He fell asleep searching for a word . . .
They made love once more in the stillness of the night, a short, intense, desperate coupling that left him sweating, exhausted, sated, and yet unsatisfied.
This time she fell asleep on top of him, her arms and legs still wrapped around him, and his arms locked around her, unwilling to let go.
The cold fingers of dawn were stealing into the cottage when she woke him a third time, running her hands over him so softly he woke gradually, as if floating to the surface of a very deep lake.
He was still only half awake when he entered her, every movement slow, as if in a dream, but the chill morning air licked at his flanks like a hungry wolf He would never forget the expression on her face as she loved him quietly, tenderly, with hands and mouth and body. Asking for nothing, giving all.
They came together in a shattering climax, the like of which he’d never experienced, the aftermath a piercing bitter-sweetness, like sweet wine cut with salt.
Nash held her against him as the sweat dried on him, unwilling to move. Still joined in the most elemental way, their limbs tangled, their breathing now quiet, seemingly at peace. But something niggled at him, an expression he’d glimpsed in her eyes in the cool dawn light. Familiar, but elusive.
He worried at it, as a tongue worries at a sore tooth, repeatedly, but to no effect.
Eventually she straightened and disentangled herself from him. “Time to go,” she whispered. “The children will be waking in an hour or so. They’ve already said their good-byes. It would be best if you were gone before they come down for breakfast.” She kissed him to soften the implacability in her words and in her eyes, and gave him a little push.
She reached down and grabbed her nightgown from the floor and pulled it over her head with a shiver and said, “Do you want breakfast?”
“No.” He was ravenous, but the expression in her eyes, the brightness in her voice disturbed him.
He rose and dressed swiftly, aware all the time of the way she watched his every movement. She helped him tie his ruined boot on with black ribbons, a leftover from her days in mourning, she said, and though he knew it must look ridiculous, he didn’t give it more than a passing thought.
She was all he could think of, too quiet for comfort, her glorious brandy eyes avoiding his for the most part. Once he’d caught a glimpse of, what . . . grief? Anger? Regret? Just a brief flicker that passed too quickly for him to interpret.
But it niggled at him, too.
For two pins, he’d climb back into bed with her and kiss every look from her eyes except ecstasy, but when he took a step toward her, she flung up a hand as if to ward him off.
Was it because he’d taken her virginity? Was she worried about pregnancy? “If you find you are with child—”
“Don’t worry.” She hurried to the door, opened it, and smiled, a wide smile that was meant to reassure, but unsettled him even more, and said, “You must go now.”
He hesitated, portmanteau in hand. “I’m only going up the road.”
“I know.”
“Whitethorn is maybe an hour’s walk or fifteen minutes on horseback from here.”
“I know.”
“So this is not good-bye, just . . . good morning.” The first in what he hoped would be many such good mornings. “I’ll be there for several weeks at least,” he told her.
She nodded, biting her lip, her eyes luminous.
“And even though I must return to Russia next month . . .” Suddenly he didn’t know what to say. “It’s not good-bye,” he repeated firmly.
“I know.” Her voice hitched. She gave a quick smile—he was sure it wobbled—raised herself on tiptoes, and kissed him again, a slow, lingering caress. A definite blasted good-bye, Nash thought.
He responded by ravishing her mouth possessively, almost savagely, determined to show her he had no intention of abandoning her.
What the hell was she thinking?
He was usually quite good at reading people’s expressions, divining their thoughts and feelings—it was an asset in his work—but apart from a brief, blind look in her eyes as he released her, he could read nothing in her face as she stepped back. “God keep you safe, Nash Renfrew,” she whispered and pushed him gently out the door.
She closed it behind him and he heard the bolt’s slow slide.
He tramped along the frosty path toward the vicarage where his horse was stabled. What the devil had got into her?
