by Wilma Counts
He laughed softly. “Oh, yes. I am sure.” He marveled at the utter perfection unfolding before him and bent his head to kiss each breast as it was exposed. He felt himself growing even harder, and nudged her toward the bed and pulled back the cover.
“In you go,” he said.
She scooted over to allow him room and gazed openly as he removed his shoes, then his shirt, and finally his breeches. She gasped, but did not turn away at seeing him in all his nakedness.
He took her in his arms again, exulting in the sheer ecstasy of skin against skin, but he paused in caressing her to say again, “Are you sure, Hero? You can still change your mind. At the moment—”
She arched her body against his. “I’m sure. I promise. I will have no regrets.”
He kissed her deeply and again brought her to that peak of pleasure before positioning himself between her thighs. He entered her slowly, letting her adjust to him, but then it was she who needed more—faster—deeper—until he finally collapsed on top of her.
After a moment to collect himself, he propped himself on his hands and asked, “Are you all right? Did I hurt you? Please, God, don’t say I hurt you.”
She laughed softly. “You did not hurt me. I had no idea that could be so wonderful.”
He grinned. “Next time it will be better.”
* * * *
Retreating to her room some time later, Hero relived every moment of that encounter. Days earlier, she had surprised herself by confessing to Adam the trauma of that incident in her youth. Afterwards, she had determined that what she felt for Adam had nothing to do with what had happened to her all those years ago. That had been about overbearing boys seizing an opportunity to exert power and control—to prove their masculine “right” to do whatever they wanted, with no regard for anything or anyone but their own selfish desires of the moment, and egged on by the excitement of her refusal and the urgings of their partners in crime. She would never forgive them, but she would no longer allow them to own even a small portion of her very self.
She knew that, tonight, she had moved beyond, that never again would she be insensible to anything life had to offer, never again would something outside herself make her afraid to embrace the wonder—the joy—of her own life, her own self.
Adam had given her this incredible gift. Adam. No, not Adam. Yes, Adam. This man. In this place. He was gentle, giving, and infinitely tender. What did it matter if that was not his name? It was the man with whom she was in love.
In love?
She closed her eyes against this realization. It was true. She loved this man calling himself Adam Wainwright. Moreover, she trusted him. She cherished him for his understanding, for the way he fit in with her family and her friends and neighbors.
She loved him.
But she hugged this knowledge to herself, not willing to share it yet—even with him.
Three days later, she found herself wanting to repudiate every nuance of this discovery, although there had been two nights of incredible bliss in between.
Chapter 16
The entire Whitby household eagerly awaited the return of its prodigal son. Alex suggested that perhaps he should remove to the inn, but both Hero and her father assured him that would not be necessary. Alex knew that Captain Whitby had sent word, upon his arrival in London and then from his last overnight en route to Cornwall, of the expected time of his homecoming. Thus Hero, her father, Jonathan, and Alex had repaired to the library after the midday meal, where they would have tea and wait, for a large window in the library looked out on the circular driveway in front and would afford the first glimpse of the captain’s arrival.
Jonathan seemed unable to sit quietly and kept pacing around the room, spinning the huge standing globe, and generally wearing a trail in the carpet from the window to the platter of biscuits that had accompanied the tea tray. Hero, her father, and Alex continued their threads of conversation that had begun in the dining room, namely discussions of the latest news from London newspapers, the main topics of which were the social unrest resulting from a downturn in the nation’s economy—and the Prince Regent’s marital difficulties.
“The truth is that it never was what anyone would call a marriage made in heaven,” the doctor said. “Prince George and Caroline of Brunswick disliked each other from the moment they met—and they met at the altar!”
“No, that was a marriage concocted by politicians,” Hero said, “but that is no excuse for his having treated his wife so abominably. After all, he did agree to what those politicians suggested.”
“Perhaps he learned something from his experience,” Doctor Whitby replied. “He allowed his daughter some say in her choice of husband, and the gossips tell us Princess Charlotte is quite happy.”
“Let us hope they are right,” Hero said.
“The royals and their marital bliss—or lack thereof—aside,” Alex said, “those latest reports of labor unrest in the Midlands are very troubling.”
“If the men who own most of the land and the manufactories in this country would take more responsibility for the people in their care, I daresay there would be less unrest to be troubled about,” Hero said flatly.
“I say, Doctor,” Alex said facetiously, talking around Hero, “has your lovely daughter always been so reticent about voicing her opinion on matters best left to the male half of the species?”
“Adam. You know I am right,” she said. “Why, just look what’s happening right here in—”
“He’s here!” Jonathan announced from his position at the window. “Good Lord, there’s enough luggage piled on that coach for the whole army! Wha—? You won’t believe this! He’s got a woman with him.”
“A woman?” Hero rose to move toward the window, but almost immediately they heard Stewart in the entrance greeting Michael and telling him the family were in the library.
The door opened to reveal the red-coated army captain, and at his side, her hand on his arm, was a pretty, dark-haired young woman dressed in a stylish travel costume, looking very nervous.
“Michael!” Hero gave a small squeal and flung her arms around her brother’s neck. Their father and his younger son were quick to reach for his hand to extend their own welcome.
The army man hugged them all, but then quickly pulled his companion close and said, “Allow me the pleasure of introducing Monique LaPierre Whitby.” He paused dramatically. “My wife. And this lot, my love, are your new family.”
Utter silence followed.
Monique smiled tremulously and held tighter to her husband’s arm even as she executed a deep curtsy that included all of them.
“Your wife?” Hero squeaked in a shocked tone and returned the other woman’s curtsy rather mechanically.
“Well, well,” the doctor murmured.
“Oh, jolly good!” Jonathan said. Alex could not tell if this was in praise of the woman, the marriage, or the coup Michael had achieved.
“Michael, you horrid, horrid man,” Hero said through surprised laughter. “You might have let us know.”
He kept his arm around his bride as he explained, “We were married only a month ago. I could not bear the idea of leaving Monique in Belgium while I came home to settle things and then return for her. I knew we would probably beat the news home, so—”
“B-but you never once let on—we had no idea—” Hero turned to the woman. “Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be so boorish—of course you are most welcome. Michael’s choice will be our choice as well.”
“Merci,” Monique said in a soft voice. “Michel, he tell me so.”
“Welcome, my daughter.” The doctor enfolded her in a gentle embrace and Jonathan bowed over her hand.
Alex had stood when the newcomers entered the room and simply observed this family scene. Suddenly, Hero caught his gaze and said, “Oh, I am sorry, Adam. Michael, let me introduce our friend, Adam—”
Seeing the man’s eyes widen in recognition, Alex listened helplessly as Michael stepped closer, extending a hand in greeting. “Major Lord Alexander Sterne. What a great pleasure to meet you under happier circumstances, sir.” Alex took the extended hand and murmured an appropriate pleasantry as Michael went on to tell his family, “I attended several of the wounded from the major’s regiment, though he may not have been aware of that—there were so many wounded and things were so chaotic in Brussels then.”
“Yes, they were,” Alex agreed, kicking himself mentally for not having recognized Whitby as the name of one of McGrigor’s medical team. In the aftermath of Waterloo, he had focused on his own men—and those awful letters he had to write to grieving families. He looked at Hero and his heart sank as her expression changed from shocked surprise to embarrassment and then to fury.
“M-major Lord—My, my. This day is just full of surprises, is it not?”
He took a step toward her. “Hero. Please. I—”
“Not now, Adam.” She gave the name an ironic twist. “Not now.” She straightened her shoulders and said to the room at large, “If you will all excuse me, I shall speak with Mrs. Hutchins to ensure we have adequate accommodations for Michael and his bride.” With a catch in her voice, she hastened from the room, refusing to make eye contact with Alex, but he thought he saw a glint of tears in her eyes.
Michael looked bewildered. “What just happened here? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, son, you did not,” his father replied, “but our—uh—major here has some explaining to do. So, let us sit and hear what he has to say.”
Michael and Monique sat very close together, holding hands on the couch from which Hero had had command of the tea tray earlier. Alex and the elder Whitby took the overstuffed chairs they had occupied previously, and Jonathan turned a straight-backed chair around and straddled it. All looked expectantly at Alex.
Alex drew in a deep breath. “First of all, I apologize for being the instrument of dampening your homecoming, Captain. I never intended this to happen. And”—he paused to look at each of them in turn, focusing especially on Jonathan—“I would ask that what I tell you remain in this room.” He waited for each of them to murmur or nod acquiescence, then proceeded to explain why and how he had come to be in Cornwall and the circumstances of his having become a patient of the Whitby father-and-daughter medical team. The elder Dr. Whitby offered an occasional comment of clarification, but mostly Alex felt it was rather a long monologue.
When he finished, the captain looked at his bride and then at Alex and shook his head. “An amazing tale, Major. Sounds like something out of a gothic novel. Complete with ready-made villains in these smugglers.”
“I will let your family fill you in on that part of the story,” Alex said, wanting to avoid embarrassing the Whitbys, especially Jonathan, unnecessarily.
“We can do that later,” the older man said. “I must say that I am disappointed that you were not willing to be honest with us before now, my lord. And I find myself wondering, where do we go from here?”
“I’m not sure, either,” Alex said. He had not anticipated this turn of events—at least not yet. “However, I do want to reiterate my apology for deceiving you and ask your indulgence for a while yet.”
“You want to go on being Adam Wainwright? That seems rather impractical now.” The doctor’s tone was skeptical.
Alex stood and ran a hand through his hair, still trying to work through the logistics of the immediate situation. “No, I think not. That shot has been fired. I think I should probably remove immediately to the Abbey and begin to try to set things right there.”
The older man emitted a sympathetic sigh. “That might be best, my lord.”
“Alex. Please, Dr. Whitby. My family and my friends call me Alex and I should like us to continue to be friends.” He offered his hand to the older man, who took it in a warm clasp.
“That should not be too difficult, my son—Alex. Making your peace with Hero might be another story, though.”
Alex immediately excused himself to do just that.
* * * *
Hero had rushed out of the library in what she herself might have described as a high dudgeon. She walked down the hallway several feet before pausing. She bent over, put her hands on her knees, drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and leaned against the wall. No. She took another deep breath and straightened, bracing her shoulders. She did not have time for this now. She really did need to speak with Mrs. Hutchins. She found that good woman in the kitchen, where she and Cook and the kitchen maids were all in a dither, planning a grand homecoming supper for Michael.
“Mr. Stewart said Mr. Michael brought a lady with him,” Mrs. Hutchins said.
“Not just ‘a lady’—his wife,” Hero announced.
“His wife?” Mrs. Hutchins said in wonder, and the whole kitchen staff paused in what they were doing.
Hero smiled. “I had the exact same reaction. But, yes, indeed: his wife. They were married a month ago.”
Mrs. Hutchins clasped her hands in front of her breast. “Newlyweds. So this is, as it were, a wedding supper.”
“You might say that,” Hero agreed. “Stewart did send a footman to notify my sister and her family of Michael’s arrival and invite them for supper, did he not?”
“All taken care of, Miss Hero. And Davey just finished hauling all that luggage up to Mr. Michael’s room, though that room seems rather small for a married couple, you know.”
“It will have to do for tonight,” Hero said. “We’ll work out something more appropriate tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Hutchins clapped her hands. “Back to work, girls. This is to be a very special meal.”
Hero made her escape, but now that the domestic details no longer demanded her attention, or she no longer used them as an excuse, she had to face that revelation about this man who had dominated her thoughts—her life—in recent weeks. She just needed to be alone for a while, but she knew if she retreated to her room, someone would be sure to be knocking on the door forthwith. Without really thinking or planning her movements, she made her way to the clinic rooms—blessedly empty now—and through the outer door to the terrace there. She sank onto the bench at the wooden table and gazed out at the sea, hardly aware of the clouds scudding across the blue sky or of the blue-green sea below. Afternoon shadows were lengthening, but it would be daylight for several hours yet.
Her elbows on the table, she placed her hands on either side of her head and began to take herself to task. How could she have been so stupid, so blind? No. Not entirely blind. She’d had inklings of who and what Adam Wainwright might be. His manners, his language, his casual references to matters of history or literature. And especially after that trip to the Abbey. Oh, what a fine show he had put on there! How he must have been laughing at her—at all of Weyburn. He who could have done so much and who had done so little! She felt such a fool.
But that was the least of it, wasn’t it? She had fancied herself in love with him. In love! Hah. Years ago a schoolgirl crush had ended disastrously. Marie’s brother and his friends had violated her physically, but this was so much worse: Adam—Alexander Sterne—had ravished her spirit, her soul. Even worse, she had been a party to it—welcomed it, in fact. Welcomed those kisses, those caresses, loved what he did to her body, what she did to his. What she had thought of as beautiful and good had, in an instant, turned ugly and sordid. She closed her eyes against the humiliation of it all.
“I’ve been looking all over for you.” His voice. He crossed from the terrace in front of his room to this one off the hospital rooms. He sat down across from her. “We need to talk, Hero.”
She refused to look at him directly, fearing that she might lose herself in the depths of his blue eyes. “There is nothing to talk about. I made a mistake. Not my first, as you well know.”
“Hero, look at me. Look me directly in the eye and tell me you are not seriously likening what happened to you years ago with what you and I might have.”
She forced herself to raise her eyes to his. The anger and pain she saw disconcerted her. She looked back out to the sea and shrugged, refusing to respond verbally.
“I know you are hurt—that I have hurt you—and for that I am truly sorry. Please let me explain—”
She cut him off. “There is nothing to explain. You are who you are.”
He ignored her interruption and went on. “At first I thought Weyburn people might be more open with Adam Wainwright than with someone they already disliked. I would learn much more as Adam, you see.”
“In other words, you lied to them—to me.” She heard the bitterness in her own voice.
“I wanted you to see me—not that image you had built up in your mind.”
“It is not the first time I have been profoundly wrong in my estimation of someone,” she said. “I’ll get over it.”
“If you are so sure of that, then perhaps we were both mistaken,” he said, his tone turning cold and angry.
“Perhaps we were.”
He stood and placed his hands on his hips; she felt him looking down at her. “I came to tell you goodbye,” he said.
She looked up at this. “You’re leaving? Back to the joys of London, I suppose.”
“Eventually, perhaps.”
“I wish you well.”
“I wish I could believe that.” He turned on his heel and left.
She sat for a long while staring out to sea, feeling totally bereft, tears streaming down her face.
* * * *
Alex packed his few belongings and persuaded Perkins to drive him to the inn, where he found Mac tucking into the evening meal.
“Ah—uh—Wainwright. Won’t you join me? Mrs. Barkley turns out a very tasty lamb stew.”
“Thank you, no. I’m not hungry. I’ll have a drink, though.” He signaled the innkeeper. “Whiskey. A large one,” he said.