by Viola Morne
"He seems older."
Isabelle laughed, relieved to find her husband in good spirits, after the ordeal they'd all gone through.
Snow clasped her hand.
"I'm sorry, Isabelle. Trent would never have targeted you, if not for me."
"His wife bears the same blame. And she would never have convinced Trent to use me, if not for what I did to Charlie." She leaned back against the seat. "I'm sure you would not choose to wed a murderess."
Snow's grip tightened.
"I would marry you, no matter what. You must know that."
Isabelle pressed his hand. Relief coursed through her.
"Besides I consider you more Charlie's executioner, than his killer. He let your child die. I only wish I could kill him myself."
Isabelle raised his hand to her lips and kissed it.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Snow's fingers brushed her jaw.
"Call me Julian."
She took a breath. "I will, my darling, if you tell me who Angeline is, and what she means to you."
Snow drew back. "Where did you hear that name?"
"From you, you called for her in your dreams. Did you love her very much?"
Isabelle's heart trembled as she waited for his answer. She longed to know the truth, almost as much as she feared it.
Snow's voice came slowly, as if it traveled back from the past.
"I cared for her, we all did. But I was never in love with Angeline. She was the mistress of one of Napoleon's officers, and a spy for the French Royalist forces. We worked together in Spain during the war."
Isabelle waited, knowing there must be more to the story. Something which explained her husband's nightmares.
"I met the major and Frost in Portugal, when the war began. We became friends, though our backgrounds were quite dissimilar."
The coach bumped over the rough road, and Snow winced. He reached for the flask.
"Tell me later, Julian. You've been wounded and you're tired. I can wait to hear your story."
Snow shook his head.
"No, you've waited long enough, my love. I want to tell you everything."
He took a long sip of whiskey, and cleared his throat.
"Back in England, we might have had nothing in common, but on the battlefield, we became brothers. We fought together, drank and diced together. And there were women, plenty of them. Anything to dull the fear and the death which surrounded us.
“We became so close, we were a byword in the army. 'If you want to find Winter, just follow Frost and Snow.' I suppose the men thought that was witty. You see, I'd been Julian Beaufort when I enlisted. By the time we landed, my elder brother was dead in battle and my father passed away from a stroke. I became the Earl of Snow. I could have resigned my commission, but deserting my brothers-in-arms seemed impossible.
A smile flitted across Snow’s face. “They called us the Cold Gang.” He shook his head.
“Once we got to Spain, after fighting our way through Portugal, Major Winter was asked to form an intelligence unit. Frost and I joined him, and we met Angeline. She set up a meeting with a French source, who promised to furnish us with information about Napoleon's battle plans. I was ordered to accompany her, and we were captured."
Snow paused, lost in thought. Isabelle wanted to reach out, to place her fingers over his mouth, so he wouldn't have to relive those terrible memories. But perhaps, if he faced them, those memories would lose their power over him.
"It was back in '13, after the battle of Vitoria. Someone betrayed her, betrayed us. Who, we never found out. We were locked up together. Of course, we refused to speak to our captors. So they tortured her, for days."
Snow rubbed his eyes.
"I thought I would go mad. I would have spoken at the last, I think, to save her. But she wouldn't let me. Angeline made me promise not to break her trust, not even to save her life. She was so brave, Isabelle. But she screamed, Christ, how she screamed. I couldn't see what was going on. That was part of my torture - to imagine what they were doing to her. At the end, she died quietly. She couldn't take any more. They let me see her body: so much blood, so much pain."
Isabelle placed her hand on his thigh, where the muscles were rigid with nervous strain.
"What happened after that?"
Snow exhaled. "Some of the French left with her body. I imagine they wanted to show her to General Marchand, her lover. I passed out, and when I came to, the major and Frost were there. They'd tracked us to the cellar where we were held and killed the soldiers guarding us."
He shook his head. "I've never seen Frost like that. I thought he would go mad with the pain of losing Angeline, in such a terrible way. He loved her, I know, though he never said so. It changed him, made him into the cold bastard he is today. God, I'm tired."
Snow dropped his head on her shoulder, and Isabelle stroked his hair. Her heart bled for him. There had been so much tragedy. Thank goodness, it was all over now, though not for Frost. He still suffered. Isabelle, safe from her captors and holding her husband in her arms, still could not forgive Frost, but, perhaps, she could understand him.
* * * * *
One week later
Snow dropped a kiss on Isabelle's hair. She lay close within his arms, warm and sated after making love for hours. His embrace tightened around her.
"I can't apologize enough for believing Trent's note, for thinking you could ever leave me like that."
Isabelle ran her fingers down her husband's belly. He rewarded her with an indrawn breath when she wrapped them around his cock.
"There's nothing to forgive. Trent was a clever man. He used your worst fears and mine, to manipulate us. He had a knack for making people twist and dance to his liking." Her caresses grew bolder.
"Rather like you're doing to me right now?"
Her grip tightened and Snow gasped.
"Naughty boy, don’t compare me to that evil man. Darling, you're very wet down here." Isabelle slicked her fingers over his cock and he groaned.
"And so hard," she murmured, bending to flick him with her tongue.
Snow let Isabelle have her way with him for a moment, before he reared up and flipped her on her back.
"All the better to fuck you with, my dearest wife." He spread her thighs and slid home. Her eyes closed. It was so good. Her husband knew best how to pleasure her, how to bring her to the brink, and then push her over the edge into ecstasy.
Isabelle breathed out the words she had saved in her heart. "I love you."
Snow froze for a moment, deep within her. She smoothed a hand down his back. His flank quivered. He opened his beautiful dark eyes. They were wet with emotion. He tried to say something, stopped and shook his head.
She spread her legs even wider, grabbed his buttocks and pushed him into her. Snow groaned, thrusting wildly. She tightened around him, one, twice, and then he came hard, pumping an endless stream of semen against her womb.
Afterward, Snow held her close. He picked up a strand of her hair and threaded it through his fingers. He sighed.
"I'm sorry for everything, Isabelle. Especially for sharing you with Frost. I was trying to prove that I was in control, but the truth is that you have mastered me. The strangest thing is that I don't regret it."
Snow kissed her until she was breathless with desire.
"I was wandering in a desert before I met you, Isabelle, a desolate arctic waste of my own making, without trust, without love. You saved me from myself. I love you, my sweet wife, and I will never let you go."
"My darling husband." Isabelle wound her arm around his waist. "Don't you know actions speak louder than words?"
"Trollop," he whispered, sliding his fingers along her most delicate skin. "It's been too long since I spanked you. You are in dire need of a hard," he ground his cock against her, "punishment."
"Yes, sir," Isabelle moaned, "please, sir."
THE END
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