Chapter 22
Ana was having a simply awful night. Comfortably settled in bed as she was, she could not seem to fall asleep.
Perhaps it had been the Roscón de Reyes cake that Peter had surprised her with late in the evening.
Eating sugar near her regular time of retiring had never done her any good.
Or perhaps it was her silly reaction to Peter’s earlier jest about secrets.
He had been trying to flirt with her, hadn’t he?
And she had made a grand old mess of it all.
Regardless of the reason, sleep was evading her continuously, much as Peter had attempted to evade her silly costumes and jests. But this situation was much less humorous. The later the hour, the weaker her resolve grew to block fearsome memories from her mind.
Out of doors, a rainstorm progressed ever fiercer.
Thunder caused the house to tremble and the glass panes to rattle.
Ana’s body tensed as she held yet another pillow over her head in an attempt to drown out the sound.
Why must the storm sound so much like the gunfire and bomb explosions of the battlefield?
Another crash was accompanied by splitting lightning that cast her room in foreboding shadows.
Ana jumped at it, whimpering, and in her wild movements, she slammed her elbow into the thick wood of the headboard.
She moaned. Would she ever be blessed with sleep tonight?
A few more minutes passed, and when thunder pounded in her ears again, tears slipped down her cheeks.
In her exhaustion, she could not separate the storm outside from the violent dreams that tortured her.
She could smell the ash, hear the screams, feel the ripping of her dress . . .
Then a knock cut through the noise of the battlefield. That certainly seemed out of place. Sure enough, it sounded again, soft but insistent, at the door adjoining her rooms to Peter’s. Ana latched onto the sound, begging it to pull her from the horrors that were running through her mind.
“Ana? Are you all right?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks even harder. She opened her mouth but couldn’t form words; instead, a cry emitted from her throat. It had been months since she’d been plagued by night terrors.
An instant later, the door swung open, and Peter strode to the side of her bed.
His nightshirt hung open, exposing the shadows of a muscled chest, even in the dim light.
Clearly he had not had time to pull on the additional cover of a nightgown or banyan.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes, breathing heavily.
“I have been hearing you all night. I cannot stand the sound of your cries anymore.”
Ana heated with embarrassment, which worsened at the intimacy of Peter’s lack of dress. Humiliation lit upon her skin, burning over its surface until it roared like a great fire in her belly.
“Lo siento for disturbing you. I am so sorry . . .”
“I am not bothered in the slightest by your noises, or by being awoken. But I cannot abide the thought of you suffering alone while I am right next to you.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Please allow me to help you.”
“Hold me please.” Ana sniffed and held out her arms.
“Here?” Peter sat at her side, but it was clear by the way that his eyes kept darting back to his room that he was not comfortable in Ana’s space. Curious. But her head was pounding. She desperately needed sleep and didn’t want to deliberate any longer.
“I go with you. I need to feel safe.”
Peter scooped her up. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking around, before he carried her to his room. She sighed heavily, letting her eyes, so heavy with exhaustion, fall closed at last. His warmth, his closeness, was the only thing that could stop the pounding of her heart.
* * *
Ana woke up in the most stunning bed she had ever seen.
Rich mahogany wood shone with hues of red and copper, swirling into four intricate posts that nearly touched the ceiling.
The mattress was supportive but deliciously soft, the yielding beneath her indicating modern and luxurious rope supports below.
Numerous blankets swirled around her in soft textures and delicate patterns.
But the most comforting feature of all was the presence of Peter beside her. She was tucked into his side, her cheek resting upon his chest as his arm circled her back and waist, pulling her to him. Ana felt entirely safe, more than she ever had before.
“Buen día,” he whispered above her.
Ana rose on one elbow, turning her head to meet Peter’s eyes. His cheek was lined with the mark of her hair, and his eyes were squinted from sleep. And he had never looked so handsome.
“Welcome to my room.” Peter’s cheeks reddened adorably as he cast her a sheepish smile.
Ana gazed about the space. It was all so beautiful. And so decidedly feminine. More graceful details greeted her in the form of dried floral bouquets, gilded candelabras, various leather-bound books, and a large painting of a young mother and two rosy-cheeked boys. Then it dawned on her.
“This was your mother’s room, verdad?”
“Yes. It is foolish of me that I didn’t have you stay in here from our first night.”
“With you?” Ana’s cheeks heated, and her breath caught in her throat.
Had he really desired her closeness all this time?
She would admit that the feeling of waking alongside his warm, comforting body was one she had relished.
Perhaps they had made a mistake in taking to their separate rooms for so long.
But when she looked upward, Peter’s cheeks were brighter than her own.
“I didn’t mean to imply . . . that is, I would never insist upon your company .
. . unless you were willing. Although I certainly have no complaints about your being in my bed this morning.
” His cheeks were flaming now, and Ana found he would not meet her eyes.
“I meant to say that from the beginning, I should have offered you this room instead of my father’s.
This one is certainly more feminine and perhaps more suited to your tastes, although it is quite English, is it not?
“My room does not bother me, Pedro. But is there a reason why you feel more comfortable here? In the room of your mamá?”
Peter began to tap his hands nervously on the bedclothes. Ana was certain that if he weren’t comfortably tucked in next to her, he would be pacing the room. It seemed he was always moving when something was troubling him.
“Qué?” she pressed. “What is it?”
“Your rooms used to be my father’s. And although he rarely came here, I still had no desire to be connected to a space that used to belong to him, not when I am also trying to determine how to be the sort of husband and father that I want to be.”
“Did your Papá spend much time here?”
Peter tilted his head in thought. “In all honesty, I don’t remember him ever coming here.
But Mother always wanted to keep his rooms prepared if he did decide to appear.
At the beginning, the three of us lived in constant fear that he would descend upon us.
Although I don’t believe he was bothered in the least by our absence.
He had Heathridge Hall to himself for all sorts of diversions. ”
It all made sense now. His reluctance to spend time in her rooms. His enthusiasm at her desire to redecorate her dressing room.
His private nature when it came to the time he spent in his own rooms each morning.
Clearly it was somewhat of a haven for him, a safe space.
But if he felt so about a mere room that his mother had once occupied, why didn’t he want to spend more time with Lady Ashmore?
Of course, they had been hiding Ana’s condition for a few months, but now that Lady Ashmore knew, perhaps they could travel to see her more often.
If it would bring peace to Peter’s heart, Ana desired that it be done.
“Pedro,” Ana spoke, her voice quavering slightly. “You are not your father, just as I am not my mother.”
“I know.” His arm tightened around Ana’s waist, pulling her in closer to him.
“And your being with me in this room helps me to feel even more sure of that.” He traced circles on the delicate skin of her upper arm, sending delicious tingles racing up her neck.
Ana had to stifle a sigh of contentment.
She never wanted the affection that was flourishing between them to wilt.
But Peter’s continued touch made Ana foolishly bold.
“Entonces, quizás I should sleep here with you, no? If you would be happier.”
Peter’s fingers froze. Ana’s heart dropped.
“I’m so sorry. I speak my mind too fast, no?”
Had she jumped to a conclusion that he was not yet ready to make?
To share a room with her husband was no small feat .
. . it was something Ana had once feared she might never do.
But their shared kisses and soft words had transformed the trust between them into something more delicate, more valuable.
They were a great distance from the formalities of their original marriage those months ago.
The closeness between them was new but increasingly precious.
And Ana found that she wanted more. She knew she could trust him to care for her so completely.
She propped her elbow beneath her so she could look into his face. His brow was not scrunched in frustration, his jaw not set in distress. Instead, his eyes were wide and clear, a new, shimmering emotion visible there that made Ana want to cry or kiss him senseless. Or both.
“Please do,” he said, his voice low and vulnerable. “I would like nothing more than that.”
A rush of satisfaction accompanied by a warm anticipation spread through Ana’s chest.
“Bueno. I will.” Ana shifted upward and kissed his cheek, lingering in his warmth and closeness.
When she drew away, it was only just. Being so close to him, she could see every fleck of scruff on his cheeks, could trace the perfect sharpness of his jawline, could memorize the many shades of blue in his eyes—eyes which were flicking back and forth between her gaze and her lips.
“I thought this was already a calming space, but now, with you here, it is incomparably peaceful. Perhaps we could make a nice morning routine together. We could study the Bible together when we wake. It would help my Spanish and your English.”
“And we can take breakfast in bed together?”
“Of course. So long as I am allowed to remain here, close at your side, we can do whatever you wish. Although I may find it much harder to leave my rooms each morning and go about my responsibilities.” Peter chuckled and shifted, rolling onto his side so their faces were aligned, but his hands did not leave her waist. Ana was suddenly, delightfully aware of the firmness of his embrace, the heat of his gaze and his touch.
“Yo también. Me too,” she whispered without moving a single inch.
Her eyes were trained on his mouth, her lips parting involuntarily.
The few kisses they had shared had been delicious, incandescent.
How she wished he would kiss her every day.
She leaned in closer, her lips barely floating above his.
He was breathing fast now, each breath warming her face, and his hand was searing as it cupped her jaw and threaded through her hair, pulling her face to his.
His lips enveloped hers in a gentle but insistent motion, each kiss further convincing her that she would never sleep without him again.
Ana sighed in delight. If she had known her husband could kiss her with such passion, she would have married him much sooner.
Ana began to return his kisses now, her lips slow but firm as they explored.
She laced her arms around his neck, pulling herself as close to him as the rounding of her middle would allow.
But instead of melting into her embrace, Peter froze, a shadow in his eyes. Fear? Hesitation? Desire?
Then without warning, he leapt backward out of bed, tangling himself in the bedclothes and falling in a great heap onto the floor. The jug of water on his bedside table bumped against his Bible, teetered at the disturbance, and wobbled ever more uncontrollably.
“Pedro!” Ana dove for the jug but to no avail. It was already careening over the edge, landing upside down in Peter’s grasping hands, entirely dousing him with water. He sputtered and gasped, surprise written across his face.
Ana squealed with laughter as she fumbled with the covers in an effort to escape the large bed and assist her husband. She took the jug from his hands, replacing it on the bedside table.
A knock came at the door, “Mr. Ashmore, are you all right in there?” called Elena.
Ana and Peter froze simultaneously. Peter raised a finger to his lips, indicating that they remain quiet. The staff hadn’t the faintest idea that she had spent the night in his rooms.
“Hush now, he’s with his lady, you know. Leave them be,” said Mrs. Thompson in her nasally whisper.
Or apparently they did. What sort of grand teasing would they be in for today?
Ana’s side ached, her eyes still blurred from her tear-inducing laughter, as she rose to her feet.
Peter stood, his night shirt plastered to his muscular form as he shook drops of water from his hair.
The wetness of his shirt revealed not only the strength of his chest and arms but also a series of scars laced across his shoulder and neck.
At the sight, Ana felt it incredibly difficult to breathe.
“Estás bien?” she asked, her voice abnormally, annoyingly high, and she bit her lip in some effort to calm herself.
Peter stepped forward to where Ana was bent over the side of the bed, his eyes simmering with amusement and some other emotion that made Ana feel as if she would melt completely under his gaze. Then he leaned his head toward her, barely hovering over her mouth.
“I am better than I have ever been before.”
Ana could feel his whisper against her mouth.
She licked her lips and held her breath, waiting for him to fall into the bed again and warm her mouth with his.
But his mouth moved away. It flipped into a teasing smile and glanced against her cheek instead.
Ana groaned, collapsing backward against her pillow as Peter started for his outer clothes.
“And with that, my dear wife, I will take my leave of you.”