Simply Love

by Mary Balogh

  He did not close his eye. He watched her.

  The surgeon had amputated his arm a few inches below the shoulder. Because there had been no recent battle and consequently the surgeon had not been pressed for time while other wounded soldiers awaited their turn to go under his knife, he had done a good, neat job. The stump of the arm was not unsightly-as amputations went.

  “I still have my arm, you know,” he said with a somewhat twisted smile, “and my hand. In my mind they are still there and very real. I can feel them. Sometimes they itch. I can almost use my hand. But they are both gone, as you can see.”

  It was not just the stump of his arm she could see, though. The whole right side of his body was purple from the burns, the crisscrossing scars of the old cuts livid in contrast. They extended all the way down his side and leg to the knee.

  She set her hand against the naked flesh of his side, just above the band of his breeches.

  “Is there still pain?” she asked.

  He hesitated.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Particularly about my eye, about the stump of my arm, and in my knee, which was not actually destroyed. But not always and not unbearable. It is worst in damp weather. It is something I am accustomed to, something that is quite within my control. One can learn to live with a great deal of discomfort and even pain, Anne. For about six months of my life, I wished fervently to die, but I am glad I did not. Life is very sweet despite all the losses I have sustained. I am not generally, I think, a complainer.”

  “You are not,” she agreed.

  She reached up her hand then and cupped it about the right side of his face. He closed his eye and leaned into her hand. So few people except physicians had touched his right side since he came home from the Peninsula. It was as if his torturers had laid everlasting claim to it. He had not even realized just how much he had craved someone’s touch-a gentle touch after all the violence. It felt almost as if healing flowed through her hand, as if after she had lifted it away his flesh would be whole again.

  He swallowed against a gurgle in his throat.

  And then he felt her thumb move beneath the black ribbon of his eye patch and realized her intent. He grabbed for her wrist and opened his left eye, but it was too late. She set the eye patch down on the floor beside his chair.

  He gazed at her in horror and misery.

  “It is all right,” she told him softly. “Sydnam, you are my husband. It is all right.”

  But it was not all right. His right eye was gone. His closed eyelid lay flat against where it had been and there was some heavy scarring. To say it was not a pretty sight would be a gross understatement.

  He would not close his eye. He clamped his teeth hard together and watched her as she gazed at him. And then she got to her feet, leaned over him, her hands on his shoulders, and set her lips softly against the outer corner of his eyelid.

  He fought the tears that ached in his throat.

  She was looking down at him then, a smile on her face.

  “You look less like a pirate without the patch,” she said.

  “Is that good or bad?” he asked.

  “I think some women,” she said, “find pirates quite irresistible.”

  “Perhaps, then,” he said, “I should put it back on.”

  “You had better not tempt me,” she said. “I am a married lady.”

  “Ah,” he said, “that is sad.”

  “Not for me,” she told him. “I do not need a pirate, you see. I find my husband irresistible.”

  He smiled and so did she.

  But the air fairly crackled between them, and he was amazed to realize that his weariness had fled, to be replaced by an intense desire for her. And surely this time she was blatantly seducing him.

  “I think,” he said, getting to his feet, “I had better find out if that is true.”

  “I think,” she said, “you had better.”

  She moved against him, and her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his breeches while she opened the buttons and undressed him until he was naked before her. Her eyes took in the wounds all the way down to his knee.

  “Anne,” he said, “perhaps your condition-”

  “We are married, Sydnam,” she said. “We married yesterday. We did it because of my condition, of course. We had said good-bye. We would not have seen each other again. But we are married. I want to be married to you in every sense of the word, and I believe you want it too. You do, don’t you?”

  It was not exactly a declaration of love, only a practical acceptance of the relationship in which they found themselves-because of her condition. But for now it was enough. She was looking at his naked, damaged body, and yet she still wanted a consummation of their marriage. For tonight, for now, that was gift enough.

  “And the baby?”

  “I asked the physician Claudia insisted I see,” she said, “since I fully expected that you would come and wed me. He told me there should be no discomfort and no danger-except in the final month or so.”

  In the shivering light of the candle he watched a blush spread over the exposed part of her bosom and up her neck into her face. She had actually asked the physician? He smiled slowly.

  “Well, then,” he said, “why are we still standing here?”

  “Because we have not yet lain down,” she said. And she crossed her arms and drew her nightgown up and off over her head in one fluid motion.

  He explored and caressed her naked, shapely body with his hand, his fingers, and his fingertips after they had lain down. It was only as he did so that he realized they had left the candle burning. But he let it be. He would not hide himself from her any longer. If they were to enter deeply into all the many intimacies of marriage, he must give her the whole of himself as he was and trust her to accept his deficiencies.

  He explored her and aroused her with his lips, his teeth, his tongue, his hand.

  He spread his mouth over one slightly swollen nipple, licking it with his tongue, sucking on it, pulsing his teeth about it while caressing her in the hot, moist secret place between her legs. She moaned and threaded her fingers in his hair. And then, when he lifted his head to feather kisses over her face, to suckle one of her earlobes, her hands found his naked erection. One hand caressed him while one finger of the other hand circled him and the pad of her thumb stroked feather-light over the tip.

  He closed his eye and inhaled slowly. He let the breath out on an audible sigh.

  He moved onto her then, regretting fleetingly that he did not have two arms so that he could lift some of his weight off her. But she received him eagerly, spreading her legs, twining them about his, wrapping her arms about him, moving her hips until he was pressed to her opening.

  He plunged deep inside and again had to inhale slowly in order to prevent himself from spilling into her too soon, before she had had time to share the pleasure.

  This was their real wedding night, he thought suddenly, and he was making love with his wife. With Anne. The wonder of it caught at his heart, and he held deep in her, savoring the knowledge that he was not just a man having sex or sharing a sexual experience with a desirable, willing woman. He was making love with his wife, with the woman whom he had married yesterday and with whom he would share the rest of his life.

  He withdrew slowly and pressed inward again, withdrew and entered, setting up a slow rhythm, feeling all the exquisite pain of holding back his desire so that it could be a shared experience of pleasure.

  Except that he realized suddenly that she was lying quietly beneath him, her body slightly tense-though not with the tension of sexual desire. It was all pretense, he realized-or all a valiant attempt to be a good wife to him, to treat him as if he were a normal man.

  And he had left the candle burning!

  Desire almost died in him.

  But if it did, she would know that he knew-and how would they be able to carry on together? She was doing this for him, because she cared. She did care, he knew.

  He quickened
the rhythm. He shut his mind to all else but his own sexual need, and finally he held deep in her and felt the blessed release of completion. He almost despised the pure physical pleasure of the moment.

  He moved off her almost immediately and tucked the blankets up over her shoulders. She was looking at him, he saw in the flickering light of the candle. He wished she had kept her eyes closed and pretended to sleep. He smiled at her. Perhaps she did not know he knew. She had been so very kind to him tonight.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  But he was alarmed to see her eyes fill with tears. Were they not going to be allowed to pretend to each other, then?

  “Sydnam,” she said. She was almost whispering. “It is not you. Please, please believe me that it is not you. It is me.”

  And the truth of what she had said crashed in on him like a tidal wave. But, of course, of course! He suffered from dreadful nightmares because of the unspeakable atrocities that had been done to his body.

  Anne had suffered an atrocity at least equally unspeakable.

  Did she suffer from nightmares too?

  Or was it physical intimacy that was her nightmare-a physical intimacy that had happened twice since the atrocity, once at Ty Gwyn, and once tonight.

  He gazed back at her, appalled. Had she known with her mind on both occasions that it was he but had felt with her body that it was Moore?

  “It is me,” she said again. “Please believe that it is not you. You are beautiful, Sydnam, and you are sweet and gentle.”

  “Anne.” He touched his lips to hers. “Anne, I understand. I do. Like a block, I did not even really consider it before now. But I do understand. What can I do? Shall I-Would you like me to go sleep in the sitting room?”

  “No!” She clung to him, pressed herself to him. “Please, please, no. Not unless you cannot bear-Sydnam, I am so sorry.”

  “Shh,” he said against her hair. “Hush, love. Let me just hold you as you held me earlier. Shh.”

  He kissed her temple and made sure the blanket was tucked all about her. He warmed her body with his own.

  And incredibly, blessedly, he felt her warm and relax within minutes and realized soon after that she slept.

  He ought not to have slept too. It had been a night of turmoil.

  It had also been totally exhausting.

  He fell asleep only a few minutes after.

  Anne woke up when something tickled her nose and a few sleepy swipes with one hand did not dislodge whatever it was that was doing it. She realized before she opened her eyes that it was a human knuckle-Sydnam’s, to be precise.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Butler,” he said. “Are you planning to get up sometime today?”

  He was lying on the bed beside her, but on top of the bedcovers, fully clothed, and now that she was awake, she could hear his valet bumping around behind the closed door of the dressing room. It was unlike her to sleep late.

  “You have even shaved,” she said, reaching out a hand to touch the smooth skin of his jaw on the left side.

  “Are not pirates usually clean-shaven?” he asked her.

  “Bluebeard?” She raised her eyebrows. “Blackbeard?”

  He grinned at her.

  Not for a moment had she forgotten last night-not any of it. And it was impossible that he had forgotten any of it either. But he had chosen not to begin the day with tragedy. And why should she? They both had demons to fight. Why fight each other too?

  She smiled back.

  “Before I came upstairs last night, I agreed to go out riding with Kit and my father this morning,” he said, “to see the farms. I was actually my father’s steward here for a few years after my recovery. Did I ever tell you that? Will you mind if I go with them?”

  She minded very much. She would be left alone with his mother and Lauren and the children. But what had she expected? That she could cower in his shadow for as long as he chose to remain here? This was the family she had married into, and now she must do all within her power to fit in, to show them that she was not the unprincipled fortune hunter they must think her.

  And since when had she needed anyone to cling to in abject dependence?

  “Of course I will not mind,” she said. “Enjoy yourself.”

  He rolled off the bed and got to his feet.

  “Lauren will take care of you,” he said.

  “Of course she will,” she said. The viscountess was very beautiful, very elegant, very proper. She had also been kind-even after David’s disastrous announcement.

  “When Kit first brought her here as his betrothed,” Sydnam told her, “he and I were bitterly estranged. I’ll explain it all to you one day. Lauren singled me out one day, determined to have a talk with me, and it was clear I was not her favorite person in the world. But she listened to me-really listened. She was the first person during all those years of turmoil to do that and to understand my point of view. She forced a confrontation between Kit and me. Both of us were reluctant, awkward, and sheepish. But it worked. Lauren is one of my favorite people. She even kissed me here once.” He tapped his forefinger against his right cheek.

  “Did she?” Anne said.

  “Jealous?”

  “Mortally.”

  They smiled at each other, and Anne knew that one thing at least had not died last night. He was still her friend. It was not much to cling to, perhaps, when they were a married couple, but it was definitely something. And she was quite determined to begin this new day with optimism.

  “If you get dressed immediately or sooner,” he said, “we can go down to breakfast together.”

  It was only as they were descending the stairs ten minutes later that Anne realized there had been no nausea yet this morning. She had been too preoccupied to give it a chance, she supposed.

  The rest of the day proceeded far more smoothly than Anne had feared it might. The men left the breakfast table early, and the countess addressed Anne as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “We were worried for you as well as Sydnam last night, Anne,” she said. “Oh, and a little annoyed with you too for shutting the door in our faces when I daresay you have had no experience of dealing with my son after he has had one of his nightmares. But we did not hear another sound, and this morning he is as cheerful and full of energy as I have ever seen him. He is usually tired and listless the day after. How did you do it?”

  “I merely wrapped him up warmly and held him until he had stopped shaking,” Anne said, feeling herself flush.

  Her mother-in-law looked steadily at her without smiling.

  “He was foolish,” she said, “so very foolish to go to war-just to prove that he was as brave as Kit.”

  “Which he did indeed prove, you must admit, Mother,” Lauren said.

  “But at such a tragic cost,” the countess said. “He was very talented, Anne. Did you know that?”

  “As a painter?” Anne said. “Yes, I did.”

  “Not just talented,” the countess said, “but consumed by the dream of being a great painter. Why on earth he put that dream at risk by going to the Peninsula I will never understand.”

  “Sometimes,” Anne said, “men who are quiet and artistic feel the need to prove their masculinity, especially when they are very young, as Sydnam was. What better way to prove it than by going to war?”

  All three women shook their heads at the foolishness of the male of the species, and it struck Anne suddenly that her decision to stay with Sydnam last night when Kit had been prepared to deal with him had actually endeared her to his family. Perhaps after all they would come to accept her and understand that she had not schemed to marry a wealthy, well-connected man.

  “Do any of his paintings still exist?” she asked.

  Lady Redfield sighed.

  “They used to hang all over the house,” she said. “But after he was brought back here and long before he was able to leave his own rooms he commanded us to destroy every one of them. Yes, our gentle son com
manded us. They are stacked up in the attic with his old easels and painting supplies. I have sometimes thought of hanging one or two of them again now that he has gone from Alvesley, but I cannot bring myself to do what I believe would still be against his wishes. And I am not sure I would be able to bear to see any of them after so long.”

  “But Sydnam is not a tragic figure,” Lauren said, smiling at Anne. “You must have discovered that for yourself, Anne. He has made a meaningful new life for himself, difficult as it has been with his disabilities. And now he has a wife and family for his personal happiness.”

  Her smile seemed to possess genuine warmth.

  “You will come visiting with Lauren and me this afternoon, Anne,” the countess said in a tone that brooked no contradiction. “You must be presented to our neighbors, and the hasty, secret nature of your marriage must be somehow explained. We will not take your son with us.”

  Lauren laughed softly and got to her feet.

  “David is delightful,” she said. “He was playing with Andrew and Sophie when I went up to the nursery to feed Geoffrey last evening and even settled a quarrel between them before I could intervene. Shall we go up there now, Anne?”

  They spent the rest of the morning there, though there was no need to amuse the children. Andrew was clearly delighted to have an older cousin willing and able to build an impressive castle with him out of painted wooden bricks, and Sophia was content with gazing at her new cousin and edging closer to him until she was able to reach out and touch his hair. David turned and smiled at her, and she was permitted to hand him the bricks, though Andrew forbade her to touch the castle.

  David was simply happy.

  Geoffrey, plump and contented, lay in Anne’s arms after he had been fed, his eyelids fighting a losing battle with sleep. He had his mother’s startlingly violet eyes, she noticed.

  “I think,” Lauren said after a while, “it is going to be remarkably pleasant to have another sister. And for my children to have another aunt and more cousins.”