Could there be? Hot water? Was that too much to hope for?
Next to that doorway, he found a stairway leading up.
Setting Virtue on the daybed, he took a hasty tour of the upstairs. There were two bedrooms. They each had one window and slanted ceilings. The cots were both small and let off an ear-splitting creak when he tested their strength with a firm push.
This wasn’t the type of establishment for a man to indulge in the company of any ladies, it seemed. But, even so, any cot was a luxury and it’d get them through the night.
The beds were stripped bare, but they had blankets piled at the foot. Good enough.
He selected the bedroom by the stairs for its chair beside the window. After dusting off the mattress and fluffing a pillow, he made the bed and then returned with Virtue.
She was shivering when he set her down. Though out of the wind and the worst of the cold, the room was still uncomfortably chilly. A fire in the stove could draw attention to the place. So he was grateful for the bear-fur throw with which to tuck her in.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her when she shifted from a reclined position to one where she was seated upright.
Apparently, she wasn’t that tired.
He took the seat beside the window. The moon shed some light on the area—only the swaying limbs of the trees. They had no pursuers. No sign of Law or Blasphemy, either. But it hadn’t come to a point where he would expect them yet.
He set the gun down on the wide windowsill and took a deep breath in attempt to get his heart and mind to settle.
“The foot aches, but not unbearably so,” she answered after a bit of a delay that seemed . . . apprehensive. “The fever broke a few hours ago. The medicine must be working.”
“Good. And how are you doing?”
There was just enough light in the room for him to make out her expression. Her lips were neutral. He glanced at them, expecting words to follow, but it was her eyes that called to him. Pure, determined, timid but expectant, they lured the desire out from beneath the overwhelming hate, guilt, and fear that were continually threatening to bury him.
“Much better,” she replied, snapping him out of the trance she had put him in. “Now that I know I’m still a virgin. They didn’t take everything away from us.”
“Is that so?” was his only reply. And he kept it at that. Expressing how grateful he was to hear that—even though he was—would suggest he’d be inconsolable if she wasn’t. And he would be, inconsolable, though for her sake, not his own. No woman should ever have something like that taken from her. Being robbed of her fertility was horrendous enough.
His thoughts on the matter were too complicated to entertain. It would undoubtedly be that way for her as well. Access to that part of her body had a monetary value to the despicable. A high one. And hers brought about such pain, humiliation, destruction, and death. War, even. It was in their future. It was unavoidable.
And it was a testament to her resilience and love for him that she still had the will to use her body at her discretion and for her own pleasure.
He didn’t blame her for the eagerness to part with her virginity, either. It was a small but significant victory against the system. They tried to control it and there was beauty in her rebellion. It wasn’t something they could exploit for their own gain ever again.
And he was happy to oblige. At least this moment would always be theirs. And they could do with it what they pleased, no more worry of any rules or consequences.
Virtue pulled off her hospital gown and set it aside. She let his eyes feast on her femininity in the flattering rays of moonlight. It certainly had a way of shining through all evidence of her “cleansing.” Then she burrowed her bare chest deep into the fur of the bear blanket.
Why was he still sitting so far away from her?
She was probably asking herself the same question.
Does he still love me?
Yes. Always.
He was out of his chair.
With one last glance outside—the peace of nature there to further soothe away any lingering edges—he slipped off his blazer. He removed the blood-stained sweater with the Redeemer’s Mark on it. He was never of the right mind to take it off. And he unbuttoned the shirt he had on underneath it and pulled off his undershirt.
Does he still want me?
He unfastened and stepped out of his tattered pants.
Yes. Clearly!
While she slipped out of her underwear, discreetly underneath the blanket, he pinched his eyes shut, both reveling in her fascination and in an effort to overcome his own sense of modesty.
He dropped his drawers too. She would know the truth. The rest of their world, for the time being, was secondary. And without so much as a finger, a stroke, a kiss, or a lick anywhere on his body, he was fully aroused. He had wanted her so badly and for so long. His new fear was that he wouldn’t even make it inside of her before his complete and utter catharsis.
With another step closer, she welcomed him with her cool fingertips and then her hot mouth. It was a deep and luxurious excursion that left him reeling for balance, but then she glided off on her return. She opened the covers, revealing her own nakedness, and looked up at him with a gaze that pulled him into a freefall.
Then came the adjusting and clumsy, frantic movements on a cot that screeched in protest. This all gave rise to a number of those important, first-time quandaries.
It had been a while for him. Therefore, nothing fell into place naturally. Every body part placement felt as if it had to be planned and agreed upon. And he’d never been with a virgin. This posed its own concerns. And he’d never done the deed with someone he cared so much about and above all else. Someone who was also injured and recovering from something unthinkably traumatic. They both were, if he was being fair. Almost dying, then losing her, he thought forever, and then delivering four bullets to four heads to get her back. As much as they deserved it. . .
No, he almost said aloud. Not to her, not to this, the love he was willing to die for, but instead, to the intruding memories.
Virtue rose to him, clung to his shoulder blades, and pressed her mouth to his. The shift allowed him to settle between her legs.
He leaned in. But not inside. Not yet. Was she comfortable? Was she ready?
“Your back,” he blurted when his mouth was freed.
She brought her affection to his neck. “You’re fine,” she murmured, but the bruises came to mind anyway. They were not something he wanted to press into the dense mattress.
“Are you sure? Do you want to get on top?”
“The foot,” she reminded him.
“Right,” he replied immediately. It would put too much pressure on that injury. “I’ll be careful.”
She nodded and then seemed to brace herself for what he hoped wouldn’t be more pain.
Then . . . so much sensation accompanied by such doubt and fear. But her body gave way and provided snug but smooth passage.
He sucked in a few quick breaths of relief. Apparently, he wasn’t breathing at all for a bit. And her body was taut and her breath was just as uneven. Upon her delicate outcry of appreciation, though, he stopped worrying so much about hurting her. He was doing more good than harm.
And the impending climax came upon them so fast. The action was cautious and controlled, but the pleasure was so intense. Before he even saw it coming, she buckled into a million gratified pieces. He was amazed the timing worked out as well as it did. Because he couldn’t hold out much longer.
Since he wasn’t leaning on her a great deal, she clung to him, instead, to keep him close, her face to his chest as the last of the flutters delighted both of their bodies. “Thank you for saving me,” she called out just as his eyes went closed, thoughts went silent, breath stopped, and muscles ached with tension.
Then, he burst and buckled, releasing every last knot of angst. While Virtue was grazing his body with butterflies, everywhere she could reach her lips, he was suddenly fig
hting back tears.
Thank you for saying yes, for giving me a chance, for writing, for trusting me, for believing in me, for loving and forgiving me. . .
But he said simply, “You’re alive. You’re on the mend. It’s me who’s saved.”
And then the fragile strings that were left of his composure . . . snapped. The outpouring became a deluge of unprecedented proportions. He had never sobbed so openly and uncontrollably. So deeply.
And so much for keeping his weight off her! He was incapable of holding himself up. Or even pulling himself out. He just let himself wilt against the warmth of her body. And she let him stay there, his damp face plastered to her chest.
She told him it was okay, stroking his hair and back. She loved him. She was proud of him.
And with her support, he experienced a profound moment of clarity.
Yes, he intended to write and make the Captain not only feel but believe he was as small, heartless, and disgusting as the man he actually was.
But he was also a dead man. Herald would find a way. . . .
With that in mind, the door downstairs scraped open.
Herald shuddered back to a reality in which he could function. Who was there? Was it Law? Did everything work out? Should I go for the gun? Or the pants? Or. . . ?
Virtue, however, didn’t loosen her grasp, urging him to stay exactly where he was. She even pulled the bearskin blanket up over his head. No one besides her would ever have to witness the sopping mess he’d become.
“Herald? Did you make it?”
Law, from what sounded like the bottom of the stairs.
“I’ll handle it,” Virtue trilled to him, music to his ears. “We’re here,” she called out.
Footsteps. Loud and swift. There was no chance they’d be able to fool him. Something happened. So Herald didn’t bother moving at all.
“You decent?” Law asked, knocking on the half-open door Herald didn’t initially foresee a need to close.
They didn’t answer, so he came in. Herald could practically hear him stagger. “Oh, I—”
“Is everything all right?” Virtue said, moving them past the awkward gridlock.
“Yeah, uh . . . they were sweeping all medical facilities, hoping to get lucky. Dr. B had everything under control. Is he—?” he referred to Herald, probably making a gesture of some sort.
“He’s fine. Just tired.”
“Well, I think it’s finally safe to say we can get some sleep. But just in case, the gun? I’ll be downstairs. I’ll watch the door.”
“Windowsill,” she informed him.
“Great.” Footsteps there. Footsteps back. “Good night,” he called, and Virtue returned the farewell.
He shut the door when he left.
They were alone to just be for the night. For the first time ever. But it wasn’t as if they could make the most of it.
He was done. In the warmth, comfort, and relative safety, his last concern was for Virtue, wondering if she could actually sleep with him pressed against her like that.
He would have moved if he had the strength or the will to.
But he didn’t. And mere seconds later, the blips of comprehensible thought he had remaining . . . flat-lined.
***
Herald was conscious enough to know it was morning. He couldn’t see the light from the window, but it was hard to ignore the chafing feeling that he should be up already. Nonetheless, he was still exhausted in all ways possible, adamantly shirking the responsibilities the day would bring, and perfectly content where he was.
On the small cot, Herald and Virtue could hardly avoid being pressed against each other in some facet. In their nakedness, it was warmer that way and the intimacy of their body placement made up for any mild discomfort. Although, currently, he couldn’t feel his left leg. But it was a small price to pay.
Herald began on top of her. After the first nightmare—hers—they shifted so that she was on her stomach on top of him. She didn’t want to talk about it, so he simply stroked her back until the trembling stopped. And eventually he drifted back to sleep. So did she, it seemed.
But then it was his turn to wake up, gasping and disoriented, the dream and the aftermath more convincing than their serene—and temporary—new reality. They moved again and settled into a side position, her back cradled against his front, her arms tucked under his. Until, without him realizing it, she rolled over, landing them face to face, or more accurately, his face to her chest. His one arm was under her waist. His other hand was pressed between her thighs. And with his head buried between her breasts and well beneath the bear-skin blanket, he felt like the bear, wishing he could hibernate between two perfect mounds for the entire winter.
“Are you awake, my love?” Virtue trilled to him like a morning lark. “We made it through the night.”
“Mmmm,” he groaned from his deep fog.
“Can I ask you something?”
She stroked a hand through his hair, inviting him closer.
He was happy to oblige. “Mmmm?”
His eyes opened. And since it was all he could see and so tempting, he took her nipple into his mouth. Her legs eased open. He used the hand that rested there to explore, skimming over her thigh and up her side. The volume she had lost was noticeable. Her ribcage was more pronounced. It reminded him of the promise he had made to her father. She won’t go hungry.
At that exact moment, his stomach rumbled. Though it had been days since he had a halfway decent meal, he was hungrier for something else. He could certainly tap into the dwindling stock for what remained of his energy. It was worth it.
“What’s your real name?” she asked while his mouth was occupied. Waiting for his answer and hearing none, she went on, “I have a feeling you already know mine.”
“Cornelia,” he supplied in a mumble as he went for her other breast. He didn’t want it to begin its day feeling left out.
He had always maintained the charade in regard to her name, but he knew it was Cornelia before they met. Her father would often speak her true name with fine things to say and a smile on his face. He didn’t go out of his way to mention anyone else in his family. Was it because he wanted to entice Herald to request an introduction? Probably not. He was just proud and couldn’t help himself. And since Virtue wasn’t aware of his actual title, her father didn’t exactly endorse him in any detail.
“All right, then.” She rolled onto her back and guided him along with her. “I think it’s only fair.” He was between her legs and in her welcoming embrace. “I want to know who exactly I’ve bedded.”
“I’m not sure I want to tell you,” he said just before drawing her earlobe into his mouth.
But she didn’t take that well. She attempted to roll over, moving her soft, supple neck away from him and replacing it with the blonde stubble at the back of her head.
“Mmm mmm mmm,” he protested, both tugging and pursuing. The bed resisted his shifting weight with a mocking and reprimanding shriek.
It was astounding what little she had to do to get him to do her bidding. He was lucky she didn’t abuse the privilege.
With groveling pecks on any skin she’d let him have, he finally convinced her to return to her back and give him her eyes. “If it means so much to you. . .”
“It does,” she said, her expression sincere and serious, the stitches on her semi-pouting lips there to further wring a confession right out of him.
“It’s Ernest.”
Trust wasn’t the issue. If it was possible for anything good to come out of their misadventure, it was foremost. He just didn’t want the . . . yep, right there. The grin she couldn’t keep contained. “Ernest?”
“That’s correct. Dr. Ernest Hargreave. I know. It’s so awful it’s hard to believe it’s real.”
“You could do a lot worse,” she assured him. “Why didn’t you want to tell me? Hemmingway was an Ernest.”
“He had four wives. He went crazy and killed himself.” At long last—it was at least thirt
y seconds that she was displeased with him—she let her guard down. He seized the opportunity to shuffle back between her legs. And the bed certainly had a way of announcing that. “Maybe for this reason. Oh, Ernest. Give it to me, Ernest. Harder. Faster! Make me feel like a woman, Ernest.”
His body was ready to feast on hers. His lips sought her neck again. But he was hindered. Unless they could better align things, he had a sizable erection he had no place to put.
“Cornelia isn’t ideal either,” she informed him while he was getting carried away in his quest to get her as ready to go as he was. “Girls my age would hear it and assume I was snooty. When, in fact, I was just shy.”
He stopped to stare in mock outrage on her behalf. “Those ninnies were simply jealous. I, on the other hand, think it’s the perfect name for you.” He pecked her lips, her nose, and each eyelid. “It means womanly virtue. It suits you. Virtue? Cornelia? They are one in the same. I love them both. Because I love you.”
He took the position to bury himself inside of her. And she welcomed him there with the embrace of her arms and legs. “Are you always this charming in the morning?”
“No. But today I found my inspiration.”
That was meant to be his closing statement. And it was a good one. He was proud of it. And it appeared to have hit the right spot with Miss Cornelia “Virtue” Alexander. She was so tense and in need of some relief.
But it also reached the ears of someone else. From downstairs, there was much rustling and then a pounding that came across as a rock hitting wood. Then an explosive sigh rattled through the heating vent on the floor next to their cot. “Hey, Ernest? Just to warn you. . .” They were bombarded with the voice of Law, which boomed through every flue, duct, and passage in the cabin with God-like reverberation, probably the way he intended. “You’re making me gag! I can hear every word you say and every twitch you make. So don’t get any ideas!”
Herald collapsed into Virtue, but not the way he was hoping for. We need a place of our own . . . someday.
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