Page 102 of Marry in Secret
But Rose had been sleeping badly, partly because she could only lie on her side or her stomach and partly because she kept waking up with dreams of being shot again. Thomas knew what it was to live with nightmares; he still had them, though not as frequently as before—and now that he came to think of it, none at all since he’d sent Wilmott off.
But once nightmares became a regular thing, it got so that you didn’t want to go to sleep at all, for fear of what the night might bring. He didn’t want that for Rose. And he thought he had a solution.
After the visit, Thomas drew the doctor aside for a private consultation. He asked his question in a low voice.
The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “You what?”
Thomas explained.
“Bless my soul! Young people, eh?” He removed his spectacles, polished them and eyed Thomas thoughtfully. “I would leave it a few more days yet, but after that, as long as you’re not too, ahem, vigorous, I don’t see why not.” He gave Thomas a stern look. “But the moment there’s even the slightest twinge, you stop, young man, understand?”
Thomas was well satisfied with the answer, and he hoped Rose would be too.
Three nights later, he put his plan into action. They’d been sharing the bed ever since Rose’s fever had broken, but it was all very chaste and... frustrating.
They were preparing for bed, or rather he was. Rose had attendants to prepare her for bed, after which the maids departed and Thomas entered the bedchamber.
Rose spent most days in a loose morning gown with a kind of light wrapper over it to protect her dressed wound. But for bed, in case she accidentally rolled over and rubbed the dressing off, Emm’s maidservant wrapped a bandage firmly around her upper body, which effectively bound her breasts almost flat, and then slipped a warm flannel nightgown over her.
Thomas removed his coat and waistcoat, hung them up, then pulled his shirt off over his head. He folded it neatly.
Rose sat on the bed watching him. Lord, but she loved looking at him, so lean and tough and hard with those powerful bronzed shoulders and arms, and that firm, flat chest. A purely masculine kind of beauty, leashed power, toughness and grace.
“People who think that only women can be beautiful are stupid. Men are beautiful. You are beautiful.”
He looked at her a little askance, as if he didn’t believe her. “If it weren’t for the scars, you mean.”
“Even with the scars. What was done to you was ugly, butyouare not the slightest bit ugly. Far from it.” Though she would never say it to him, in her eyes the scars only added to his masculinity.
Seeing the way she was eyeing him, his gaze darkened to a molten pewter-blue. Her pulse leaped.
And then she remembered: she was garbed in half an acre of heavy cream flannel with her breasts bound flat. She might as well be a nun. And she wasn’t allowed to lie on her back.
“I don’t suppose you have any of those little bits of frothy nonsense from your dressmaker lady, do you?”
She made herself laugh, though she was ready to weep. She wanted him so badly and here she was, all trussed up like an Egyptian mummy. “No, they’re all back in Bird Street.” She posed and mock-pouted. “You don’t think this nightgown is seductive enough?”
His eyes glinted. “You would probably be seductive in an old hessian sack.”
“Pooh! I wouldn’t be seen dead in a hessian sack! That would be deeply unfashionable. Not to mention itchy!”
Dear Thomas. He was trying so hard to cheer her up. He pulled off his boots and sat beside her on the bed wearing just his breeches.
She leaned against him, breathing in the clean dark masculine scent of his skin. He’d bathed before he came to her, as he did most nights. Her lovely, well-scrubbed Thomas. But he hadn’t shaved.
She ran her fingers across his bristled jaw. Oh, but she did love the sensation of his bristles against her skin. Pity it could go nowhere with her in her current useless state. Still, that didn’t mean Thomas had to do without. She reached for the fall of his breeches and winced at the sharp stab of pain. “I am so fed up with this wretched injury. I hate it. I can’t do anything!”
He turned his head and kissed her, long and lingering, and she felt herself melting beneath his heat, the insistent, intoxicating demand.
“Oh, that was nice.” She leaned her face against his chest. “How long before we can get back to normal, Thomas? I’m so tired of having to be patient and not going anywhere and not doing anything—and having to be grateful all the time because everybody is so dratted nice.”
“No!” He pulled back in shock. “They’re not beingniceto you, are they? How appalling!”
She laughed weakly. “But it is. So unfair when I’m feeling so cross and crabby and have nowhere to direct it at. I’m a terrible person, I know.”
“Poor little crab.” He kissed her on the nose and removed his breeches. “Now, shove over, little crustacean, and let me in.”
“Such a romantic you are.” She wriggled over and he lay on his back on the bed. Like a feast spread out before her that she couldn’t have. She pushed at him crossly. “Thomas, you’re taking up all the space.”
