Page 84 of The Soldier
“Ye gods, Em,” he whispered in disbelief, trying to raise himself even two inches off her boneless form. “I can’t ever…”
She placed two fingers over his lips without opening her eyes. “Hush, love.” With her hand on the back of his head, she urged him to lay his cheek against hers. “I just need a minute.”
He, on the other hand, thought he might need a lifetime to recover from what had just transpired. For a long moment in her arms, his awareness had expanded beyond his own body to encompass hers, her pleasure, her desire in addition to his own, and even beyond that. He had been formless and weightless and yet more real than he could ever recall being.
He struggled to his elbows, giving them both room to take deeper breaths, but kept his cheek next to hers. He waited, mind drifting, letting his erection subside, so when he disentangled from her, she would not be uncomfortable.
“You’ll be sore,” he whispered, contrite and concerned. “I’m sorry.”
“I will not be sore,” Emmie murmured without opening her eyes. “Though I might be moving a little slowly tomorrow.”
“Emmie, I am sorry. I never imagined I was capable of such a loss of self-restraint.” He tried to shift off her, but she caught him in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Don’t you dare be sorry,” she said, eyes finally open and glittering in the dim light. “You did not lose your self-restraint, Devlin St. Just. For just a few moments, you let go of the dead weight on your heart and your spirit. Maybe all that sorrow and regret won’t hold you so tightly after this.”
He buried his face against her neck, not knowing what to say. She was right: For a few moments, he’d felt alive and whole and glad to be that way. But those moments were over, she was still leaving him, and sorrow was crowding close once more.
St. Just extricated himself carefully from her body and lifted himself off the bed. Emmie watched while he used some of the warmed water to wring out a flannel cloth then wash off his genitals. He rinsed out the cloth again and brought it to the bed.
“Let me.” He sat at her hip and waited while she raised and spread her knees. “You are swollen,” he remarked, brushing the backs of two fingers over her engorged flesh. Even that light caress caused her to flinch, and he smiled wolfishly at her response. “Swollen and beautiful.” But he covered her gently with the warm cloth and held it against her sensitive skin until he felt her ease.
“Thank you,” she said when he draped the cloth on the edge of the basin. “Would you like me to return to my room now?”
“I do not ever want you to go back to your room or your cottage or your vicar, Emmie Farnum. I thought you agreed to give us this night.” She nodded, and he saw she was shy and uncertain rather than looking for a way to leave him so soon.
“So.” He put one knee on the bed. “You’ll hold me now?”
“Haven’t I been holding you?” Emmie looked hesitant but flipped the covers up so he could join her under the blankets.
“There’s holding”—he eased down beside her—“and there’s holding.” He pillowed his head on the slope of her breast and brought one arm and a leg across her body. “Tell me if I’m too heavy for you.”
Emmie slipped her arms around him, resting her cheek on the tangled mess she’d made of his hair. “You’re not too heavy.”
***
And that seemed to be all he wanted, just to cuddle up in her arms and share a warm, comfortable silence. Once she realized she wasn’t going to be evicted nor expected to make coherent conversation, Emmie let herself enjoy of the privilege of such a trusting embrace. How much more quickly might he have healed if he’d had a place of such pleasure and trust and caring to come to each night?
“What?” he asked, flicking his tongue over her nipple. “You had a thought, and it made your body frown.”
“It did not.” She brushed her fingers over the end of his nose in the gentlest parody of a reprimand. He’d been right, of course. The idea that she wasn’t going to share more such embraces with him, ever, made her frown mightily. He deserved this, he’d earned it, and she wanted to give it to him. Worse, she had a sneaking suspicion that once she left, he wouldn’t admit to such a need ever again, with anybody else.
He’d soldier on, riding his horses only to sell them, raising another man’s child, making a routine that wasn’t a life, two hundred miles from the people who loved him.
“Don’t cry, Em.” He leaned up and brushed a kiss to her cheek. “Whatever it is, we still have tonight.” She nodded, but in his words was the tacit admission tonight was all they had, and to her surprise, she was able to start to talk about what came next. Needed to, in fact.
“Winnie will want Gany and Io,” she said when he’d turned her on her side to rub her back. And they tiptoed through more that needed to be said.
“Have you any miniatures of your aunt or yourself that Winnie can keep?” Thathecould keep for Winnie.
“There’s a portrait up in the playroom of Winnie’s father on a pony,” Emmie recalled. “She might like it in her room.”
“Was Winnie’s mother or father musical? Will you write to her?”
“Will you encourage her to write to me? Will you at least let me know how she goes on if she’s too upset to write to me?” And she did not ask:will you let me know how you go on?
Then conversation would drift off to the meaningless intimacies of lovers.
“Is this a bruise?” He traced a finger over a slight discoloration on her shoulder.
