I normally wait to receive a letter from you before writing my own, but as it has been several weeks since we last heard from you, Edward insists that we take the initiative and begin a missive. There is little to say, though. It is astonishing how much time we spend sitting about doing nothing. Or marching. But I assume you do not wish for a pageful of contemplations on the art and science of marching.
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
Haarlem was exactly what Edward had expected.
The infirmary was just as rudimentary as Major Wilkins had warned, but thankfully most of the beds were vacant. As it was, Cecilia had been visibly horrified at the conditions.
It had taken some time to find the man in charge, and then more than a little wheedling to convince him to go through the records, but as Wilkins had predicted, there was no mention of Thomas Harcourt. Cecilia had wondered if perhaps some of the patients had not been logged in, and Edward couldn’t really blame her for asking—the general level of cleanliness did not inspire confidence in the infirmary’s organization.
But if there was one thing the British Army never seemed to muck up, it was record-keeping. The list of patients was just about the only thing in the infirmary that was spotless. Each page in the register was organized in precise rows, and each name was accompanied by rank, date of arrival, date and type of departure, and a brief description of the injury or illness. As a result, they now knew that Private Roger Gunnerly of Cornwall had recovered from an abscess on his left thigh, and Private Henry Witherwax of Manchester had perished of a gunshot wound to the abdomen.
But of Thomas Harcourt, nothing.
It was a very long day. The roads from New York Town to Haarlem were terrible and the carriage they’d procured wasn’t much better, but after a hearty supper at the Fraunces Tavern, they were both feeling restored. The day had been considerably less humid than the one before, and by evening there was a light breeze carrying the salty tang of the sea, so they took the long way back to the Devil’s Head, walking slowly through the emptying streets at the bottom of Manhattan Island. Cecilia had her hand tucked in the crook of Edward’s elbow, and even though they maintained a proper distance from one another, every step seemed to bring them closer.
If they were not so far from home, if they were not in the middle of a war, it would have been a perfect evening.
They walked in silence along the water, watching the seagulls dive for the fish, and then Cecilia said, “I wish—”
But she didn’t finish.
“You wish for what?” Edward asked.
It took her a moment to speak, and when she did, it was with a slow, sad shake of her head. “I wish I knew when to give up.”
He knew what he was supposed to do. If he were playing a role on the stage or starring in a heroic novel, he would tell her that they must never give up, that their hearts must remain true and strong, and they must search for Thomas until every last lead was exhausted.
But he wasn’t going to lie to her, and he wasn’t going to offer false hope, and so he just said, “I don’t know.”
As if by silent agreement, they came to a gentle stop and stood side by side, staring out over the water in the fading light of the day.
Cecilia was the first to speak. “You think he’s dead, don’t you?”
“I think . . .” He didn’t want to say it, hadn’t even wanted to think it. “I think he is probably dead, yes.”
She nodded, with eyes that were filled with more resignation than sorrow. Edward wondered why that was somehow even more heartbreaking.
“I wonder if it would be easier,” she said, “knowing for sure.”
“I don’t know. The loss of hope versus the certainty of truth. It’s not an easy judgment to make.”
“No.” She thought about this for a long moment, never taking her eyes off the horizon. Finally, just when Edward thought she must have given up on the conversation, she said, “I think I would rather know.”
He nodded even though she wasn’t looking at him. “I think I agree.”
She turned then. “You only think? You are not certain?”
“No.”
“Nor I.”
“It has been a disappointing day,” he murmured.
“No,” she surprised him by saying. “To be disappointed one has to have expected a different outcome.”
He looked over at her. He didn’t need to ask the question out loud.
“I knew it was unlikely we’d find word of Thomas,” she said. “But we had to try, didn’t we?”
He took her hand in his. “We had to try,” he agreed. And then something occurred to him. “My head did not hurt today,” he said.
Her eyes lit up with joy. “Did it not? That is wonderful. You should have said something.”
He scratched his neck absently. “I’m not sure I even realized it until now.”
“That is just wonderful,” she said. “I’m so happy. I—” She rose onto her tiptoes and laid an impulsive kiss on his cheek. “I’m very happy,” she said again. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “I could not bear it if our roles were reversed.” It was true. The thought of her in pain was like an icy fist around his heart.
She let out a little chuckle. “You made a fine nurse when I was ill last week.”
“Yes, but I’d rather not do it again, so do stay healthy, yes?”
She looked down, in an expression that almost seemed shy, and then she shivered.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little.”
“We should go home.”
“Home, is it?”
He chuckled at that. “I confess I never thought to live in a place named for the devil.”
“Can you imagine,” she said, her face starting to light up with a mischievous smile, “a house back in England named Devil’s Manor?”
“Lucifer House?”
“Satan’s Abbey.”
They both dissolved into laughter at that, and Cecilia even glanced up at the sky.
“Watching out for thunderbolts?”
“Either that or a plague of locusts.”
Edward took her arm and nudged her back on the path toward the inn. They weren’t far, a few minutes’ walk at most. “We are both relatively good people,” he said, leaning in as if imparting a juicy piece of gossip. “I think we are safe from biblical intervention.”
“One can only hope.”
“I could probably withstand the locusts,” he mused, “but I cannot be held responsible for my behavior if the river turns to blood.”
She snorted out a laugh at that, then countered with “I myself would like to avoid boils.”
“And lice.” He shuddered. “Nasty little bastards, if you pardon my language.”
She looked over at him. “You’ve had lice?”
“Every soldier has had lice,” he told her. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
She looked faintly repulsed.
He leaned in with a cheeky expression. “I’m quite clean now.”
“I should hope so. I’ve been sharing a room with you for more than a week.”
“Speaking of which . . .” he murmured. Neither of them had been paying much attention, but their feet had found their way back to the Devil’s Head.
“Home again,” she quipped.
He held the door for her. “Indeed.”
The crowd in the main room seemed more raucous than usual, so he placed a hand at the small of her back and gently steered her along the perimeter to the stairs. He knew he could not hope to find better accommodations than this, but still, it was no place for a lady to take up permanent residence. If they had been in England, he would never—
He shook off the thought. They weren’t in England. Normal rules did not apply.
Normal. He couldn’t even remember what the word meant. There was a lump on his head that had swallowed three months of his memory, his best friend had disappeared so completely that the army hadn’t even noticed he was missing, and at some point in the not-so-distant past he’d married a woman by proxy.
A proxy marriage. Good Lord, his parents would be aghast. And truthfully, so was he. Edward was not like his devil-may-care younger brother Andrew, flouting rules simply for the fun of it. When it came to the important things in life, he did them properly. He wasn’t even certain a proxy marriage would be considered legal back in England.
Which brought him to another point. Something wasn’t quite right about this entire situation. Edward wasn’t sure what Thomas had said or done to induce him into marriage with Cecilia, but he had a feeling there was more to it than she had told him. There was likely more to it than she knew herself, but the truth would never be known unless Edward regained his memory.
Or they found Thomas.
At this point, Edward wasn’t certain which was less likely.
“Edward?”
He blinked, focusing his gaze on Cecilia. She was standing next to the door to their room, a faintly amused smile on her face.
“You had that look again,” she said. “Not the remembering one, the thinking terribly hard one.”
This did not surprise him. “Thinking terribly hard about almost nothing,” he lied, pulling out the key to their room. He did not want to reveal his suspicions to her, not just yet. Edward did not doubt Thomas’s reasons for arranging this marriage—his friend was a good man and certainly wanted what was best for his sister—but if she had been persuaded to marry him under false pretenses she would be furious.
Maybe Edward should be trying harder to ferret out the truth, but honestly, he had bigger issues to deal with just now, and when it came right down to it, he liked being married to Cecilia.
Why on earth would he upset the happy balance they’d achieved?
Unless . . .
There was one reason he’d rock that boat.
He wanted to make love to his wife.
It was time. It had to be time. His desire . . . His need . . . They had been threatening to explode from within since the moment he’d seen her.
Maybe it was because he had figured out who she was from her conversation with Colonel Stubbs. Maybe it was because even from his hospital bed he could sense her concern and devotion, but when he opened his eyes and saw her for the first time, her green eyes filled first with worry, then with surprise, he’d felt an incredible rush of lightness, as if the very air around him was whispering in his ear.
Her.
She’s the one.
And weak as he was, he’d wanted her.
But now . . .
He might not have regained his full strength, but he was definitely strong enough.
He looked over at her. She was still smiling, watching him as if she had a delicious little secret, or maybe as if she thought he did. Either way, she looked terribly amused as she cocked her head to the side and asked, “Are you going to unlock the door?”
He turned the key in the lock.
“Still thinking very hard about nothing?” she teased as he opened the door for her.
No.
He wondered if she was aware of the delicate dance they played every evening when it was time for bed. Her nervous swallow, his stolen glance. Her quick grab of their one book, his studious attention to the lint that had—or more often had not—gathered on his scarlet coat. Every night Cecilia went about her business, filling the room with nervous chatter, never quite at ease until he crawled into the opposite side of the bed and bid her good night. They both knew what his words really meant.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
Did she realize that he too was waiting for a signal? A look, a touch . . . anything to let him know that she was ready.
Because he was ready. He was more than ready. And he thought . . . maybe . . . she was too.
She just didn’t know it yet.
When they entered their small room, Cecilia scurried over to the basin on the table, which she’d requested the inn fill with water each evening. “I’m just going to wash my face,” she said, as if he did not know what she was doing when she splashed herself with the water, as if she had not done the same thing every evening.
As she performed her ablutions, his hands went to the buttons on his cuffs, unfastening each before sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.
“I thought supper was quite delicious this evening,” Cecilia said, tossing the quickest of glances over her shoulder before reaching into the wardrobe for her hairbrush.
“I agree,” he replied. This was part of their duet, steps in the intricate choreography that led to them entering the bed on opposite sides and then ended with him pretending he did not wake up each morning with her in his arms. She was checking to see if he was behaving differently, assessing his expression, his movements.
He did not need her to tell him this to know that it was true.
Her eyes were like glass, pale green and luminous, and she hadn’t a prayer of hiding her emotions. He could not imagine her ever keeping a secret. Surely it would show on her face, on those full lips that she never quite seemed to keep still. Even when she was quiet there were hints of motion in her expression. Her brow would draw down, or her lips would part, just wide enough for a breath to pass through. He did not know if everyone else saw this in her. He supposed at first glance she might seem serene. But if you took the time to look at her, to see beyond the oval face and even features that had been captured in that second-rate miniature Edward had studied so many times . . . That was when you saw it. The tiny bits of motion, dancing in time to her thoughts.
Sometimes he wondered if he could watch her forever without being bored.
“Edward?”
He blinked. She was seated at the small vanity, regarding him with curiosity.
“You were staring,” she said. She had taken her hair down. It was not quite as long as he’d thought it might be, back when pieces were falling from their pins that day at the hospital. He’d watched her brush it every night, her lips silently counting the strokes. It was almost mesmerizing how the texture and shine seemed to change as she pulled the brush through the strands.
“Edward?”
Again, she’d caught him drifting off. “Sorry,” he said. “My mind keeps wandering.”
“I’m sure you’re very tired.”
He tried not to read too much into her pronouncement.
“I’m tired,” she said.
There were so many levels to that simple, two-word sentence. The simplest: It was a very long day. I’m tired.
But he knew there was more to it than that. Cecilia was always careful to make sure that he was not overtaxing himself, so there was certainly a bit of: If I’m tired, then you must be too.
Then there was the truth. The simplest, most basic core of it all: If I tell you I’m tired . . . If you think I’m not up to it . . .
“May I?” he murmured, reaching for the brush.
“What?” Her pulse fluttered in her throat. “Oh, there is no need. I am almost done.”
“Just a bit more than half.”
Confusion painted a wrinkle onto her brow. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve done twenty-eight strokes. You normally do fifty.”
Her lips parted with surprise. He could not tear his eyes from them.
“You know how many times I brush my hair each evening?”
He gave a little shrug, even as his body tightened at the sight of her tongue moistening a dry spot just to the left of the center of her upper lip. “You’re a creature of habit,” he said. “And I’m observant.”
She set down the hairbrush, as if cutting off her routine might somehow change who she was. “I did not realize I was so predictable.”
“Not predictable,” he said. He reached across her and took the silver brush in his hand. “Consistent.”
“Con—”
“And before you ask,” he interrupted gently, “that is a compliment.”
“You don’t need to brush my hair.”
“Of course I do. You shaved my beard, if you recall. It’s the very least I can do.”
“Yes, but I don’t—”
“Shhh . . .” he admonished, and then he took the brush and drew it through her already shining and untangled locks.
“Edward, I—”
“Twenty-nine,” he said before she could complete yet another protest. “Thirty.”
He could pinpoint the moment she finally surrendered. Her steel-backed posture softened, and a soft breath—not quite a sigh—crossed her lips.
To himself he counted thirty-two, thirty-three, and thirty-four. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Mmmm.”
He smiled. Thirty-five, thirty-six. He wondered if she’d notice if he went past fifty.
“Does anyone ever take care of you?” he asked.
She yawned. “That’s a silly question.”
“I don’t think it is. Everyone deserves to be cared for. Some, I imagine, more than others.”
“Thomas does,” she finally answered. “Or did. It’s been so long since I last saw him.”
I will, Edward vowed.
“You took great care of me when I was ill,” he said.
She turned, just enough so that he could see her puzzled expression. “Of course.”
“Not everyone would have done so,” he pointed out.
“I am your . . .”
But she did not finish the sentence.
Forty-two, forty-three.
“You are almost my wife,” he said softly.
He could see only the edge of her face, not even a true profile. But he knew that she had stopped breathing. He felt the instant she went still.
“Forty-eight,” he murmured. “Forty-nine.”
Her hand came over his, held it in place. Was she trying to prolong the moment? Freeze time so that she did not have to face their inevitable move toward intimacy?
She wanted him. He knew that she did. It was there in the soft moans he heard when they kissed, sweet sounds he doubted she even knew she made. He felt her desire when her lips moved against his, artless and curious.
He took her hand, still resting atop his, and brought it to his mouth. “Fifty,” he whispered.
She didn’t move.
On soft, silent feet he made his way around to her side, transferring her fingers from one hand to the other so that he could set the hairbrush back on the small vanity. Again, he brought her fingers to his lips, but this time he gave her a gentle tug, urging her to her feet.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, but the words seemed insufficient. She was so much more than her lovely face, and he wanted to tell her that, but he was not a poet, and he did not know how, especially with the air between them growing hot and thick with desire.
He touched her cheek, marveling at the soft silk of her skin beneath his callused fingers. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide, and he could see that she was intensely nervous, far more than he would have expected, given how close they had become in the past week. But he’d never been with a virgin; maybe they were all like this.
“This isn’t our first kiss,” he reminded her, brushing his mouth gently against hers.
Still, she did not move, but he would swear he could hear her heart pounding. Or maybe he was hearing it through her, from her hand to his.
From her heart to his.
Was he falling in love with her? He could not imagine what else could make him feel like this, as if his days did not truly begin until he saw her smile.
He was falling in love with her. He’d already been halfway there before they had even met, and maybe he’d never remember the events that had led him to this moment, but he would remember this. This kiss. This touch.
This night.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, kissing her again, this time teasing her lips with his tongue.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, in a voice that was somehow just strange enough to give him pause. He touched her chin, tipped her face up to his, and searched her eyes for something he could not even define.
It would be so much easier if he knew what he was looking for.
“Has someone”—he didn’t want to say it—“hurt you?”
She stared at him, uncomprehending, until the moment he took a breath to explain further.
“No,” she said suddenly, understanding his meaning just in time to save him an explanation. “No,” she said again. “I promise.”
The relief Edward felt hit him like something solid. If someone had hurt her, raped her . . . It would not matter to him that she was not a virgin, but he would have to spend the rest of his life bringing the cur to justice.
His heart—nay, his soul—would not allow otherwise.
“I will be gentle,” he promised, his hand lightly tracing the line of her throat to the bare skin at her collarbone. She had not changed from her day dress to her nightgown, and so while the fabric was tighter, with meddlesome buttons and laces, it nevertheless revealed a wider swath of skin, from the curve of her shoulder to the gentle swell of her breasts.
He kissed her there, right where the lace edging of her bodice met her skin, and she gasped, her body instinctively arching toward him.
“Edward, I—”
He kissed her again, closer to the shadow between her breasts.
“I don’t know if—”
And then at the other side, each kiss a soft benediction, a mere hint of the passion he was holding tightly in check.
His fingers found the fastenings at the back of her dress, and he brought his mouth back to hers as he slowly set her body free. He’d thought to distract her with kisses, but he was the one made stupid by desire, because once her lips parted beneath his, he was utterly consumed.
And so was she. What started as something playful quickly burned hot until they were both drinking of the other like this might be their only chance of union. Edward had no idea how he got her dress off without tearing it; probably the last shred of his rational mind recognized that she had only two frocks here in New York, and they needed to keep both of them in working order.
She was wearing a light chemise, knotted loosely at the front, and his fingers trembled as they grasped one end of the tie. He pulled it slowly, watching as the corresponding loop grew smaller and smaller until it finally slid through the knot.
He edged the chemise from her shoulder, his breath quickening as each inch of her peach-pale skin was exposed.
“It goes the other way,” she said.
“What?” Her voice had been soft; he wasn’t sure he’d got her meaning.
“The chemise,” she said, her eyes not quite meeting his. “It goes over the head.”
His hand went still, and he felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He’d been trying to be so gentle, so gentlemanly, and here she was offering directions for her disrobement.
She was delightful. No, she was magnificent, and he could not imagine how he’d ever thought his life had been complete before this moment.
She looked up, her head tilting to the side as she said, “What is it?”
He just shook his head.
“You’re smiling,” she accused.
“I am.”
Now she was smiling too. “Why?”
“Because you’re perfect.”
“Edward, no, I—”
She was still shaking her head when he pulled her into his arms. The bed was mere steps away, but she was his wife, and he was finally going to make love to her, and by God he was going to sweep her off her feet and carry her there.
He kissed her again and again, his hands roaming over her body, first through the chemise, and then daring their way underneath the hem. She was everything he’d dreamed, responsive and warm. Then he felt her ankle hooking around his leg, drawing him closer, and it was like the entire world had burst into sunshine. This was no longer him seducing her. She wanted him too. She wanted to pull him closer, to feel him against her, and Edward’s heart sang with equal parts joy and satisfaction.
He pulled back, sitting up far enough so that he could tug his shirt over his head.
“You look different,” she said, watching him with passion-glazed eyes.
His brows rose.
“The last time I saw you”—she reached up, touched his chest with the tips of her fingers—“was the day you left hospital.”
He supposed it was true. She had always turned her back when he was changing his clothes. And he had always watched her, wondering what she was thinking, if she wanted to turn around and take a peek.
“Better, I hope,” he murmured.
She gave a little eye roll at that, which he supposed he deserved. He had not yet put on all of the weight he had lost, but he was certainly more fit, and when he ran his hands over his arms, he could feel his muscles re-forming, slowly clawing their way back to strength.
But he was strong enough for this. He was definitely strong enough for this.
“I didn’t think men were supposed to be so beautiful,” Cecilia said.
He planted his hands on either side of her shoulders, bracing himself so he could loom over her as he warned, “If you make me blush I shall have to exert my husbandly authority over you.”
“Your husbandly authority? What does that entail?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I’m fairly certain you promised to obey.”
If he hadn’t been so focused on her face, he might not have seen the little twitch in her jaw. Or the awkward swallow that made a trail down her throat. He almost teased her about it. There was not a woman of his acquaintance—at least not one he liked and respected—who actually meant it when she promised to obey her husband.
He wondered if she’d crossed her fingers when she’d said the words on the ship. Or maybe she’d found some way out of saying them altogether, the little vixen. And now she was too embarrassed to admit it.
“I never expected you to obey me,” he murmured, smiling as he went in for another kiss. “Merely to agree with me in all things.”
She shoved him in the shoulder, but all he could do was laugh. Even when he rolled onto his side and pulled her close, he could not stop the silent mirth that shook through his body and into hers.
Had he ever laughed in bed with a woman? Who knew it would be so delightful.
“You do make me happy,” he said, and then he finally took her advice and pulled the chemise from her body, her arms rising up as he slid it over her head.
His breath caught. She was nude now, and although the sheets covered her lower body, her breasts were bare to him. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, but there was more to it than that. It wasn’t just that the sight of her made him dizzy with desire. Or that he was quite certain he had never been so hard with need as he was at that moment.
It was more. It was deeper.
It was divine.
He touched one of her breasts, grazing the pretty pink nipple with his forefinger. She gasped, and he could not help but let out a growl of masculine pride. He loved that he could make her want him, want this. He loved knowing that she was almost certainly growing wet between her legs, that her body was coming alive, and he was doing it.
“So pretty,” he murmured, adjusting their bodies so that she was once again on her back, and he was straddling her. But with her chemise gone, the position took on a far more erotic air. Her breasts flattened a bit with gravity, but the nipples, pink as roses, jutted proudly upward, practically begging for his touch.
“I could look at you all day,” he said.
Her breath quickened.
“Or maybe not,” he said, leaning down to give her right nipple one little lick. “I don’t think I could look and not touch.”
“Edward,” she gasped.
“Or kiss.” He moved to the other breast, drawing the tip into his mouth.
She arched beneath him, a soft shriek escaping her lips as he continued his sweet torture.
“I can nibble, too,” he murmured, going back to the other side, this time using his teeth.
“Oh my God,” she moaned. “What are you doing? I feel it . . .”
He chuckled. “I hope you feel it.”
“No, I feel it . . .”
He waited for a few seconds, and then, his words laced with wicked desire, he said, “You feel it somewhere else?”
She nodded.
Someday, after they’d made love a hundred times, he’d make her say where she felt it. He’d make her say the words that would make his already hard cock turn into something built with steel. But for now, he would be the naughty one. He would use every weapon in his arsenal to make sure that when he finally entered her she was desperate with need.
She would know what it meant to be adored. She would know what it meant to be worshipped. Because he had already realized that his greatest pleasure lay with her finding hers.
He squeezed her breast, his hand molding it into a tiny mountain as he bent down to place his lips by her ear. “I wonder where you feel it,” he said, grazing her with his teeth. He rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as his hand slid from her breast to her hip. “Could it be here?”
Her breath grew louder.
“Or maybe”—he slid across her belly, tickling her navel with his finger—“here?”
Still, she quivered beneath his touch.
“I don’t think that’s the spot,” he said, idly drawing circles on her skin. “I think you were speaking of somewhere a little lower.”
She made a sound. It might have been his name.
He flattened his palm against her abdomen, and with purposeful slowness inched his way down until his fingers met the soft thatch of hair that guarded her womanhood. He felt her grow very still, as if she wasn’t sure what to do, and he could only smile as he listened to the frenzied rasps of air of passing over her lips.
Tenderly he parted her, his fingers flicking over her nub until some of the rigidity left her body, and she fell more fully open to him. “Do you like that?” he whispered, even though he knew she did. But when she nodded he still felt like king of the world. The mere act of pleasuring her seemed to be enough to make his heart swell with pride.
He continued to tease her, drawing her closer and closer to her peak, even though his own body was crying out for satisfaction. He had not intended to see to her completion first, but once he touched her, felt her body singing beneath his fingers, he knew what he had to do. He wanted her to fall apart, to utterly shatter and think there was no greater pleasure.
And then he wanted to show her that there was.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, but he thought the question might be rhetorical. Her eyes were closed, and her head was thrown back, and as her body arched, thrusting those perfect breasts to the sky, he thought he’d never seen anything so lovely and erotic.
“I’m making love to you,” he said.
Her eyes opened. “But—”
He brought a finger to her lips. “Don’t interrupt me.” She was a clever girl; she obviously knew what happened between a man and a woman, and she knew that something much larger than his fingers was meant to find its way inside of her. But clearly no one had told her about all the delicious things that could happen along the way.
“Have you heard of la petite mort?” he asked her.
Her eyes clouded with confusion as she shook her head. “The little death?”
“It’s what the French call it. A metaphor, I assure you. I have always thought it more an affirmation of life.” He leaned down and drew her nipple into his mouth. “Or perhaps a reason for living.”
And then, with all the wicked promise he felt in his soul, he looked up at her through his lashes and murmured, “Shall I show you?”