used the word all the time now. “I’m in better condition than half the males in London town. The wound is closed, and while it’s not beautiful, it’s only a memory. I wish to be up and out of here.”
“Do you? What a surprise. You ought to have mentioned something about it,” she said mildly enough, though the sight of his broad chest beneath his half-buttoned nightshirt made her heart turn over. There was only a light furze of hair on that wide chest, and the muscles beneath the smooth skin bunched and slid when he moved. The nurse had gotten to know her patient; as the bandages had shrunk over the days, exposing more of his chest, she’d gotten used to seeing it. But she still reacted to it.
“Don’t gnash your teeth,” she said helpfully, as she patted his pillow. “You’ll grind them down to stubs. May I remind you of another thing. If you could, you would be out of bed now and we both know it. No doctor on earth could hold you down.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed, eyeing her carefully, “but have you considered that it’s more than a sawbones keeping me here? It may be that the will of one woman is what’s making me so compliant. One frail little piece of baggage may be what’s pinning me to this bed.”
She turned her head and looked down at him. It was a mistake, for when she saw the look in his steady gray eyes, she didn’t know what to say. Before she could stop herself, her hand, as if of its own volition, reached out to smooth back a strand of his long hair. It felt silken and soft beneath her fingers. He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. When he heard her breath catch, he tugged on her hand, put his other on her neck, and slowly brought her lips down to his. His kiss was a light, sweet question. She didn’t know what to answer, but her lips parted in pleased surprise. She felt his breath halt. He sat up higher, and in one smooth gesture pulled her down so that she lay half across his lap. He buried his hands in her hair, devoured her mouth, kissing the sense of all her protests from her.
He slid his tongue across the seam of her lips, and as she opened her mouth to ask why, she felt the strange rough texture of his tongue against her own as he deepened their kiss. She accepted it, wondering at the odd and then wonderful feel of it that made her burrow closer to him, eager to feel more and more. His mouth tasted fresh; his scent was soap and sunshine. She was caught up in a whirlpool of his longing and found herself spinning out of control with him, warm and dizzy, surrounded by the wonderful comfort and power of him. His big hand caressed her back, his lips moved to her neck, to her cheek, up to close her wondering eyes before moving down to plunder her mouth again. His other hand molded her breast, relishing the high, firm contours of it, delighting in the way his lightest touch made her shudder and gasp and cling to him. It was the most delicious feeling Cristabel had ever known, and she squirmed against him, offering him her body and her lips.
She needed to give something back to him—she wanted to learn him as he was learning her. She was tentative as she ventured to open her hand over the hard chest pressed against hers, but then she sighed against his mouth. He was all smooth warmth, satiny steel against her hand, and his nipple beneath her palm was as taut as her own. She heard him murmur encouragement, and dared to move her hand further—and suddenly felt the edge of the rough linen binding his wound. She froze, remembering everything.
He felt her body tense as she pulled back, her eyes wide, her hand flying up to cover the lips he had just savored. He was still an invalid, she thought in shame. It took only seconds for her to remember all the other good reasons why this wonderful lovemaking was such a bad idea. She scurried out of his arms and his bed, and stood staring down at him.
He groaned and laid his head back against the pillow, taking deep breaths.
“Did I hurt you?” she gasped.
“Yes, but it’s not the wound that’s hurting,” he said with a wry smile that became real as he saw her reaction. Although she looked shamed and shocked, she also looked thoroughly loved. Her hair was loosened from its pins, her cheeks ruddy from rubbing against his morning stubble. Her gown was half off her shoulder, and one shapely breast rose from it to taunt him.
“I thought it was going rather well,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster. Seeing the new direction of her horrified gaze, he tried to be nonchalant as he draped his bedcovers across his lap so that they merely looked rumpled, not obscene. “We are married, Cristabel,” he added.
“Aye, but…” she said, before seeing the new direction of his heated gaze. She glanced down at herself and gave out a small yelp and spun around and drew up her gown before she said more.
“But it is morning, and anyone could walk in, so I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But I repeat, Cristabel, you are my wife.”
“Not really,” she said, turning back to show him a neatly done-up gown. Her hands flew to her hair to secure her pins, but nothing could be done about the high color in her face and the redness of her freshly kissed lips. He sighed again.
“Really,” he said.
“And you’re sick,” she said in bewildered shame.
“Not really,” he said, with a gleaming look of mischief. “I don’t know how you do such things in the Islands, but here in England, when a man says he can make love, we let him. I want to make love to you, wife,” he said, suddenly serious.
“You’re still sick and things may change. Making love isn’t a good idea—I don’t think you can get an annulment after you do, leastways not at home, so I suppose not here as well. I’ll see you soon,” she babbled. “I’ll send someone in to see to you. Oh, blast and damn and I’m sorry, Magnus,” she said before she fled.
He was sorry, too, and thoughtful. And determined. He had picke
d out something from the jumble of things she’d said, and immediately resolved to get better even sooner than he’d planned. After a long moment’s thought, he rang for a servant to summon his brother to him.
* * *
Cristabel ran to her room and washed her face. What you almost did! she breathed to herself as she splashed water on her heated face.
Well, why not? she asked herself, lifting her hands from the basin of cool water she’d plunged them in. Her head came up and the water dripped down her neck, unheeded. Cristabel Stew! she told herself, shocked. A fine question that is. Why not? Have you lost your mind entirely? Why, because…because it would be wrong. He’s a sick man; you could set him back with such carryings on.
Forget about his being sick; he be almost entirely well, and well ye know it, another voice reminded her.
And then what, my lady? The pirate’s daughter shall be a viscountess? Are you as mad as your evil father? Why, they’ll laugh at you both.
Don’t be daft. Laughing never killed no one, and he says he wants you. Just look at the man, lass. He knows his own mind. What Magnus, Viscount Snow, wants, he gets, and there’s an end to it.
My dear girl, the clear voice of sanity warned her, what of your bright dreams of independence? You never wanted to marry, never wanted to be at the mercy of any man. Have you forgotten so soon the misery of all the women you’ve ever known?
Ah, but Cristabel me girl, the other voice argued, you be his wife already, and you’ve never known a brighter dream, have ye? Look at the man, ye fool! Is he such a lad as to do you wrong? No, and ye really don’t think so fer a minute, do ye? Believe in him, and yerself. For if you don’t have faith in yer own self—and yer judgment of him is yer own self—why then, you’ll never have nothing in this life. Ye do love him, girl, don’t ye? And oh Gawd, girl, think of how it was. It were lovely, weren’t it? Purely, purely lovely.
And so Cristabel Stew/Lady Snow sank down to a chair and sat very still, listening to her two selves as they both argued perfect sense to her.
* * *
“I insist that you go, Sophia,” Magnus said. “As you can see—I flourish.”
Sophia fidgeted with her fan as she looked at him. It was true he was sitting up in a chair, entirely dressed for the first time since he’d been shot. He was thinner, but he looked fine in his dark gold coat and breeches, and the deep rose-colored tapestry long vest he wore gave color to his face. His hair was tied neatly and he was shaved and scented like any man of fashion. If she hadn’t lived through it, she wouldn’t have known they’d recently almost lost him.
“You and Martin have stayed home with me long enough; you’re getting quite dull, if you want to know the truth,” Magnus added. “Martin says the Treadwells are having a dinner. All your cronies will be there; go with a clear conscience. Cristabel will be here with me—unless… Do you want to go with them, my dear?”
“Lord no!” Cristabel said, startled. She’d been gazing at him quietly, happily drinking in the magnificent sight of him newly restored to health. Now she looked at him in shock. The idea of going anywhere without him was absurd. As was the idea of going with him. She couldn’t show her nose in public until… The rest of that thought made her swallow hard. Perhaps, she thought, tonight, alone, and with no fear of interruption, they might finally get the matter of their hasty marriage resolved between them.
It seemed that Martin thought so too. He gave Sophia a significant look, and she colored and nodded to him. It was the first intimate, amicable thing Cristabel had seen pass between them in weeks.
“I’m not a heartless beast, Magnus,” Sophia blurted, turning back to face him before she left his room on Martin’s proffered arm. “I really did worry about you, you know. The fact that I couldn’t do anything for you didn’t mean I didn’t care.”
“I know,” Magnus said gravely.
“I care,” Sophia repeated. “That’s why I’m going now.” Cristabel frowned, puzzling over that as Martin hurried his wife out the door.
“The girl’s been in the house too long,” Magnus remarked. “I’m glad you decided to stay with me, after all.”
“Of course I would,” Cristabel said in confusion. “I never wanted to go with them.”
“But you’re all dressed up,” Magnus said, looking his fill at her. Her proud little head was crowned with a high swirl of bright curls. Her figure was shown to high advantage in a gown of gold with a design of tiny pink rosebuds everywhere on its wide skirt. The square neckline was low enough to divert him. The only thing to distract his eye from it was the fact that she wore no jewelry on that lovely white breast. He frowned, remembering that the only jewelry he’d ever seen her wear was a single baroque pearl pendant cased in gold. She had always worn it—it had been her mother’s, he remembered sadly. She must have discarded it just as her mother had discarded her. Her own jewelry, given in love, just one more thing he’d have to see to when he could leave this room. Which was tomorrow, he vowed. But not too early, he hoped.
She looked away. “Well, I thought that if you looked so fine, I could do no less,” she murmured, hoping he wouldn’t realize that she couldn’t have known how he’d dressed tonight until she’d come into his room, already dressed herself.
“You do me proud,” he said in a deep voice. “I wish I could have persuaded you to let me take you out tonight to show the world how proud I am. As it is, I feel so well, I’ve ordered up a prodigious dinner—with all the things the good doctor refused to let me eat until I was too old to care: oysters and wine, pheasant, venison and ham, all drowned in the richest sauces the cook could contrive. So we shall dine splendidly together anyway tonight, my lady. I regret, it must be here in my chamber, for I’m not supposed to venture so far as the dining room,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice that it was odd that he would defy all his doctor’s orders but that one.
“Good,” she said simply, and sat down at the little table before Magnus’s chair.
A succession of footmen bore in a dizzying array of dishes and served them quietly, smiling with pleasure at the way the viscount and his bride helped themselves. When they removed the plates, it became quite clear that both the lord and his new lady had merely moved their food around instead of eating it. Neither did either of them drink very much, although they had laughed and chatted companionably all through the meal.
When the last sweet had been removed, the little table carried out, and the last footman had silently left, Cristabel rose from her chair. But she didn’t go far. She walked to the fireplace and stood looking down into the heart of the fire. She bowed her bright head and clasped her hands together hard.
“Magnus,” she finally said in a small, uncertain voice.
“Yes?” he said, coming up behind her.
She turned, startled, then grinned. “You must be better; I didn’t hear you at all, and you didn’t stumble once. You’re not breathing hard either.”
“Oh, but I am,” he said, and forgetting all the seductive words and phrases as well as all the neat arguments he’d thought up for her seduction tonight, he caught her up in his arms, drew her close, lowered his head, and kissed her.
She threw her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe so as to return his kiss with all her heart, and gladly abandoned all thought of the daring, clever things she’d planned to say and do to make him take her in his arms again. All her doubts and fears had been outweighed by the terribly wonderful yearning she had for him. Almost losing him had made her burn for him. She’d realized that she’d made all her plans for her future without counting on Magnus, and her own passions and his ability to fire them. Nothing had prepared her for him—for this. She was his wife now and she wanted to be his wife forever, but since she hardly believed in forever, she was willing to settle for this one night and any she could have after. It sounded right when she’d plotted it, but then she’d lost her courage. It didn’t seem possible for her to lack courage, but it was so.
She hardly knew herself an
ymore, and she was weary of fighting.
Magnus only knew that she wanted him, and the joy of that overwhelmed him.
The clothes they both wore were full and made of heavy fabric, held fast by complicated hooks and tapes and tiny buttons. They would laugh, perhaps, some other time and place, at how they struggled to free each other from them, as though the clothes themselves and not just their bodies were on fire. But tonight was not a time for joking. Tonight they were each too anxious to prevent the other from knowing how awkward the business was, and too fearful of breaking the mood. They’d each dressed to impress the other, but it was astonishing how quickly they managed to undress and still keep their hands and lips busy with each other.
When he finally stood in only his breeches, and she in her shift, amidst a ragged circle of discarded clothes, they stopped and looked at each other. And then they smiled and he picked her up and took her to his bed.
“But your wound…” she worried, hiding her face in his neck.
“…is nothing to my need for you,” he said, lifting her head with one hand and kissing her softly.
“Afraid?” he asked, pausing as he unbuttoned his fine silk breeches.
“Oh aye, of course,” she said nervously, pulling her shift over her head.
He smiled his crooked smile, until he saw her body emerge from her shift. “Oh Lord, Cristabel,” he said on a long sigh, “before God, you are so beautiful.”
She gazed at him, in all his sleek muscle and firm flesh, and lowered her lashes over her eyes so she could gaze more without him seeing. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, because she’d never seen a man aroused, and Magnus was a very large man. She looked up and away quickly, and only then saw his wound, unbandaged at last. “Oh, Magnus,” she said softly, putting her small hand on his wide chest. “Does it hurt?” she asked, seeing the puckered red scar there.