Page 62 of The Lady's Companion
Lady Bushnell regarded her with bright eyes. “He consoled me most successfully.”
“I suppose you will not tell me any more now,” Susan teased. She gently took out one of the pillows behind Lady Bushnell’s head, and smoothed her hair back until it was tucked under her sleeping cap again. “You will tell me I must find out for myself.”
“Of course, my dear,” the widow said, as her eyes closed. “You will have your own stories to tuck away in your memory.” She opened her eyes. “Do you know, Susan, I think you and I should write down my life story.”
“Including the major, hiccups and hinges?” she asked.
“Perhaps not everything,” she said, her voice drowsy now as the powders took effect.
“Tell me one thing, Lady Bushnell, and then I will know enough,” Susan said after a moment’s hesitation. “The first time, does it...”
“Hurt, my dear?” Lady Bushnell opened her eyes and motioned for Susan to sit beside her on the bed again. “Let me answer you this way by telling you something about David Wiggins.”
She did as Lady Bushnell directed. “I suppose you will tell me now that Sergeant Wiggins was the regimental Don Juan.”
“Far from it! As far as I knew, he was completely loyal to Jesusa.” Lady Bushnell took Susan by the hand. “What I am telling you has nothing to do with his conjugal abilities. How would I know? But I do know this about him: I cannot recall a time, except just before or after battle, when he did not help Jesusa draw water, or gather wood. He was a sergeant! He could have delegated such homely tasks, or left them to her entirely, as other men, but he did not.”
Susan looked down at her wedding ring and turned it thoughtfully on her finger. “I think I understand what you are telling me.” She looked at Lady Bushnell, done with reticence. “He will use me kindly.”
“I am certain of it. I must say that it gives me some satisfaction to think that, all Hamptons aside, you just might be the luckiest woman in England.” She patted Susan’s hand, then released it. “Go get some sleep now! When the sergeant decides that the sheep will keep, you’ll be busy enough.”
It was food for thought, and consoling enough to suit her. She went thoughtfully to her room after hearing the Skerlongs return home, and going downstairs to tell them of her marriage. She finished her commentary in a room absolutely silent, asked the dumbstruck housekeeper to leave the back door unlocked for the bailiff, and hurried upstairs with a grin on her face.
Lady Bushnell was right; Susan found it much easier to sleep this time. After a night of no sleep, and the discomforts of the mail coach, she gave herself up to the mattress without a qualm. She woke up once in the early hours, and patted the space beside her, but there was still no bailiff. “Damn the sheep, anyway,” she murmured before closing her eyes again.
He came to bed when the sun was making preliminary motions to rise, and the room was just lightly pinked with early dawn.
Sunk down as deep in sleep as she was, he did not startle her. He sat in the chair by the cold hearth, regarding her as he eased his feet out of his boots with a sigh. She came to life gradually, her drowsy eyes moving from his stockinged feet to his stubbled face, to his lively eyes.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Mmmm,” she replied. Some fussbudget in the back of her brain was telling her to pull down her nightgown, because, after all, who was this strange man with morning stubble? The more alert section of her brain—the one that seemed to be speedingup her heartbeat and breathing—was reminding her that she was married now, and wasn’t that a fortunate thing, especially since she was pulling back the covers to welcome him into her warmth?
“Mrs. Wiggins, you are a sight to behold.”
Still webbed in the fuddle of sleep, she looked over her shoulder for Mrs. Wiggins, then reddened and came more awake. “Oh ... me,” she said, feeling stupid and randy at the same time.
He grinned and took off his clothes. Her eyes widened, but she gulped and made room for him in the bed. He sank down with a sigh, putting his arm out to gather her in. He smelled quite strongly of sheep, but the odor, she was discovering, was far from unpleasant. After the tiniest hesitation, she moved into the space he created, so close to his heart, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder and her hand on his bare chest.
He was content to stretch out and let go of the long night, quiet, peaceful—boneless, almost—beside her. His feet were cold on her bare legs, but not for long. Gradually her own warmth took off his chill and he moved his feet away.
If she had thought to be afraid of the bailiff, there wasn’t any reason. He took her hand, kissed her fingers, and moved it lower until her eyes grew wide again. “My stars,” she breathed. “I didn’t think you would be so...” she paused, her fingers gentle.
“Large?” he asked, grinning at her.
“No. Soft. But not precisely soft,” she amended, discovering trouble forming words as he allowed her to explore him. She gave up the attempt at speech and kissed him instead. She thought to protest his whiskers as he kissed her, then as he nuzzled her neck and breasts she couldn’t think why it had mattered, and then she couldn’t think at all, beyond the fact that she was on her back now, and she didn’t want to be anywhere else in the galaxy.
She followed his advice, softly whispered in a voice not really like his own, trusting him with all her heart. She relaxed as much as she could, wincing only slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, then devoting herself to his rhythm, which became hers, too. If here was anyone or anything else in the world except the two of them, she didn’t know of it. The joy she felt was beyond any contentment a hundred Lady Bushnells could have explained. Finally his whole body relaxed on hers, and no matter how heavy he felt, she knew she could sustain him forever.
He raised up finally to look at her out of focus, eye to eye, nose to nose, completely part of her. When he lay beside her again with another sigh, she felt a loss all out of proportion to her previous fears. She couldn’t explain why, but she had wanted him to continue his motions.
He stretched out his arm to pull her in close again, and she moved without hesitation this time, resting her legs on his. “I had all the fun this time,” he said into her ear, tugging on the lobe with his teeth, which caused her eyes to roll back in her head, an anatomical response she had never been aware of before. “We’ll remedy that with practice.” He kissed her cheek and caressed her breast, then stopped and whispered, “All this lanolin, Suzie, and your chest will be so oily you’ll slide right out of your shift.”
“I think I already did,” she whispered back, smiling when he laughed and continued his efforts. In a few moments, his hand stopped, and he slept, warm and heavy and totally to her liking. She dozed a few more minutes herself, then carefully eased herself out from under his hand.
She hunted around on hands and knees until she found her nightgown by the door, where the bailiff had tossed it. She put it on again and thought about adding coal to the fire, but it was more exertion than she wanted, just then. She sat in the chair instead, surrounded by the clothes he had dropped, wonderingidly if he was inclined ordinarily to pick up his clothes or leave than strewn about. She drew her legs up close to her body, pleased to know there was no pain at all, only a little tightening of muscles unused to a husband.
She watched the bailiff, certain there was no handsomer slumbering man in all the British Isles. The prominent lines of his face, so firmly Welsh, seemed to loosen as he abandoned himself without a struggle to sleep. No matter how minuscule her experience in these matters, she knew she had some function in furnishing the depth of the rest he now enjoyed.
