His Saving Grace

by Sharon Cullen

  She may have appeared to be a skilled courtesan, but he saw the flush in her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes. She was just as aroused as he. It was a wonder that he could hold himself back and not topple her to the bed to impale her. But he wanted to see how this played out. He wanted to finish the game he had started and now seemed to be a pawn in.

  Her fingers, still traveling over his skin, dipped down into the waistband of his trousers. He was so aroused that the head of his manhood was right there, straining. Her fingers grazed it, causing him to gasp and close his eyes. Her hands molded around him, measuring him, weighing him, tracing the edges until he could hold back no longer. Grasping the bedpost with one hand, he shoved his hips forward, grinding his manhood into her hand.

  She was not in a mood to oblige him and pulled away. He grunted in frustration. Lightning-fast, she unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down his hips. His boots prevented him from stepping out of the trousers, and he found himself neatly trapped. Immobile.

  Stepping closer still, she rubbed her body against his, sending pinpricks of shock everywhere she touched. “What are you doing?” he gasped.

  “Exercising.” She winked.

  How he did it, he didn’t know, but he was out of his boots, shedding his trousers, and tackling her to the bed. Her eyes widened as he fell on top of her. “My turn to exercise.” He thrust into her and groaned at how smooth and wet she was.

  Grace cried out, arching up and digging her nails into his hips to draw him closer. “Gracie,” he bit out between clenched jaws. “Slow down.”

  But she was too far gone, too lost in the haze of desire she’d created, and she pumped her hips, clenching her eyes closed.

  Michael could no more hold her back than he could remember the damn color of her gown. He was powerless to stop her, defenseless against her sensual onslaught, and far too soon he was rushing toward a completion that nearly blinded him. He’d never felt a release so forceful in his life.

  Grace found her own release at the same time and cried out, the tendons in her neck standing out as she arched back. Her muscles contracted around him so hard that he saw stars before his eyes.

  Michael collapsed on her, gasping for breath. Beneath him, Grace was boneless, her hand lazily stroking through his hair.

  “I will gladly exercise like that any time you wish, my lady.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grace opened her eyes to find Michael lying on his side, watching her. Since they’d begun sleeping in the same bed a week ago, she had been waking up alone. His midnight wanderings didn’t wake her, but it did sadden her that he couldn’t relax enough to sleep through the night.

  “You’re here,” she said.

  “I am.”

  She rolled to her side and tucked her hands under her cheek. “You slept through the night?”

  “All night long.”

  She ached in places she’d never ached before. She didn’t know what had come over her last night. She’d never acted like that in her life, and in the light of day, she was a little embarrassed.

  “You were magnificent last night,” Michael said as if reading her thoughts.

  Her face heated in a fierce blush and she lowered her lashes. “I’m unsure what came over me.”

  “Whatever it was, I hope it happens again.”

  The uncomfortable blush was consuming her entire body.

  “What are your plans for the day?” he asked.

  “I have nothing planned. What of you?”

  “I do have plans.”

  “Oh.” She’d hoped they could spend the day together, just the two of them. Even if they didn’t venture outside, she would be happy with curling up in the study with a book and Michael at her side.

  Michael rolled over and surged off the bed. He was completely naked, and Grace marveled at the rippling muscles in his back. He may have been injured, but he had kept himself in shape. “I must get going if I’m going to get done what needs to get done,” he said, reaching for his trousers. He looked over his shoulder at her with a slight smile. “You’d best be up as well. No time for sleeping the day away.”

  “Me? What do I have to do today?”

  “You have to go with me.”

  “I do? And where might we be going?”

  “That’s a surprise.”

  She was suddenly excited, more so because Michael was excited. This was the side of Michael she had missed the most—his playful side. Since returning to London…no, since before that, when she’d broken through his walls after his first meeting with Roberts, she had witnessed a change in him. A return to the old Michael.

  Could it be that the worst was over? Was he finally learning to cope with his limitations and realize he could live a full and happy life despite them? Or maybe even because of them?

  “What should I wear?” she asked.

  “Something beautiful.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That could mean anything. I need to know how to dress for where we are going.”

  “We will be walking a bit, so wear comfortable shoes.” Then he disappeared through the connecting door to his bedroom.

  A moment ago Grace had wanted to do nothing but laze in bed, but she found herself jumping out of it just like Michael had.

  Jenny pulled out a deep-rose-colored gown while Grace washed. She had no idea if the gown would be too formal or not formal enough, but Michael was mysteriously tight-lipped.

  “Whatever are we about?” she asked him when they met in the entryway. He was wearing gray-striped trousers, a black frock coat, and a gray waistcoat. He looked marvelously handsome. In one hand he held a black top hat and in the other his cane. He’d put back on the weight that he’d lost during the war, and for once the shadows were gone from his eyes.

  It seemed the ball from the night before had given him the confidence he’d been lacking, and that confidence made all the difference in the world. His eyes sparkled. He was smiling. He laughed easily. He looked so much like the Michael she’d fallen in love with that her old nemesis, hope, flared in her heart.

  “Shall we?” he asked. He put his hat on and held his arm out for her to take.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” She took his arm with a smile.

  “Nor will I.” He winked at her, and her stomach did a slow roll of contentment.

  They climbed into the carriage and headed south out of London. Michael looked out the window and held Grace’s hand but remained stubbornly silent about their destination. They rode for quite some time in companionable silence. Grace was content to remain silent and revel in the fact that she was sitting in a carriage on a clear spring day with her husband, something she’d thought she would never be able to do again. It wasn’t until the carriage drew to the side of the road that Grace saw their destination and gasped. “Oh, Michael.”

  “I thought that since you loved your little glass houses so much, you would like to see a large glass house.”

  This was more than a large glass house. This was the Crystal Palace, the largest glass and steel building ever made. She’d heard of it, of course—who hadn’t? It was one of the greatest achievements in England’s history. She’d read many articles about the structure designed by the famous Joseph Paxton, head gardener to the duke of Devonshire, but she’d never thought to see it for herself.

  She climbed down from the carriage and looked with awe at the massive building. Sunlight reflecting off the hundreds of glass panes caused her to squint.

  “No use standing around gawking at it when we can go inside.” Michael took Grace’s hand and placed it on his arm to lead her to the majestic structure. It was bustling with activity. Nobility mixed with the working class, and neither seemed to take much notice. Vendors lined the area, selling various miscellanies, from clothing to household furniture to toys that young children would no doubt beg for. Michael bought tickets and they were inside.

  Grace turned in circles, tilting her head so far back she almost lost her balance. Panes of gla
ss soared to dizzying heights, reaching up to the sky and nearly touching the clouds. What a magnificent architectural feat, and to think she was standing inside it.

  The attraction was meant to be educational, a sort of lifelike history that encompassed all types of countries. It was difficult to decide where to begin.

  “I regret that the fountains and waterworks aren’t working today,” Michael said.

  “I don’t mind.” Grace knew she was acting like a child in awe, but that was because she felt like a small child in such a large building with walls that you could see through. It would have been nice to see the massive water display of shooting fountains and dancing water, but this was more than enough. She was so happy that Michael had thought to bring her here that she had to refrain from throwing her arms around him and hugging him right there in the middle of it all.

  They strolled through Italian courts and Egyptian temples. There was an abundance of Greek statues that were shockingly anatomically correct. Grace had read that the statues caused a fervor when they were introduced, and she could see why. Even she felt the need to cover her eyes when viewing them.

  The exhibit was crowded with visitors and those who came to set up carts and sell their wares. The glass caused an echo effect that increased the volume of hundreds of different conversations.

  Almost right away, it became obvious to Grace that Michael’s balance was affected. He leaned heavily on his cane, and his knee seemed to give out on him more than usual. She thought back to other times when his knee had been a problem and determined that on every occasion they had been in a large crowd. Could the noise and the chaos of a crowd affect his ability to walk? Somehow that had to be connected to his injury. It was something she needed to think about.

  By the time they made their way through the lower level, Michael’s expression was tight, and the twinkle was gone from his eyes. In the beginning, he’d commented on the items and joked a few times, but as they moved through the exhibition, the comments became fewer and the jokes nonexistent.

  “Are you feeling well?” she asked.

  He gave her a sharp look. “Of course. Why?”

  “You appear tired. We can sit for a time if you’d like. I have no problem with resting for a few minutes and watching the people.”

  “No need.”

  Grace pressed her lips together. The man was altogether exasperating. He was clearly tired and yet refused to admit it. Taking matters into her own hands, Grace marched over to a recently empty bench and sat down. Michael, not having seen her leave his side, looked around. When he spied her on the bench, his eyes narrowed. He followed and stood before her. “What are you doing?”

  “Resting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m tired.”

  “You’re doing this because you think I need to rest.”

  “I’m doing this because my feet are aching.”

  With a sigh, Michael sat beside her. “I know what you’re about.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  He shook his head but did not press the issue, which told her more than she needed to know. He was tired.

  “What is your favorite exhibit so far?” she asked.

  “The Roman.”

  “I enjoyed the dinosaurs. Imagine such massive creatures walking in the very spot we are sitting.”

  “Thank goodness they are no longer, or they would smash us.”

  “Lord Ashworth?”

  Both Grace and Michael looked up to find a man coming toward them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The man approaching them was shorter than Michael and had thinning light brown hair. He wore an ill-fitting frock coat and his trousers were too short.

  “It is you,” he said, stopping in front of them. “I thought it was from afar but couldn’t be certain.”

  Michael and Grace both rose. Michael shot her a veiled look, but she saw the panic in his eyes. He had no idea who this person was, and Grace was no help, for she had never met the man.

  The man nodded to Grace. “My lady.”

  Grace nodded back. Without knowing his name, she had no idea how to address him, and Michael was obviously of no help.

  The man looked at Michael expectantly, his smile dimming when the silence grew to uncomfortable proportions. He cleared his throat. “You…you don’t remember me?” he asked.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Michael said, his voice strained.

  The man shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. It’s been a while, and we all thought you were dead.” He glanced at Grace, then back at Michael, before straightening his shoulders. “I’m Sergeant Charles Trumbull. I served under you in the Crimea.”

  Grace wanted to recoil. She wanted to walk away from this man who had left her husband to die on a battlefield. She wanted to rail at him for being so heartless, but she held her tongue. You can’t pass judgment, Grace. You don’t know what battle is like. Still, it was very difficult not to judge.

  Michael narrowed his eyes in thought. “I seem to recall a Trumbull. Yes, yes, I remember now.”

  The man’s face brightened. “I’m so pleased you are well. We were all devastated when we learned…when we thought…” He shifted and glanced away.

  Another awkward silence descended. What else was there to say? She was certain Michael remembered nothing more than the man’s name, if he even remembered that. And what do you say to someone who escaped unscathed when you were still struggling with your injuries?

  “I’m pleased you made it back home, Sergeant,” Michael said.

  The man bobbed his head, but his expression was serious. “It was a bloody farce, it was. The battle, that is. We never should have attacked. It was a mistake. I heard that later from some of the men. A miscommunication from the officers above. We weren’t meant to attack.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” Michael said, then shot a pointed glance at Grace.

  Realizing that the discussion of war was not appropriate in the presence of a lady, Trumbull looked chagrined. “My pardon, my lady. I’m just so overjoyed to see you, Captain.”

  “Are you enjoying the exhibition?” Michael asked.

  “Oh, yes. It’s the third time I’ve been. Each time I see something new. Have you seen the Byzantine display? It’s most remarkable.”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t made it that far.”

  Grace shot Michael a surprised look, for the Byzantine display was one of the first they had visited.

  Trumbull stepped back. “Then I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your visit and…Well, it’s good to see you again, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Trumbull.”

  It seemed as if Trumbull’s visit had left a shroud of darkness over their afternoon. The playfulness was gone. Grace looked around at the vendors and the people. The magic had disappeared. The glass that allowed the sun to shine in made it unbearably hot, and the echoing voices seemed louder than they had when they first entered.

  “Shall we visit the Byzantines?” Michael asked.

  “We already have.”

  Michael blinked. “Pardon?”

  “We already viewed the Byzantine display, Michael.”

  He looked off in the distance as if mentally reviewing the displays they’d visited. “I don’t remember it.”

  “It was one of the first ones we saw.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  She described the display as Michael listened with an intent look. “Why don’t I remember? It was only a few hours ago, but it’s as if it never happened at all.”

  Grace’s heart felt heavy at the not so gentle reminder that Michael was battling an injury that neither of them could see. It was a silent enemy that stole Michael’s memory and sometimes his ability to speak.

  She hated it. She hated Trumbull for walking away from the battle and leaving his captain. She hated the horse that had trampled Michael. She hated the injury that had brought him so low and that he could not fight adequately.

  “How about an ice cream?�
� he asked with forced levity.

  They ate their ice cream out of pink and white glasses as they watched the people walk by.

  “Do you remember the battle?” She’d never asked him about the event that had almost ended everything, but now, after meeting Trumbull and hearing his part of the story, she was more curious than ever.

  “I remember bits of that day. I remember waking up in the morning. I remember waiting for our orders. I remember the soldiers talking among themselves. Tension was high, and they were all nervous.”

  “What do you remember next?”

  “Fixing my shirt.”

  She paused, her spoon of melting ice cream halfway to her mouth. “Pardon?”

  “I remember trying to…to…” He looked down at his shirt and tapped his button. “What is this called?”

  “A button?”

  “Yes, I was attempting to button my shirt. I was so frustrated that I couldn’t do a simple thing such as dress myself, and I couldn’t figure out why.”

  “How long after the battle was this?”

  “Three weeks.”

  She put her spoon down. “You lost three weeks of your memory?”

  “Yes.” He’d pushed his own ice cream away and left it to melt in a pool of sunshine.

  “Where were you when you were attempting to button your shirt?”

  “I was in Tarik’s tent, and he was sitting before me, watching me. I’m afraid I wasn’t gracious.”

  “How so?”

  “I yelled. At him. At me. At the buttons. At everything. He tried to explain what had happened, but I didn’t believe him. I called him a liar.” He winced. “Like I said, I wasn’t very gracious.”

  “You were confused.”

  “There was such anger in me that I couldn’t control it. I lashed out at everything. Walking was nearly impossible. I could only walk a few steps at a time. It took a long while to dress myself, but Tarik made me do it every day and refused to help me. Sometimes it took multiple attempts to button my shirt. I could never align the buttons with the correct buttonholes.”

  The ice cream in her stomach felt as if it were curdling. She wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry. She’d never thought it possible to weep on the inside.