their bodies pressed together, shaking with the shared climax.
Gabe felt the pleasure ebb, making his body suddenly heavy, his mind again able to form coherent thought.
He forced himself not to merely collapse on top of her and crush her with his weight. Instead, he eased himself off her to lie at her side.
As soon as he did so she flung her arms across her face. He gently lowered them.
She was weeping.
He felt panicked. “Emmaline, did I injure you?” He could not precisely recall how he might have done so, but during those last moments he’d been consumed by his own drive to completion.
She shook her head. “Non. I cannot speak—”
“Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.” He ought not to have made love to her. He’d taken advantage of her grief and worry. “I did not realise …”
She swiped at her eyes and turned on her side to face him. “You did not distress me. How do I say it?” He could feel her search for words. “I never felt le plaisir in this way before.”
His spirits darkened. “It did not please you.”
Tears filled her eyes again, making them sparkle in the candlelight. She cupped her palm against his cheek. “Tu ne comprends pas. You do not comprehend. It pleased me more than I can say to you.”
Relief washed through him. “I thought I had hurt you.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, resting her head against his heart.
Gabe allowed himself to enjoy the comfort of her silky skin against his, their bodies warming each other as cool night air seeped through the window jamb.
She spoke and he felt her voice through his chest as well as hearing it with his ears. “It was not so with my husband. Not so … long. So … much plaisir.”
The image of a body in a French uniform flashed into Gabe’s mind, the body they had been forced to abandon in Badajoz. Now he’d made love to that man’s wife. It seemed unconscionable. “Has there been no other man since your husband?”
“No, Gabriel. Only you.”
He drew in a breath, forcing himself to be reasonable. He’d had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s death. And three years had passed.
He felt her muscles tense. “Do you have a wife?”
“No.” Of that he could easily assure her. He’d never even considered it.
She relaxed again. “C’est très bien. I would not like it if you had a wife. I would feel culpabilité.”
He laughed inwardly. They were both concerned about feeling the culpabilité, the guilt.
They lay quiet again and he twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers.
“It feels agreeable to lie here with you,” she said after a time.
Very agreeable, he thought, almost as if he belonged in her bed.
After a moment a thought occurred to him. “Do you need to take care of yourself?”
“Pardon?” She turned her face to him.
“To prevent a baby?” He had no wish to inflict an unwanted baby upon her.
Her expression turned pained. “I do not think I can have more babies. I was only enceinte one time. With Claude. Never again.”
He held her closer, regretting he’d asked. “Did you wish for more children?”
She took a deep breath and lay her head against his chest again. “More babies would have been very difficult. To accompany my husband, you know.”
What kind of fool had her husband been to bring his family to war? Gabe knew how rough it was for soldiers’ wives to march long distances heavy with child, or to care for tiny children while a battle raged.
“Did you always follow the drum?” he asked.
She glanced at him. “The drum? I do not comprehend.”
“Accompany your husband on campaign,” he explained.
“Ah!” Her eyes brightened in understanding. “Not always did I go with him. Not until Claude was walking and talking. My husband did not wish to be parted from his son.”
“From Claude?” Not from her?
Had her marriage not been a love match? Gabe could never see the point of marrying unless there was strong devotion between the man and woman, a devotion such as his parents possessed.
Emmaline continued. “My husband was very close to Claude. I think it is why Claude feels so hurt and angry that he died.”
“Claude has a right to feel hurt and angry,” Gabe insisted.
“But it does not help him, eh?” She trembled.
He held her closer. “Everyone has hardship in their lives to overcome. It will make him stronger.”
She looked into his eyes. “What hardship have you had in your life?” She rubbed her hand over the scar on his abdomen. “Besides war?”
“None,” he declared. “My father was prosperous, my family healthy.”
She nestled against him again. “Tell me about your family.”
There was not much to tell. “My father is a cloth merchant, prosperous enough to rear eight children.”
“Eight? So many.” She looked up at him again. “And are you the oldest? The youngest?”
“I am in the middle,” he replied. “First there were four boys and then four girls. I am the last of the boys, but the only one to leave Manchester.”
Her brow knitted. “I was like Claude, the only one. I do not know what it would be like to have so many brothers and sisters.”
He could hardly remember. “It was noisy, actually. I used to escape whenever I could. I liked most to stay with my uncle. He managed a hill farm. I liked that better than my father’s warehouse.” His father had never needed him there, not with his older brothers to help out.
“A hill farm?” She looked puzzled.
“A farm with sheep and a few other animals,” he explained.
She smiled at him. “You like sheep farming?”
“I did.” He thought back to those days, out of doors in the fresh country air, long hours to daydream while watching the flocks graze, or, even better, days filled with hard work during shearing time or when the sheep were lambing.
“Why did you not become a farmer, then?” she asked.
At the time even
