Marriage of Mercy

by Carla Kelly

  Grace took the letter. ‘You know I have no secret admirers, Emery.’ She put her hand to her cheek. ‘My blushes!’

  He stood there, probably wanting to know what the letter contained. Grace decided to satisfy his curiosity, considering how little she had shared with him. She opened the note, which was sealed with a dab of wax. With a start, she felt the warmth from the wax, newly applied. She couldn’t help the chill that ran down her back.

  ‘“Do nothing foolish”,’ she read out loud, then held it out to Emery. ‘And see there? It’s signed with an S.’

  ‘Mr Selway, I don’t doubt,’ Emery said. ‘What do you suppose he means?’ he asked Rob.

  Rob joined them by the sofa, holding out his hand for the note. ‘Maybe the elusive Mr Selway watched us this afternoon, when I so foolishly ran across the street without my ever-present shadow.’

  ‘Then why does he not show himself?’ Grace asked, practical as always.

  The three of them looked at each other. Rob tapped the note against his wrist. ‘I have heard older seamen tell about the revolution. They say the most dangerous time is when a war is just beginning, or almost over.’ He looked Emery in the eye. ‘There are no rules.’

  He took the note back to the fireplace and flicked it into the flames. ‘We’ve been warned, I suppose. I’m depending on you to keep your eye on Ugly Butler, Emery.’

  ‘I always do,’ was Emery’s quiet reply. He nodded to them both. ‘And now, me for bed.’ He smiled faintly. ‘A peace treaty is excitement enough for one day.’

  Emery closed the door behind him. ‘Emery is right.’ Rob put his arm around Grace’s waist, the gesture belying his words, his face so close to hers. ‘I shan’t mince words, my dearest. These are truly dangerous times.’ He couldn’t quite meet her eyes and she knew she was not misreading the disappointment in his voice. ‘We had better wait.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ she whispered

  ‘Nor do I,’ he told her as he released her, ‘but needs must when the devil drives.’

  He closed the sitting-room door behind him. Grace rested her cheek against it. ‘Why should we wait? The war is over,’ she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It wasn’t the answer she wanted, but as she undressed for bed, Grace had to agree that Rob was right. She stood barefoot and naked in her room until she felt the winter’s chill, wondering how it would be when they finally made connection in that way of men and women.

  She knew it must be pleasurable. Once or twice, not recently—maybe they were getting old—she had heard Mrs Wilson moan in their room upstairs from the bakery. Now and then the bed upstairs made a squeaking rhythm that had intrigued Grace. She sometimes explored her own body, enjoying the feeling of release, but wondering how much better it could be with someone to share the pleasure.

  She pulled her nightgown over her head, crawled into bed and tried to sleep. Nothing. ‘The war is over, and I love that man,’ she said out loud, finally.

  She sat up. I am twenty-eight, she thought—as if she needed reminding—as she pulled back the covers. She sat for a long while, weighing the merit of her decision. She had been restless before, but an urge deep inside her told her that the only remedy for Rob was Rob. She thought of the deed to his house, and his near-desperation that she have it, should something happen to him.

  The thought chilled her. ‘Needs must, indeed,’ she said. What if something were to happen and she was destined never to know the love of the man she adored? She knew she could never survive such a sterile life, not now, not after knowing her heart for the first time.

  Grace took a deep breath, opened the door to her room and stood there in surprise.

  ‘Rob?’

  There he stood, his eyes lively, even in the gloom of the hallway, with just the moon giving pale light.

  ‘You can’t sleep either?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Look at you,’ he said, his voice low. ‘You’re going to get cold feet.’

  ‘I already have cold feet,’ she assured him and he smiled.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I do, too,’ he told her. ‘Take my hand, Gracie. I suppose two bigger fools never lived.’

  Then they were in his room, with the door closed against Emery and Smathers, a whole village of busybodies, Lord Thomson, horrible Dartmoor and every slight she had endured in the past ten years.

  Rob led her to his bed and sat there, watching in silence, his face serious, as she unbuttoned her nightgown and let it slide down her body. She stood naked before him, resisting the instinct to cover her breasts and private parts from the steady gaze of the man she loved, but never dreamed she would be loving so soon.

  ‘Are we celebrating the peace treaty?’ he asked, his gaze so steady, so honest.

  ‘I’m celebrating you,’ she whispered, blushing.

  He sighed audibly, a contented sound, if ever she had heard one. He slowly unbuttoned his own nightshirt, not taking his eyes from her.

  Naked, he stood up and came to her, pulling her body close to his. She closed her eyes as his arms went tight around her. Heat and weight rushed to her loins, the feeling not unpleasant, but not comfortable, because she felt such an urge to press closer.

  Rob was in no hurry. When she felt brave enough to look at his face, he was looking at her, his expression hard to interpret. She put a hand to the pronounced frown line between his eyes and rubbed it gently.

  ‘Why so serious?’ she asked.

  ‘This is a serious business, Grace,’ he replied. He took her hand and kissed the palm. ‘I want you in my bed, but you know there are risks.’

  He didn’t need to spell it out. She nodded. ‘I know that. Rob Inman, my door didn’t fly open by itself,’ she told him, wondering if she was destined to be for ever more practical than he.

  He chuckled at that, led her to his bed and held the coverlets up, his hand caressing her hip. ‘Slide in, Gracie.’

  She did as he said, then carefully rested her head on his chest. She closed her eyes as his fingers cupped her breast. ‘The maid was right, you know. You are ’andsome.’

  She felt his chuckle as he ran his other hand along her hip, stopping at the fleshiest spot and patting her. In another moment, she slid onto her back, pulling his head down to rest on her breasts.

  ‘I used to dream about this in Dartmoor, until I started forgetting what a woman felt like,’ he whispered into her breasts. ‘That was a bad day.’

  It was her turn to chuckle. She realised he was trying to put her at ease, even while he probably wanted to move much faster, considering his personal drought, brought about by Elaine’s death, war and prison. And he was thinking of her.

  Her fingers found his growing organ with no difficulty and curled gently around him. He spread his legs slightly, his breath coming faster.

  She stroked him. His sigh suggested it was the right thing to do, so she continued.‘I hope I’m doing the right thing,’ she whispered.

  He didn’t answer. When he rested his hand on her private parts, she opened her legs, too.

  He raised up on one elbow, his fingers probing her, as she raised her hips. She closed her eyes as he kissed her inner thigh. His lips searched higher and his breathing became ragged. No, it was her breathing.

  ‘Open your eyes, Gracie,’ he murmured as he fitted himself on top of her. Her arms went around him, but it wasn’t enough; she wanted him closer.

  ‘How does anyone survive this?’ she asked. His face was too close to see, so she kissed him instead of worrying about anything else.

  ‘Grace, you amaze me,’ he whispered back, his lips just above hers. ‘Steady as you go now.’

  And then he was inside her. Her hands tightened across his back. She didn’t want to talk then, but to concentrate instead on what he was doing and how liquid she felt, how different. ‘What is it we do?’ she asked finally, when she felt the strongest urge for more.

  ‘Exactly this,’ he whispered into her neck, as he began to
move rhythmically.

  The fact that she understood Rob completely made her suspect that instinct had a delicious way of trampling all over inexperience. Eager now, she relaxed as much as she could, her hands gentle on his back and buttocks. He didn’t have to suggest she put her legs around him, because she could think of no better thing to do.

  The only sound then was their breathing, which fell into its own rhythm. She felt the deepest pleasure she had ever known when he sighed, pulled her closer and released himself inside her. She clung to him, kissing his shoulder, knowing in her very soul that he needed her—not just any woman, not just any body, but her. He said so, over and over. ‘Grace, oh, Grace,’ he whispered in her ear.

  She touched his face, surprised to feel tears. ‘Don’t cry, Rob,’ she whispered back. ‘You’re going to be home soon.’

  ‘I am now,’ he told her, still holding her close, but raising up on his elbows to give her more room to breathe. ‘I don’t want to weigh you down, but I can’t leave you yet.’

  She kissed his shoulder again, and then his lips, her body relaxing now, even as his did. ‘Rob, can we do this again? Fairly soon? I want to get the knack.’

  He chuckled in her ear. ‘I think we can find occasion in our busy schedules, Grace. I, um, plan to give you a more thorough effort, because you’re entitled to some pleasure of your own.’

  ‘Now?’

  He laughed and turned over, pulling her on top of him now. ‘You’re going to lead me a merry dance, aren’t you?’

  ‘If I can,’ she told him, resting her head on his chest now, surprised a little that they were still joined together and pleased with her own dexterity. And here she had always thought herself so awkward.

  ‘I know you can, but my dear, it takes men a little time to regroup.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Aye, lass, even a sailor! There now. At the risk of sounding mundane beyond belief, if you dismount carefully, you can probably find a cloth by my washbasin.’

  She blushed in the dark, but he was right: time for a wash. When she finished, he came to the basin, too, and accepted the wrung-out cloth from her.

  ‘It’s not the world’s tidiest business, Grace,’ he told her when he finished. He picked her up and tossed her back in the bed, which made her shriek, then cover her mouth with her hand.

  He took her hand away. ‘No fears, love. Emery is sleeping a warm and peaceful sleep two floors below. It’s just me and I’m no critic.’

  Grace thought about returning to her own bed, but the door was miles away and Rob was warm against her back. He lay on his side, one leg thrown over her, his arm under her head, his breathing slow and steady.

  She closed her eyes and thought through their mating, savouring each moment because she’d never had any hopes that she would ever dance to Cupid’s tune. The long war was over. The world was at peace; so was she.

  She turned over carefully, hoping not to disturb her man. There was just enough moonlight to show her the relief on his face, his hands open and relaxed. She touched his hair, which had grown long again, and traced the brand on his neck. She wondered again how civilised people could condone stamping a man with a hot iron, even if he was their enemy. I’ll never understand governments, she thought, kissing the scar. Who does?

  * * *

  Sleep had come softly then, until early in the morning, when she woke to feel Rob’s hand on her breast. She stirred and moved onto her back, relishing the way he stroked her. She felt the now-familiar heat gathering again in her loins.

  The room was cold, but he threw off the blankets and worked his way down her body, kissing her from her breastbone to that calm, soft place no longer calm, but even more soft. This time he let her guide him into her body with no flinch and no hesitation.

  ‘Told you it didn’t take long,’ he murmured as he settled himself on her again.

  Grace gave him no argument on that score. Now that the newness of their connection had mellowed her mind, she

  eagerly wrapped her arms and legs around him and gave herself to his rhythm, savouring his weight, the way he murmured in her ear, the beating of his heart against hers, the odd security he gave her, even though she knew they were both so vulnerable. The years of aching loneliness fell away like scales as she realised, to her utter joy, that she was finally close enough to another human being, the man she loved. It was a gift and a blessing greater than any she could think of.

  He climaxed, which lifted her on until she was moaning, tossing her head from side to side and gripping him ever more fiercely as her turn came. If she could have turned herself inside out, she would have, so intense was the ebb and flow of the waves that left her spent and sweating.

  ‘My goodness, Rob,’ she said finally, when her breathing returning to normal, or what would pass for normal, if she hadn’t been still caught in the rhythm.

  As he smoothed back her hair and kissed her forehead, continuing his efforts inside her, she felt the climax grab her again, this time more subdued, but no less potent. She was nipping his shoulder now, which made him laugh softly and press his forehead against hers.

  ‘Gracie, you’re a wonder,’ he whispered. ‘I believe you’re as strong as I am.’

  She hugged him even tighter. ‘You did say once that kneading bread had given me wonderful shoulders.’

  He laughed again. ‘This is the world’s oddest conversation,’ he said, as he left her body and flopped onto his back. He slapped his stomach. ‘It’s a good thing I am a fit man now and not the skeleton you rescued from Dartmoor.’ He turned sideways then and rested his head on her breast. ‘I believe I will reconsider a seafaring career. I’d rather own a bakery in Nantucket and come home to you every night! I’d be a fool if I did otherwise.’ He lay back again and took her hand in his.

  She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. ‘I suppose I truly am no lady,’ she said, thinking there must be some way to explain her total delight in the pleasures of the flesh. Maybe she had slid further than she had thought.

  Rob raised up and kissed her. ‘The two issues are not compatible,’ he told her. ‘Grace, you were born a lady, raised a lady and you remain a lady. What you and I do with our bodies is our business alone.’

  Grace digested his comment. She found it entirely to her liking, so much so that after a brief nap, and just after the sun rose, it was her turn to wake him as her hand explored his tender parts. He had no objection, beyond teasing her to be gentle with him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It struck Grace as strange that no one seemed to have any inkling that she had travelled from spinster to lover in less than twelve hours. When she dressed in the privacy of her own room, she hardly dared to sneak a peek at her face in the little mirror, convinced that she would find some evidence of her tumultuous night emblazoned on her forehead.

  When she did finally look, the same Grace Curtis stared, then smiled, back at her: the Grace with a few freckles, a nicely curved mouth, blue eyes and nose that just escaped—thank goodness—being called ‘full of character’. She looked the same as always, right down to her small waist and capable shoulders, which seemed to amuse Rob, or perhaps excite him. The only one who could possibly have any inkling of the currents inside her was the man who had started the whole commotion: the lover she adored and the man she would marry, if God was good, now that the war was over. Her life had changed monumentally and no one knew.

  * * *

  The first test was Emery, who greeted her kindly when she came into the kitchen and asked her opinion about the eggs he was baking. She observed them, hoping he would think her cheeks were extra rosy because of the cooking heat. Grace chided herself for being so missish. She prepared bread to toast. When it was done, Rob had still not appeared. Emery looked at the clock.

  ‘He’s lazy in the new year. Too much celebrating in a dower house over the signing of a treaty!’ He laughed.

  ‘Gracie, d’ye suppose the captain celebrated by counting the flowers on the wallpaper in hi
s room?’

  Not precisely, Grace thought. He did celebrate, though. ‘That must be it,’ she said.

  When breakfast was on the table, Rob still had not arrived. Grace and Emery ate, the butler with his eyes on the clock again.

  You dear man. You’re too old to be watching Ugly Butler so closely in all weather, she told herself as she poured more tea for both of them. She set down the teapot. ‘Emery, the war is over now,’ she reminded him. ‘You’ve been a prince to watch over Captain Duncan and make sure Mr Smathers kept his distance. You can probably rest now. It’s over.’

  Emery nodded. ‘Maybe it won’t be necessary for you to stick so close to Captain Duncan’s side, either. It must be

  tedious for you.’

  Far from it, she thought. ‘We’ll see.’

  She nodded to Emery, then took her way into the sitting room. She heard Rob’s footsteps on the stairs, but she felt suddenly shy to look at him, not after a night of so much passion in one small dower house. A dower house, where old relics and relicts went to dwindle, not blossom!

  She stood, gazing idly out of the window, where a few flakes of snow drifted down. Something caught her eye; she glanced at the mantelpiece and sucked in her breath. A letter with her name on it was propped against one of the ugly vases Lord Thomson had so grudgingly returned, after he had swept the place clean last spring.

  Even from across the room, she recognised Mr Selway’s bold script. How can he be getting messages into this house? she asked herself, as a chill went through her. Does he have a key? She retrieved the note, unnerved.

  It was a short message; Mr Selway was not one to waste words, or for that matter to grant them a personal appearance, she reminded herself. The message did nothing to soothe her nerves.

  Trust no one, she read silently. When a war winds down, no one is in charge.

  She frowned at his scrawled S., then read the note again, wishing irrationally that it would expand and tell her what to do.

  * * *

  Theirs was a quiet walk to Quimby, ambling along, both of them too shy to look at each other. Rob stopped finally and turned to face her, his expression serious.