Hunger woke her at two in the morning, despite the huge supper she’d eaten. Fortunately, Charlotte had left a bowl of fruit and a dish of shelled nuts on the bedside table.
Merry ate a pear, two handfuls of nuts, and a bunch of grapes, snuggled drowsily beneath the covers again—and thought of Barnaby. Had he yet woken?
Her weariness vanished. Anxiety took its place.
Merry flung back the covers, took up her chamberstick, hurried from her room and down the dark corridor.
Sir Barnaby’s door opened on silent hinges. His bedchamber was dark. Marcus was no longer on vigil.
Merry trod softly across to the big four-posted bed.
Candlelight showed her Barnaby asleep, curled up on his side, his face utterly relaxed. A tray sat on his bedside table. She saw a bunch of grapes like the one she’d just eaten, a jug of lemonade, and a plate bearing two of Guillaume’s incomparable pastries. From the appearance of the plate, at least three more pastries had once sat on it.
Her anxious tension eased. Barnaby must have woken. Woken, and eaten, and convinced Marcus that he was well enough to be left alone.
Merry tiptoed closer and gazed down at him.
Not only woken and eaten, but bathed and shaved, too. His red-brown hair was no longer filthy, the whiskers were gone from his skin, and he wore a clean nightshirt.
She lightly touched his brow, trying to sense his wellness.
Barnaby’s eyes opened. He blinked drowsily. “Merry?”
Merry curled her hand into her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”
Sir Barnaby pushed up on one elbow and rubbed his face.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine.” He sat fully upright and rubbed his face again, rubbed his hair. “How are you?”
“Me? I’m perfectly well.”
Barnaby fixed her with a frowning stare. “Marcus says my neck was broken. And my head.”
Merry nodded.
“He says you saved my life.”
Merry nodded again.
“Thank you.” Barnaby gave her a faint, lopsided smile, and held out his hand.
Merry took it.
Barnaby’s fingers gripped hers tightly. “Thank you,” he said, a second time.
Merry stared into his hazel eyes, and felt emotion clench in her chest. I love this man.
Barnaby’s stomach gave a small growl. “Sorry,” he said, ruefully. “I’m hungry.”
Barnaby ate the bunch of grapes and one of Guillaume’s pastries. He offered her the second pastry. Merry shook her head. Barnaby ate that pastry, too, and drank some lemonade. He offered her the glass. Merry sipped, sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed. The lemonade was tart and refreshing, and the taste reminded her of the grotto, reminded her of darkness and shyness and kissing Barnaby.
She wasn’t shy with him now. She felt comfortable and at ease and happy. Profoundly happy.
Barnaby drank the last of the lemonade, put the glass on the side table, and sighed, a contented sound. His hazel eyes were heavy-lidded.
“Go to sleep,” Merry told him.
“Soon.” He put an arm around her shoulders, drew her close, and kissed her lightly.
Merry leaned into the kiss. Barnaby tasted of lemonade and chocolate.
They kissed once, sleepily, and a second time, less sleepily, and a third time, not sleepily at all. Barnaby drew back and looked at her. “Merry?”
Merry read the question on his face, and nodded.
“Are you certain?”
She nodded again.
Barnaby released her, and climbed out of bed, and locked the door. Then he came back and stood looking down at her. “This time we do it properly.”
Properly meant being naked. And it meant Barnaby kissing her from head to toe—quite literally. He kissed her jaw, her throat, kissed his way down one arm to her fingertips, and back up the other one. Then he turned his attention to her breasts. Long, exquisite minutes passed. He kissed lower—and lower—and then Merry lost the ability to think for a while. Pleasure built inside her until it overflowed. When coherent thought returned, Barnaby was kissing her ankle.
He came slowly back up her body—his mouth on her inner thigh, her midriff, the hollow of her collarbone—and found her lips again. Merry clutched him close and returned his kiss greedily. And then she got the chance to explore him, to trace the outline of muscle and bone in his shoulders, to test the warm pliancy of his skin with her tongue, with her teeth, to discover that he groaned when she tweaked his nipples, that he trembled when she ran her fingertips over his abdomen. She felt no shyness, just curiosity and wonder and joy. I love this man.
When she reached his groin, she halted, disconcerted by how different he was from her, uncertain how to proceed. She glanced at his face. “What’s it called?”
“I call it my cock.”
“May I touch it?”
“Do you want to?”
Now, the shyness came. Merry felt herself blush. She bit her lip, and nodded.
Barnaby sat up. He took her hand in his, and held her palm to his cock, wrapping her fingers around that strong, sturdy shaft.
His cock was hot. Burningly hot. It seemed to throb with urgency in her hand.
Merry’s heart kicked in her chest, and began beating faster. She found herself growing short of breath. She glanced at Barnaby’s face again—and her gaze was caught. His eyes, those hazel eyes, were somehow as hot and urgent as his cock nestled in her palm.
Her lungs forgot how to breathe. Her heart forgot how to beat.
They stared at each other while time slowed and seemed almost to stop—and then Merry tore her gaze from Barnaby’s hot eyes, and looked down at her hand gripping him and saw a bead of moisture ease its way onto the plump, rosy crown of his cock.
“Enough,” Barnaby said, his voice slightly hoarse, and he removed her hand.
“But I’m only halfway down you.”
“You can do the other half when we’re married.” Barnaby gathered her in his arms and rolled so that she lay beneath him.
Merry stopped protesting. Her entire body seemed to jolt with pleasure, with craving. This was what she wanted: This.
Barnaby settled himself between her legs. “Tell me if it hurts.”
But it didn’t hurt, didn’t hurt at all, and it was a thousand times more marvelous than it had been in the grotto, because this time there were no clothes between them, and she wasn’t afraid the ceiling was going to fall on their heads.
Sex was like dancing, Merry decided. Dancing to music that they heard in their blood, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that was primitive and powerful, the tempo rising, rising.
When the tempo reached allegretto, Merry stopped thinking about dancing. Her focus narrowed to sensation—the exhilarating friction of Barnaby’s skin against hers, the physical heat building between them, the sound of panted breaths, the rapid thud of her heartbeat, the glorious flex of muscle each time she arched up to him.
And then the pleasure came again, waves of pleasure that crashed through her like waves crashing against the great cliffs of Woodhuish, and she cried out, and Barnaby cried out, too, and the waves tossed her high for a long, glorious moment, and then the waves slowly faded to ripples, and Merry was able to think again.
Sex was much better than dancing.
Barnaby gathered her in his arms and rolled so that she lay on him. He drew the rumpled bedclothes up, tucking them warmly around them both, and held her close. His cock still nestled inside her.
Merry rested her head on his chest and listened to his heart beating, more relaxed than she’d ever been in her life. Happier than she’d ever been in her life.
This man.
Barnaby’s hand stroked down her back to her waist, and up again. “You fit very nicely here.”
“Yes.”
She thought of Henry—dead at twenty-six—and of her mother and father, dead, too—and felt the familiar grief, the familiar aching loss—and then she thought of Barnaby, who was alive, and whose heart beat slowly and steadily beneath her ear, and whose hand idly stroked her back—and relief welled inside her so strongly that tears came to her eyes. Barnaby hadn’t died. Barnaby was alive.
While she was thinking of Barnaby, she drifted to sleep, pillowed on his chest. His voice drew her back to wakefulness. “Merry? Merry, love?” He gently shook her shoulder.
Merry rubbed her face, and reluctantly climbed off him. Barnaby looked as drowsy as she felt. He stifled a yawn, and groped on the floor for her nightgown.
Merry drew it over her head. The touch of cool linen on her skin made her shiver. She wanted nothing more than to stay in the warm, cozy nest of Barnaby’s bed and fall asleep with him.
Barnaby swallowed another yawn, fumbled into his nightshirt, and picked up the chamberstick. The candle was half burned down.
He crossed to the door and unlocked it.
Merry reluctantly followed.
Barnaby bent to kiss her. “G’night.”
Merry gazed up at him, at the tousled red-brown hair, the sleepy eyes, the bare throat above the open collar of his nightshirt. Her heart clenched in her chest. I love you. “Good night.” She put her arms around him for a moment, and let his warmth sink into her body, let his scent fill her lungs. Barnaby. Who was alive. And then she took the chamberstick, tiptoed back down the dark corridor, crawled into her own bed, and slept for twelve straight hours.