Lancashire seemed too tame a place compared to the likes of Egypt. I asked my father to purchase a commission for me and he did.”
“And did you go to Egypt with the army?” Her head rested against his heart.
He shook his head. “No. I was sent to the West Indies.”
He remembered the shock of that hellish place, where men died from fevers in great numbers, where he also had become ill and nearly did not recover. When not ill, all his regiment ever did was keep the slaves from revolting. Poor devils. All they’d wanted was to be free men.
He went on. “After that we came to Spain to fight Napoleon’s army.”
Her muscles tensed. “Napoleon. Bah!”
He moved so they were lying face to face. “You do not revere L’Empereur?”
“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “He took the men and boys and too many were killed. Too many.”
Her distress returned. Gabe changed the subject. “Now I have told you about my life. What of yours?”
She became very still, but held his gaze. “I grew up in the Revolution. Everyone was afraid all the time, afraid to be on the wrong side, you know? Because you would go to la guillotine.” She shuddered. “I saw a pretty lady go to the guillotine.”
“You witnessed the guillotine?” He was aghast. “You must have been very young.”
“Oui. My mother hated the Royals, but the pretty lady did not seem so bad to me. She cried for her children at the end.”
“My God,” he said.
Her gaze drifted and he knew she was seeing it all again.
Gabe felt angry on Emmaline’s behalf, angry she should have to endure such a horror.
He lifted her chin with his finger. “You have seen too much.”
Her lips trembled and his senses fired with arousal again. He moved closer.
Her breathing accelerated. “I am glad I am here with you.”
He looked into her eyes, marvelling at the depth of emotion they conveyed, marvelling that she could remain open and loving in spite of all she’d experienced. A surge of protectiveness flashed through him. He wanted to wipe away all the pain she’d endured. He wanted her to never hurt again.
He placed his lips on hers, thinking he’d never tasted such sweetness. He ran his hand down her back, savouring the feel of her, the outline of her spine, the soft flesh of her buttocks. Parting from her kiss, he gazed upon her, drinking in her beauty with his eyes. The fullness of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples, the triangle of dark hair at her genitals.
He touched her neck, so long and slim, and slid his hand to her breasts. She moaned. Placing her hands on the sides of his head, she guided his lips to where his fingers had been. He took her breast into his mouth and explored her nipple with his tongue, feeling it peak and harden.
Her fingernails scraped his back as he tasted one, then the other breast. She writhed beneath him. Soon he was unable to think of anything but Emmaline and how wonderful it felt to make love to her, how he wished the time would never end. Even if he had only this one night with her, he would be grateful. It was far more than he’d expected.
The need for her intensified and he positioned himself over her. She opened her legs and arched her back to him. His chest swelled with masculine pride that she wanted him, wanted him to fill her and bring her to climax.
He entered her easily and what had before been a slow, sublime climb to pleasure this time became a frenzied rush. She rose to meet him and clung to him as if to urge him not to slow down, not to stop.
As if he could. As if he ever wanted this to end, even knowing the ecstasy promised.
The air filled with their rapturous breathing as their exhilaration grew more fevered, more consuming. Gabe heard her cry, felt her convulse around him and then he was lost in his own shattering pleasure.
Afterwards they did not speak. He slid to her side and Emmaline fell asleep in his arms as the candle burned down to a sputtering nub. While it still cast enough light, he gazed upon her as she slept.
He did not know what the morning would bring. For all he knew she might send him away in regret for this night together. Or he might be called away to the regiment. Would the regiment be ordered to march, to meet Napoleon’s forces?
Would he face her son in battle and take from her what she held most dear?
Emmaline woke the next morning with joy in her heart. The man in her bed rolled over and smiled at her as if he, too, shared the happy mood that made her want to laugh and sing and dance about the room.
Instead he led her into a dance of a different sort, one that left her senses humming and her body a delicious mix of satiation and energy. She felt as if she could fly.
His brown eyes, warm as a cup of chocolate, rested on her as he again lay next to her. She held her breath as she gazed back at him, his hair rumpled, his face shadowed with beard.
This time she indulged her curiosity and ran her finger along his cheek, which felt like the coarsest sackcloth. “I do not have the razor for you, Gabriel.”
He rubbed his chin. “I will shave later.”
From the church seven bells rang.
“It is seven of the clock. I have slept late.” She slipped out of the tangled covers and his warm arms, and searched for her shift. “I will bring you some water for washing tout de suite.”
His brows creased. “Do not delay yourself further. I will fetch the water and take care of myself.”
She blinked, uncertain he meant what he said. “Then I will dress and begin breakfast.”
He sat up and ran his hands roughly through his hair. She stole a glance at his muscled chest gleaming in the light from the window. He also watched her as she dressed. How different this morning felt than when she’d awoken next to her husband. Remy would have scolded her for oversleeping and told her to hurry so he could have fresh water with which to wash and shave.
As she walked out of the room, she laughed to herself. Remy would also have boasted about how more skilled at lovemaking a Frenchman was over an Englishman. Well, this Englishman’s skills at lovemaking far exceeded one Frenchman’s.
She paused at the top of the stairs, somewhat ashamed at disparaging her husband. Remy had been no worse than many husbands. Certainly he had loved Claude.
Early in her marriage she’d thought herself lacking as a wife, harbouring a rebellious spirit even while trying to do as her much older husband wished. She’d believed her defiance meant she had remained more child than grown woman. When Remy dictated she and Claude would accompany him to war, she’d known it would not be good for their son. She had raged against the idea.
But only
