Page 32 of The Spy Who Loved Her
Even the slight dip of the mattress with the advent of his weight forced the contraction of muscles that burned with the motion. “Bad,” she confessed in a low voice, her fingers fiddling with the lace-edged cuff of her nightgown. “It always has been, really.”
“Headache?” he asked blithely, as if it were a perfectly normal thing for a man to inquire of. “Cramps? Nausea?”
She found herself answering just the same. “All of it. Everything. Every time.” One hand lifted to massage her aching temple. “Everything is painful.Even the light hurts.”
“We’ll keep it dark, then. Here, up you get.” Carefully his arms slid around her, lifting her from the tangled nest she’d made of the covers in her efforts to find a comfortable position. She expected even his steps across the floor back toward the bathing room to jostle her, but they were smooth and even, like he’d had a good deal of practice in the art of light footwork. Probably he’d had lessons from a dancing master at some point, to perfect that level, uniform stride. “Can you hold your feet while I fill the tub?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” It wouldn’t be comfortable, but then nothing was at this point in her courses. The darkness was disorienting, but soothing enough to her aching head. Her feet touched the tile, and his hands lingered long enough to ensure her steadiness before he returned his attention to the taps. There was the pounding rush of water and then a thick bloom of misty heat that seared away the chill in the room.
In the faint light that poured through the open door, she could see him thrust his hand beneath the faucet, gauging the temperature. “Probably it’s a bit hot,” he said. “It should do well enough. Might be a bit uncomfortable at first.”
His fingers snarled in the tie of her nightgown, struggling in the darkness to untie the bow and pull the whole thing off over her head. With one hand bracing her elbow and the other arm at her waist, he guided her to step into the tub. The hot water stung her toes—not scalding, but hot enough to layer a fine film of mist upon her skin. She sank down with a sigh, and the water lapped over her thighs, rising slowly toward her hips.
There was the rustle of fabric in the darkness, the sound of his trousers falling to the floor as he kicked them off. “Budge up,” he said, “I’m coming in.”
What? “I’m not certain that would be…sanitary.”
“It’s only a little blood, Emma. Nothing I haven’t seen before, and in far less pleasant circumstances. Come, make room.” His fingers around her shoulder eased her forward enough to climb in behind her, his long legs bracketing her hips as he settled into the water. “How is the water?”
“Perfect.” The heat soaked into her sore muscles, and if it hadn’t eradicated the pain, at least it had gone some way toward alleviating it.
“Good.” His palm played across her belly. “Here, lean back a bit. I’ll rub your head.”
She comforted herself that at least it was dark enough that neither of them could see even if her blood had pinked the water. The heat of his chestwarmed her back as his fingers threaded through her hair, stroking her temples in soft, circular motions. “Lord, that is lovely.”
A soft sound of amusement brushed her ear. “Did your husband never do this for you?”
“No. He was…away rather often.” And hehadbeen squeamish. She had grown accustomed to couching her monthly pains in delicate terms so as not to upset him. Which seemed to her now to be rather unfair, given that it had never been her choice to suffer them. Men, she had learned from Ambrose, were not to be bothered with such feminine problems, except to be informed when they had concluded. “I don’t think he much cared to be reminded of such things.”
“Ah,” Rafe said. “You were meant to suffer in silence, then.”
She shrugged. “I was given to understand that it was enough of an inconvenience to be unable to lie with me if it pleased him to do so. He did not wish also to be troubled with the gruesome details.” There had been guilt there, and shame—as if she had deliberately contrived, somehow, to inconvenience him with the troublesome workings of her body over which she had no control. How dreadful it had been, to be made to feel as if her courses had been not only something disgraceful, but something for which she ought to feel obligated to apologize.
“Hardly gruesome,” he said with a disdainful sniff worthy of a dowager. “Any better?”
“A little.” She turned her face to the side, tucking her cheek against the damp hollow of his throat, surprised by how comfortable it felt, how natural. “It’s always been wretched,” she said. “I suppose many women must experience a great deal of discomfort, but I think—I think mine must be particularly unpleasant. It truly is like being ill, and sometimes the pain is so great that I can think of nothing beyond it.”
Still those clever fingers massaged her temple; a pleasant diversion from the pain. “Tell me something, then,” he said. “Tell me how you came to know Chris. I cannot imagine most lords would encourage a relationship of any sort between their legitimate children and their natural children.”
“No,” Emma said. “Those with illegitimate children seem to view them as a blemish upon their reputations. Unfortunate byproducts of affairs, to which they owe nothing.” As if it were the children themselves who bore the burden of that sin, rather than those who had committed it. “You’re trying to distract me,” she accused.
“Is it working?”
It was, rather. “Kit has told you already, hasn’t he? If he has shared the truth of our connection—”
“He has. But I enjoy hearing you talk.” There was the smooth rub of his cheek against the top of her head. She guessed he must’ve shaved in advance of his arrival this time.
“It will sound more unsavory than it truly was,” she said. “But to put it into blunt terms, he kidnapped me.”
“Did he, truly?” There was an amused lilt to the words. “I had thought it an exaggeration.”
“Well,” she said. “I was all of eight years old at the time, and I hadn’t any awareness that I was being kidnapped, you see. I thought it a game, because he presented it as such. Kit is a few years my senior, perhaps three or four, though I don’t think he knows the precise date of his birth. His mother was a housemaid and quite young, I imagine,” she said, “Father promised her marriage in return for her favors. But it came to naught, as he turned her out the moment he learned she was expecting.”
“You’re certain of that?”
Emma shrugged. “Father had a habit of promising a good many things that were never to materialize. His honor was a malleable thing in that way; he thought little of stretching or bending the truth to suit his needs. He was not yet married to my mother at the time, and thus I was not yet born—but I knew him well enough to have little doubt that the tale that Kit put before me was the truth of it.”
“What was his purpose in kidnapping you?” Rafe asked.
