Chapter Fourteen
That night, Abigail found sleep elusive.
After tossing and turning for more than an hour, she climbed out of bed, pulled a robe over her white nightgown, and padded barefoot downstairs to the library where she soon lost herself in the pages of a book on the practical applications of herbal remedies.
Outside, a bright half-moon reflected a silvery crescent trail across freshly fallen snow while within the shadowed confines of the library the fire cast a warm, orangey glow.
It was blissfully silent, a distinct contrast from the loud dinner that had taken place only a few hours before with Kitty, Mara, and Jack dominating much of the boisterous conversation.
A log fell in the hearth, shooting out a series of crackling sparks that disguised the sound of a doorknob turning.
Her attention devoted solely to the pages of the thick, leatherbound tome resting on her lap, Abigail failed to detect a second presence in the room until she saw a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye.
On a gasp, her head shot up, the book nearly tumbling to the floor when Stephen prowled into view.
His hair was disheveled and a grainy layer of bristle clung to the sharp outline of his jaw, indicating that he, too, had found sleep to be an improbable notion.
He must have been in short supply of robes, however, because the only clothes on his person were a pair of cotton breeches that rode sinfully low on his navel, leaving his chiseled abdomen, broad chest, and muscular arms on full display.
Her gasp turning into a squeak, Abigail raised the heavy book in front of her face. “What . . . ah . . . what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing? In my own house? Enjoying the quiet that seems to be in rare supply these days,” he said dryly. “What are you doing? It’s a bit late for research.”
“This isn’t research,” she said, her voice muffled. “I’m reading for my own enjoyment.”
“Ancient Herbal Remedies and Their Practical Modern Uses is enjoyable?”
“Very. Did you know that chamomile, when boiled, can ease a variety of symptoms including poor digestion, anxieties, and inflammation?” She spoke quickly, each word tumbling over the last as she struggled to keep her focus on the words right in front of her and away from the half-naked husband ten feet away from her.
“I can think of another way to reduce inflammation.”
“Yes, turmeric, when ground, is very useful—”
“I wasn’t talking about turmeric.” His shadow rippled across the shelves as he came closer and her breath lodged in her throat when he gently pried the book from her trembling hands. A frown caught in the corners of his mouth. “Are you cold? You’re shaking.”
“No,” she said softly, her gaze pinned to the golden firelight dancing across the rigid plane of his stomach. “I’m not cold.”
If anything, she was too hot. A simmering heat that erupted into a blaze when he grasped her chin while simultaneously pressing his knee on the velvet seat of the chaise longue she’d selected specifically in the event she became drowsy and fell asleep .
. . not considering the other activity that could be conducted on such a long, wide piece of furniture.
She waited for him to say something.
But what else was there to be said, except . . .
“You should lock the door,” she whispered.
His eyes flashed a dark, deep copper before he abruptly turned and did exactly that, the loud click of the lock sliding into place causing her nipples to harden even before she let her robe slip from her shoulders and the sudden rush of cool air raised the fine hairs on her arms.
“Goddess,” he said with somber reverence, unraveling a blush that stained her skin pink from the apples of her cheeks to the slant of her collarbones.
Returning to the chaise longue, he grasped her calves, his hands sliding under the lace hem of her nightgown as he guided her legs onto the cushion, stretching her body out beneath him as if she were a sumptuous feast to be devoured . . . and he was a man half starved.
Crouching at the foot of the chaise longue, he helped her remove her nightgown before kissing his way up to her mouth, taking a leisurely path that skimmed his lips across her knee, up the side of her thigh, onto the curve of her hip, and to the ticklish bars of her ribs that elicited a breathless giggle before taking a detour at her breasts, turning her laughter into a moan when he drew a taut peak into his mouth and swirled his tongue in a slow, tantalizing circle.
Another ember snapped in the hearth as Abigail arched her spine, shamelessly offering herself up to the husband she’d spent three years evading.
And why? In that second, in that moment, in that breathy mewl of helpless need, she hadn’t the faintest idea why she would ever have run from him. Why she would ever have run from this.
Science dictated that animals mate for necessity, their breeding habits predetermined to continue the species.
Humans were the only mammals that engaged in sexual intercourse for pleasure, which was why she’d never held the act in high regard as it flaunted the rules of nature.
But in this single theory, with evidence collected from carriages and a bedroom in Connecticut, she was ready to admit that she had been wrong.
Very, very wrong.
There may have been no scientific reason for engaging in copious amounts of lovemaking, but that didn’t make it any less of a necessity.
The act of being loved by Stephen, of loving Stephen, was not fuel for her body or her mind, as food, water, and oxygen were, but for that piece of herself she so often forgot about or, even worse, ignored.
Her soul.
“You’re thinking,” he murmured as he kissed his way up her neck. “I can see those wheels spinning.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I was just considering the—”
“Stop, Abigail.”
“Stop?” she said weakly when he slid his hand between her legs and stroked her downy curls already damp with desire.
“Stop. For once, don’t think. Just feel.”
And so, closing her eyes and quieting her mind, she did.
She felt the rough scrape of his beard on her cheek before he claimed her mouth in long, lingering kiss that melted her inhibitions away and left her yearning for more.
She felt his thumb and index finger lightly pinch her nipple, then roll the faint pain into immeasurable pleasure.
She felt his finger slowly slide inside of her whilst his other hand settled at the nape of her neck, tangling in the web of her curls as he growled how wet she was.
She felt taut cords of muscle when her nails raced across his back as he held himself poised above her, his temple etched with lines of restraint.
She felt the finger inside of her deepen while his palm pressed against the nerve endings above, and all of the feelings blurred together in a hazy vibration of dizzying light as she clenched around him on a moan of pure, animalistic passion.
The fire flared bright, casting a brilliant orange-and-yellow radiance framed in soft shadows across the chaise longue as Stephen eased into her slick entrance, withdrew, and entered again, sheathing his generous girth to the hilt as her heels dug into his powerful backside.
She felt them move in unison, their bodies and their breaths entwining to form one unbreakable bond as they surged toward release together. He kissed her again as the light spilled into darkness and, with a final thrust of his hips, he sent them both soaring into the bliss of sweet oblivion.
*
In the quiet after, Stephen held Abigail cradled snugly against his chest. By the even rise and fall of the plump breasts against his forearm, he knew she had fallen asleep, leaving him to watch the fire slowly dwindle with heavy-lidded eyes that refused to close all the way.
Not when it was his mind that now refused to be silent as intrusive thoughts marched in one after the other; a steady parade of doubt and desire walking side by side in an unlikely partnership.
This, right here, this very moment and the moments that had preceded it were what he wanted.
What he had always wanted. Abigail in his arms. Abigail underneath him.
Above him. Around him—it didn’t matter. All that did matter was that she was there.
She was here. Now. In the present. Not a distracted piece of her, not a distant memory of her, but the whole of her. Mind, body, and heart.
That was the desire.
A wish fulfilled.
A want satisfied.
But the doubt remained. A storm cloud in a clear sky. For even as he rested his chin on the top of her head, he couldn’t help but think of what it had taken to get here. One night of heaven in exchange for twelve months of hell. And the worst thought of all . . .
Was it worth it?
Was she worth it?
The trouble, the torment, the anger, the uncertainty.
If he known it would lead to this, he’d have searched the world over for another twelve months.
Another hundred months, if that was what it took.
But what if this was fleeting? What if, when she woke, her mind did not go to him, but to her patient upstairs?
What if he could have her, but only if it meant constantly sharing her?
Of learning to be content with stolen moments at midnight?
Unconsciously, his grip tightened, as if by sheer will he could keep her beside him.
Except she wasn’t a bird to be trapped in a cage or a horse to be locked in a stable.
She was a human being with the keenest mind of anyone he’d ever known, woman or man.
And she deserved more than to have that keen mind wasted under the weight of mundane tasks.
She was preparing to safely usher new life into the world, for heaven’s sake.
How did the daily mundane affairs of managing a household compare to that?
With a quiet murmur, Abigail turned in his arms and burrowed her face in the crook of his shoulder. He stroked her hair, running his fingers through the silky mahogany strands as a deep ache took in his heart.
Was it better to love someone and lose them, or to never love them at all? A question, he mused silently, that he’d have plenty of time to ponder after Abigail was gone. Because it wasn’t a matter of if she left him, but when.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Next week.
The timing didn’t matter.
Only that she would go . . . and he was a selfish blackguard if he pressed her to stay.
“Come on, sweet. Let’s get you to bed.” Carefully extricating himself from her warm body, he wrapped a blanket around her before he scooped her up off the chaise longue and carried her, still half asleep, out of the library and up the stairs to the second story.
In the hallway, he hesitated, his gaze tracking from his door to hers before he ultimately decided on the former.
A lone candle burned in his bedchamber, illuminating somber, masculine tones of brown and forest green.
He laid Abigail in the middle of his massive four-poster bed before stretching out beside her and drawing the coverlet over them both.
She made another small, catlike noise before she immediately resumed her prior position, tucking her nose into the wall of his chest and drawing her knees up to his abdomen.
Kissing her forehead, he closed his own eyes as sleep raised her weary arms to embrace him. On the cusp of succumbing to slumber, he whispered three words into Abigail’s ear before the room faded to black and he drifted into merciful unconsciousness to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.