“Did you expect me to wait on a dead man?” she exploded.
“I may be dead inside, but I’m more than alive enough for you.” He gripped her chin and covered her mouth with his.
Desire ripped through her like brushfire, lighting every nerve from the inside out. His teeth on her lips, his hands in her hair, his mouth claiming hers—this was what she had wanted. What she had feared. What she desperately needed.
Her tongue met his. Sparring. Mating. She reached for him, drowning in the delight of soft linen over hard muscle.
His body was hot to the touch. Strange and familiar. He tasted like Edmund, smelled like Edmund, felt like second chances. He kissed her as if she were as indispensable as air. As though his every heartbeat belonged as much to her as it did to him.
She’d lost a part of herself when she’d thought he’d died. Having him back was marvelous, but having his lips on hers was like having life again. She was no longer tired, but electrified. Her body thrummed with yearning, with anticipation, with desire. She wanted more than kisses—she wanted him.
His fingers reached for her waist. Not her waist. Her soft, loose flesh.
She jerked away instinctively.
He released her at once, leaping backward as if she were a grenade whose detonation would destroy them both.
Perhaps she was.
“My apologies,” he said, his voice as stiff as his posture. “I lost my head. It shall not be repeated.”
That’s what she was afraid of.
She turned her back so that she would not have to see him walk away.
Chapter 13
A fortnight later, Edmund was still cursing the moment of weakness, the moment of intense want, that had made him crush his lips to his wife’s. She had obviously been far from ready. He had vowed not to pressure her. To never make her feel hunted or frightened.
And now she was more skittish than ever.
He tried to give her space to heal, to get used to having a husband and children. She was adamant against hiring nannies or wet nurses, which was why he spent an hour every afternoon in the nursery, up to his elbows in baby bathwater while Sarah caught a few moments’ sleep.
Despite her subtly disapproving frowns, the housekeeper always lent a capable hand—she, at least, saw the value in a live-in nanny—and Edmund had come to cherish these moments spent with his sons.
He wanted to be useful. To be needed.
He was neither.
Edmund had not birthed the babies. He could not nurse them. His wife did not want for his assistance. Bathing them was something Edmund could do. Helping whenever possible was how he could be a good father to his children, a good husband to his wife. To buy her an hour’s peace before it was time for feedings all over again. These were the moments when he felt things had perhaps worked out exactly as they were supposed to.
Until today.
Yesterday, the housekeeper had left for Leeds. Mrs. Clark hadn’t had a spare moment since Edmund had returned home, so when one of her parents had fallen ill, he could scarcely demand she eschew familial obligations in favor of helping a brigadier bathe a pair of twins. She would return in less than a week’s time. Edmund would simply have to handle things in the meantime.
It wasn’t going well.
The twins had been awake (and their mother asleep) when Edmund had first sent for the tub and warm water. The footman had fetched everything upstairs with his usual alacrity, yet the twins had still managed to fall asleep before they could be bathed.
Unless they’d learned to playact.
Edmund hated to wake them—the ornery devils were quite angelic in slumber—but Sarah never napped for long. This was his sole opportunity to ease her load.
So he’d inched over to the cradle and began to undress Noah.
Upon doing so, Timothy immediately started to shrill from the other cradle, giving credence to the idea that they had known Edmund was there all along and simply had no wish to be clean and bathed.
Edmund set down Noah and started with Timothy instead, which unfortunately served to set both boys howling. He strode over to the tub and lowered the protesting infant’s feet into basin, only to get a snootful of cold, soapy water splashed directly into his face.
The water had cooled while his imps had feigned sleep. Naturally.
He shook the suds from his hair and carried Timothy—now gurgling with delight—back to his cradle so Edmund could ring the footman for a bucket of hot water.
In the meantime, Edmund yanked off his cravat, his pocket watch, his waistcoat. If his sons intended to fight dirty, a soldier ought to be prepared. He crossed his arms over his waist and hiked his bath-splattered linen shirt up and over his head.
“What on Earth is happening in here?”
Edmund whirled about to see his wife standing in the open doorway. “I…”
“What happened?” she repeated in horror. This time, she was not looking at his discarded clothing, but rather the network of corded scars crisscrossing his chest and arms.
He put his shirt back on. “Waterloo.”
Her lip trembled. “Edmund—”
“Fresh water,” called the footman as he heaved two steaming buckets into the nursery. “Quite hot.”
Edmund pulled Sarah to his side.
After the footman dumped the first bucket into the tub, Edmund stopped him in order to test the water. He didn’t want it cold, but nor did he want it scalding. “Leave the extra bucket. We may have use for it later.”
The footman nodded and quit the nursery.
Sarah turned to Edmund and placed her fingertips to his chest. “Your scars…”
“We should hurry,” he said roughly. “Let’s get our sons bathed and back into their warm clothes.”
It was the right choice. The only choice. And yet his entire traitorous body felt bereft when her warm fingers lifted from his chest as she turned away.
“Will they both fit into the tub at the same time?” she asked as she moved toward Noah’s cradle.
He glanced at the tub. It was certainly large enough for two small infants. “Mrs. Clark and I usually do one at a time.”
Come to think of it, Edmund had no idea why. It would seem more efficient to bathe both at once, and be done faster. No need to muck with water temperature and the like.
“You take Noah,” he said. “I’ll grab Timothy.”
She began to push the baby’s blanket aside, then shot a startled look at Edmund. “Where are his clothes?”
Edmund’s neck heated.. “I was going to bathe him, but he’d fallen asleep and then the water grew chill… We should hasten, so the same doesn’t happen anew.”
He pushed up his sleeves and turned to the other cradle. Timothy blinked up at him innocently. A smile curved Edmund’s lips. “Your mother is joining us for baths today, so none of your tricks, little man.”
The moment he unwrapped the blankets swaddling his naked son, Edmund covered the baby’s naked middle with a clean, folded cloth—which Timothy immediately soaked with warm urine.
“Ha. Caught you.” Edmund tossed the soiled cloth onto a waiting towel in the corner. He lifted Timothy into his arms and turned toward Sarah—just in time to see Noah let loose over the cradle with an impressive arc of baby piss.
Sarah leapt backward just as Edmund darted forward with another square of clean, folded cloth to block the flow. In seconds, it was over.
She turned to him with wide, shocked eyes. “Why did he…”
His lips twitched. No coarse language in front of the infants limited the ability to discuss the fountain of baby piss that had just arced halfway across the room.
“’Twasn’t you, darling. It’s one of their favorite bath-time games. Something about the cool air on their naked… berries,” he substituted at the last second.
Sarah’s cheeks turned red with embarrassment for only a moment before she bit back a giggle and cast a suspicious eye on the cradle. “Is he going to do it again?”
“Not if we make haste.”
Grinning, Edmund carried Timothy over to the tub and knelt to the floor. Now that the babies were almost six weeks old, their heads no longer wobbled unsteadily as they’d done when first born. Nonetheless, Edmund was careful to support the back of Timothy’s neck until the baby was safely propped on the floor of the tub.
Clear warm water lapped at the baby’s bare chest. Timothy’s chubby little hands slapped at the surface as he gurgled happily.
Edmund’s smile softened as Sarah knelt on the other side in order to gently place Noah in the opposite end of the basin. Edmund’s gaze softened. Earlier, he had believed that there was nothing better than the pride of doing something helpful for his wife whilst enabling her to snatch some much-deserved sleep. He enjoyed the time spent with his sons.
As it happened, he enjoyed spending time with his sons and his wife together even more.
“Do I have piddle in my hair?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with laughter above her flushed cheeks.
“Not much,” he assured her with a straight face. “You look almost becoming.”
She flicked water at him. “Rogue. You look like a disheveled mess.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly. “Decades from now, when our children ask how I fell in love with their mother, I’ll say ’twas her sweet, gentle compliments during bath-time, and her fleetness of foot whilst dodging a flow of—”
She burst out laughing and began to soap Noah. “I suspect the three of you will keep me quite entertained for the rest of my life.”
Edmund’s stomach sank. Rather than reply, he concentrated on washing Timothy.
As he had learned so acutely, the rest of their lives was something that could not be counted upon. Perhaps they would live to be eighty. Or perhaps the entire family would contract smallpox upon the morrow. He no longer had faith in the next year, in the next sunrise. The future was uncertain and unpromised. He would enjoy this moment, every moment, spent with Sarah and his sons. Every minute was a gift to be cherished. While it lasted.
In moments like these, with his wrinkled linen shirt streaked with bathwater and his wife’s twinkling eyes meeting his over a tub full of two wiggling infants, he couldn’t help but believe he was the most fortunate man alive.
Unfortunately, the bathwater would not stay warm forever, so he lifted Timothy from the tub as soon as he was clean. Edmund wrapped his son in a towel before carrying him to his cradle to be changed into a fresh gown. The baby would sleep peacefully. His eyelids were already drowsing as Edmund tucked the blanket about him.
He turned at the sound of wet bubbles and his wife’s snickers.
“It’s Noah,” she said as if trying not to giggle. “He made wind in the water and was so startled, his eyes just—”
“Get him out. Get him out!” Edmund raced over to the tub just as a cloud of mustard color spread from behind the baby’s legs and instantly saturated the entire basin.
Sarah froze in place, a strangled cry emanating from her pallid throat. What had once been clean bathwater was now a clotted cloud of yellow-orange muck, lapping at her fingers and the baby’s chest like waves at a putrid shore. The blood drained from her face as she scrambled to her feet to hold her dripping, gurgling infant well above the soiled tub below.
Edmund raced forward with a clean towel spread wide in a flag of surrender just in time to block flying droplets as his infant son began to kick and gurgle with glee.
“We cannot just dry him off,” said Sarah as she relinquished the dripping baby to Edmund. “He needs to be bathed anew.” She glanced down at her wet fingers. “As do I.”
“I’ll be quick.” Edmund knelt between the tub and the last bucket of water the footman had left in the nursery. Steam no longer rose from the water inside, but it was clean and that was all that mattered.
He lay his swaddled baby upon an unfolded towel. This time, he did not place the child anywhere near the water, but instead dipped the corners of a fresh towel into the last bucket and rewashed his son from the torso down.
Noah having already done his business, the process went quickly. In no time, Edmund scooped him back up to return him to his cradle.
While Edmund ensured both infants were in their sleeping gowns and tucked in safe and warm, Sarah was over at the bucket, scrubbing her hands with the last of the clean water.
Noah’s eyes drowsed. Timothy was already fast asleep. The excitement had ended.
Edmund sank heavily into a rocking chair and rested his head against the curved wooden back. Sarah eased into the rocking chair next to him, her face still pale, but the corners of her mouth twitching.
She glanced around the nursery—empty bucket, dirty tub, discarded waistcoat, mountains of used cloths, waterlogged parents, sleeping infants—and met Edmund’s eyes.
They both burst out laughing.
He leaned forward to steal a quick kiss from her smiling mouth before taking her hand in his and leaning back against his chair to rock in exhausted silence, hand-in-hand with his wife.
“We’re doing fine, aren’t we?” Her soft question did not sound worried, but rather slightly mystified. As if not until this very moment had she had a moment to reflect on how different their lives had become—and how well they had adapted to the new changes.
He squeezed her hand. “We’re better than fine. We’re a family.”
It was true. Peace spread through his tired body. They were a family.
“We almost weren’t,” Sarah said quietly, her eyes downcast. “Not just because of Waterloo. Because of me. Because I was going to marry—”
He stopped rocking to look her in the eyes. “You were the commander of your own war. Sometimes the hard choice is the right choice. I shall never blame you for doing everything within your power to ensure the safety of our children.”
She bit her lip. “About Ravenwood…”
A flash of jealousy bit through him. Edmund pulled her onto his lap before she could finish whatever she’d been about to say. “I don’t care about Ravenwood. You both did what you thought was right, in the circumstances that you were given.” He cupped her cheek with his hand. “I don’t care about the past. It’s over.”
She nodded and lay her head against his shoulder. Despite the events of the afternoon, her soft brown hair still carried the scent of her subtle perfume.
“How can you not care about the past?” she asked quietly. “It’s all I ever think about. That, and how I’m going to manage the future.”
His eyes closed. “The only thing that matters is that we have each other now.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and wrapped his arms about his wife.
At last, he felt like he’d come home.
Chapter 14
The following morning at the breakfast table, Edmund’s wife brought up the one topic he most wished to avoid.
The Duke of Ravenwood.
“We don’t need to talk about it,” he said again, hoping to stop her before she listed the many obvious ways a marriage to Ravenwood would have been an improvement over her current situation. Edmund had just started feeling like he had a family again. A future. He didn’t want to think about what he might have taken from Sarah to get them there.
“You don’t have to talk about it.” She set down her teacup and saucer. “But I do think you should listen.”
Edmund’s stomach soured. He might love Sarah until his last breath, but his devotion couldn’t purchase sprawling estates and retinues of maids, footmen, modistes, nannies, and governesses in a number large enough to rival an army. He couldn’t give her that. All he could give her was himself.
He pushed his plate away. “Say what you think you need to say.”
She took a deep breath. “I was desperate—”
“I know you were desperate. I never meant—”
“You’re not letting me talk.” She clasped her hands together and regarded them for a long moment.
He did his best not to interrupt. Or
to wish his tea was brandy.
“The day you died, I died too.” Her gaze lifted and met his. “You were everything to me. My heart. My hope. The world that I loved was now bleak. It seemed there was little to live for. And then I missed my first menses.”
His muscles flinched. He could not imagine what that must have been like. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.
“Joy,” she said softly. “Terror. I still had a part of you… but what was I to do now? You were dead. I was on my own—but not for long. The sands were slipping through the hourglass faster than I could catch them. In a scant nine months, I would bear a child. But my belly would betray my condition even faster. I did not have the two things I needed most… You, and time.”
He shifted uncomfortably. Being left for dead was not his fault. But he was absolutely to blame for not taking obvious precautions whilst debauching his betrothed.
That night in Bruges… He had missed her for so long. Wanted her so badly he could barely think about anything other than making her his. His blood had raced every time he so much as thought her name.
Much like now. He couldn’t even sit across from her at a breakfast table without thinking about the scent of her skin, the soft silk of her hair. He dreamed every night about the taste of her kisses, the sound of her breath catching as he plunged himself into her hot, tight—
He gripped the edges of his chair and forced his clattering heart to slow. This was how he’d ruined everything in Bruges. He would not allow his ardor to ruin their marriage. Sarah needed time, not passionate advances. For all that was holy, his wife was still thinking about Ravenwood.
She had chosen Edmund. He had to make certain she didn’t regret it.
Starting with letting her tell her story.
“Whose idea was it?” he blurted, then immediately ground his teeth together. He didn’t want to know. She was his now. The past was over.
Her voice shook. “My parents wanted me to slip away to the country and give the baby to a nice orphanage.”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 61
