by Baird Wells
“With haste,” he quipped, a suspicious thickness to his voice, lips dotting kisses at her temple.
He smelled awful. Rotten-egg powder smoke, old blood and sweat, lathered horses practically wafted from him. Still, she wouldn’t have let go for less than convincing herself that he really was there.
Alexandra pulled away at last, clutching the gritty lapel of his uniform coat and looking him over head to toe. Spencer was as dirty as he smelled, blotched with stains of every color. A telltale bullseye of dried and fading blood hinted at a wound on his thigh.
It occurred to her how long they’d been standing there, after his arduous journey home. “Inside! Go in. Sit down.”
She smacked at a hand when he leaned to claim his bags, earning a chuckle, and then shooed him by a press of his shoulder.
She raked an apron out of the rocking chair, pushing Miles’ cradle with her foot and balancing his little body all the while. Spencer’s gentle grip on her arm gave her pause. “Here.” His broad hands curved around Miles’ torso, lifting him. “Go on about your business. We can manage together.”
Spencer’s words were for her, but his eyes, wide and bright, never left their son. “I thought he would be smaller,” Spencer murmured, folding into the rocking chair.
She breathed against a sharp pang, grasping all that had changed in his absence. Claiming one of the dining chairs, she moved it in front of him and settled, taking in her matched set of chestnut-haired boys.
“Look at that,” whispered Spencer, sparing her a glance while Miles gripped and pulled his broad index finger.
She went on staring, relearning him, still disbelieving and certain she’d never tire of looking at him. A hundred things came to mind, questions and stories, worries. “I’ve missed you,” she managed at last.
“Do you know,” he whispered, studying Miles, “that I am always acutely aware of your watching me?”
Her heart drummed a rapid tattoo at his words, recalled from so long ago.
A telltale bob to his adam’s apple filled the silence, and then he met her eyes. “I’m not certain all the days between now and the end of time can ever mend this ache.” He pressed a fist to his chest.
Leaning forward, she slipped fingers into his collar and pressed her lips to his. “I love you.”
“I know that you do.” He pulled away and smiled. “That is the only motivation you could have for being within arm’s length just now.”
Hiding a laugh behind her hand, she shook her head. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” She looked him over for a thousandth time, heart aching. “Are you hungry? Tired? What can I do?”
“Yes,” he nodded, smiling and cradling Miles closer and feathering his downy tuft of hair. “But I don’t need you to do anything more.”
Miles writhed, arching and stuffing a tiny fist into his mouth. Spencer’s brow dipped into a sweetly worried furrow. “What have I done?”
“Made him wait on supper.” She reached out, pulling their baby to her chest. “He shares his father’s opinions on food.” Thoughtless, she unbuttoned the gusset on her dress and cradled an impatient Miles to her breast.
Spencer was on his feet, clearing his throat almost before she’d settled the baby. Alix pursed her lips to hide a smile at his averted gaze.
“Perhaps now is a good time…” He worked between her knees and his chair, body turned half away, “While you… I should clean up. Sort myself out…” His voice trailed off behind her.
She hated for him to go, and nearly snuffed his protests. Seeing him exhausted and gritty, soot- and blood-caked, she put away her selfishness. “There’s a washtub against the garden wall. Fire’s ready if you’d like to heat the water.”
More muttering, down the hall, was muted by distance and her laughter.
* * *
The front room was empty by the time he’d finished. Not that he’d been hasty. He’d chafed at any separation from Alix right up until the clean, hot water had touched his skin. The unholy pleasure of something better than a frigid, cinched out rag couldn’t be forsaken.
The bite of an evening breeze at sunset had finally rushed him into clean breeches, and then into the house. The chill felt bone-deep and lingering after weeks being baked by the Iberian sun. Claiming a few logs from the alcove, he built up a fire, thrilled when the wood flared, and warmed by the simplest of domestic pleasures. Taking a moment longer to toast the front and back of his hands over the crackling timber, he claimed his towel, intending to go in search of Alix. A haphazard pile of papers beside the hearth caught his attention, fluttering when he stood up. He reached down, claiming the stack of letters. Only one lay open; he skimmed its contents and swallowed, reading it again carefully. She hadn’t said a word, but there was no question that Alix was hurting. Tossing the letters into the chair, he sought her out.
It wasn’t hard to find her; a delicious odor wafting from the kitchen hinted where to look. He stopped short in the doorway, leaned against its frame, and let the moments pass while he took her in. Her back was to him, and she moved from the fire to the butcher’s block, adding something to a cast iron pot a handful at a time.
She was thinner. It wasn’t the heartbreaking thinness she’d suffered at Paulina’s hands, but rather a leanness to her curves earned by splitting wood, hauling water, and hefting their growing baby. If not for that, he wouldn’t believe that nearly half a year had passed. Her waves were caught up in a loose knot, silky and soft. How often he’d longed to run his fingers through it while on campaign. How many nights he’d lain awake, imagining the moment he could lay eyes on her again.
Unable to resist any longer, he took a step into the kitchen, soaking up heat from the fire and buffeting the last drops of water from his shoulders.
“Food is nearly done.” A smile bent her words. “Took you so long I thought I’d lost you. I half expected to find you laid out cold in the garden.” She threw him a glance off her shoulder, revealing a dimple. Then she stopped stirring and turned around in earnest, and he felt a slow burn from the inside out which had nothing to do with proximity to the fire. Alexandra’s gaze painted him head to toe and back. She set down her wooden spoon with a deliberateness that quickened his pulse. One dark brow furrowed, and she raked fingers, beckoning him closer. “Come here.”
She met his progress at the far side of the kneading board. He braced, waited for the delicious brush of her hands after so long, but for a breath she only stared. When her fingertips did brush his chest, it was a pleasure nearing pain. Spencer sucked in a gasp and closed his eyes. Her touch marked every wound and scar, from a short line of jagged sutures at his throat to spikes of mostly healed slashes at his waistband. There her exploration paused with a questioning pressure.
“Nothing,” he answered and flexed his aching thigh. “Hardly more than grazed.”
A good bit more than grazed, but he had no intention of adding to her burdens.
“Hmm.” He opened his eyes to a narrowed gaze, its suspicion shredding his half-truth.
“I’ve come through it well enough,” he placated.
Her chin raised a fraction, a challenge. “How well?”
An ache from gut to knees nearly doubled him over. His mouth parched and he struggled to swallow. “Well enough,” he repeated, taking her in and pausing over-long on full lips.
A fingernail pricked the flesh at his hip and dragged a searing line to the hollow of his throat. Warm fingers rested atop the ridge of his shoulder. Then her stomach grumbled.
Alix doubled over, half giggling, half sighing.
Catching her laughter, he pushed her away. “Curse these mortal forms. You’d best go finish before we die of starvation. I’ll finish dressing.”
She raised up, brushing his lips with a pressure that started the troubles all over again. “Sounds like a lot of unnecessary effort.” Her teasing concluded with a sharp swat at his hip that would have settled matters then and there, had his own belly not felt inside out.
Groani
ng, he retreated out into the hallway under her appraisal. “I’ll be back,” he threatened with a grin.
Alix turned and claimed her spoon, rewarding him with a wink. “I’m depending upon it.”
* * *
Alexandra turned onto her side, wriggling deeper into the mattress’ plush down. Spencer rested against the headboard, knees drawn up to bounce Miles in his lap.
“They really aren’t so difficult,” he observed, clapping Miles’ tiny hands together.
“Not particularly. Give them plenty of rocking and cuddling. And feeding. Beyond that, he’s pleased if I narrate the wash for him.”
“Like his father.” Spencer jabbed her with an elbow, then gathered the fussing bundle of eye-rubbing to his chest and jostled.
“Precisely like his father.” She rubbed his arm, then Miles’ tiny foot, curling his toes.
“I remember holding him so, that first morning.”
A wonderful, terrible morning, like so many days to follow.
Working herself against him, Alix buried her head in the warm crook of Spencer’s arm, inhaling him. “You’re home now.”
There was a long pause. She could tell he was chewing over something and was content to wait until he was ready to discuss it. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Alexandra, I saw the letter. I’m sorry about Chas.”
“I’m not certain how I feel,” she admitted. “Sorry that he suffered so, just when he had a clear slate. But…” She swallowed, dredging up the courage to confess herself. “Is it horrible, thinking the end was inevitable?”
“I’m not certain it’s right or wrong. It was just a fact. You did all you could for him. I’m sorry, too, that it wasn’t enough.”
“I don’t know,” she repeated, absorbing the depth of Spencer’s words. “I’m sorry for him, but I think it will take time to miss him. The hurt will come later.”
“I will be here,” he promised, pressing her with his arm. “Whenever it comes. Whenever you need me.”
She pushed thoughts of Chas, of Paulina and Silas from her mind, determined to do nothing more than enjoy her husband. Then, something occurred to her. “While we’re on the subject of brothers, you haven’t breathed a word about Bennet.” She braced. “Is he...is everything…?”
“Bennet?” Spencer wriggled up the bed, grimacing with every bounce at a now-sleeping Miles. “He’s alive, if that’s what you mean. Hale and whole. Getting precisely what he deserves.”
She raised a brow, waiting for him to elaborate while he settled Miles in his cradle in the corner.
When he turned and caught her look, he paused and shrugged. “I cannot claim to know the whole tale and could never do it justice, anyhow. If he makes it back to England in one piece, I’ve no doubt he’ll utterly regale you.”
He blew out his bedside candle, leaving them bathed in the warm amber glow of coals flickering in the grate, and slid beneath the quilt.
Alix settled on her back, hands folded over her belly. Spencer mimicked her posture, blinking up at the ceiling.
She sighed. He cleared his throat.
After a few silent moments, she shifted against the mattress. He followed suit, and she sighed again.
“Nervous?”
“Why is this so difficult?” she whispered back.
He chuckled, pinching her hip through her shift. “Would you be more at ease if we went out into the garden?”
“I would.” She rolled up onto her arm and called his bluff. “And we’ll pretend that you are a masked stranger.”
“Here will do just fine,” he grumbled, tumbling her back.
Alix relished the weight of his body against hers, his touch after so long. “I suppose.” She brushed her lips to his. “It’s a place to start.”
.
The Author Wishes to Gratefully Acknowledge:
Kirstin ‘Skeins’ Boyd, who had to leave
J Caleb Design, for another stunning cover
Carl Achterkirchen, for making it pretty
Sandy Hoeft, for helping others to build their dreams
Robin, for being there the whole way
Erica, and her love of the craft
JC and Ashley, the family I never had, because they haven’t run screaming yet
And
Officer Barry Hetlet, a hero to the end