by Carla Kelly
Nothing else she could have said would have touched him more, or aroused him so much. They made love more slowly this time, savoring their common joy in the sea and the knowledge of their mutual satisfaction with the world they were born to.
He held her close when they finished, content not to move beyond gathering her in his grasp and smiling when she hesitated, then laid her head on his chest, her arm around his body. In a euphoria of immense satisfaction, he told himself never to think of the time he’d wasted by not contacting her much sooner. Truth to tell, there had been precious few opportunities, not with war as the main course of his life’s meal. Now we have moved to dessert, he thought, and kissed her sweaty hair.
“Since you named him Jeremiah, I wonder you did not call him by my old nickname,” he said, “I never could have misheard that.”
She shook her head and kissed his chest. “Would you have had me in daily tears, thinking of you even more than I did?”
“I’m not much, Ianthe,” he assured her, flattered, but ever the realist.
“You are everything,” she contradicted. “Hush a moment, and let me savor the bliss of complete contentment. Parts of me haven’t felt this refreshed in years!”
He laughed softly.
He waited until she was asleep to leave her bed. She said something drowsy to him when he kissed her bare shoulder, but did not wake when he bundled up his clothes and left the room. When he was more or less chastely clad in his nightshirt, he looked in on Ianthe again. She slept peacefully. He longed to climb in beside her again, but that could wait until Mr. Everly spliced them.
Diana was sound asleep, too, the hatbox on the floor right beside her bed. He watched her a moment, wondering how he would fare with a fifteen-year-old who probably knew all the answers to life’s pressing questions. Time to worry about that later.
Jem had taken the telescope to bed with him. You ’re a good lad, Faulk thought. I doubt your father would mind if I called you son. I already think of you that way.
He stood at the window in Jem’s room and spent a long moment looking out at the bay and the channel beyond. Thank you, Jim, he thought. You laid a heavy charge on me, but apparently we have all been watching out for each other.
He had never felt so content. A realistic man, he put it down to utter release in Ianthe’s bed, where he had belonged for years, but never found until now. As he stared at the dark waters, he knew it was more than that, and even more than Christmas working its magic. He had spent many Christmases looking at dark water, and he hadn’t felt like this.
He decided it was peace. Maybe there was a use for it, after all. He would work his gun crews on the voyage to Australia, same as he always did, but there would be no need to fire the guns in anger now. Ianthe would be with him; Jem, too. Maybe in years to come, if there was time between the sea, and children and duty, he might have time to write his memoirs.
He smiled at the bay below. Peace had brought its own Christmas gift: choice. He looked up at the sky and gave a small salute to the God of war he had invoked many a Sunday from his quarterdeck as shepherd of his flock, and then another to the God of peace.
He stayed at the window until his feet were cold, then tiptoed into the hall. Another choice. Hopefully, Ianthe was right, and the children would sleep late. He went to her room and back to their bed. She didn’t even squeal when he put his cold feet on her warm legs. Good woman, this.
