“And the greatest terror,” the marquess said fervently. “I dreaded facing it again today. There was the terror of becoming the instrument of death rather than of life.”
“Ah,” the quiet gentleman said, “but we must learn to accept our limitations as part of the human condition. It is our Lord who controls life and death.”
The marquess was quiet for a while. “Yes,” he said. “We are all of us too busy, aren’t we? Especially at Christmastime. Too busy enjoying ourselves and surrounding ourselves with the perfect atmosphere to remember what it is all about. This unexpected rainstorm has forced us to remember. And you have helped too, sir, by sitting back and allowing us to face all the terror of imminent birth.”
“Without suffering there can never be the fullness of joy,” the quiet gentleman said.
The Misses Horn were rising to retire for the night, and everyone else followed suit. But they did not part to go to their separate rooms without a great deal of handshaking and hugging first.
“Happy Christmas,” they each said a dozen times to one another. But the words were not the automatic greeting they had all uttered during all their previous Christmases, but heartfelt wishes for one another’s joy.
Suddenly this Christmas-this dull, rainy disaster of a Christmas-seemed very happy indeed. Perhaps the happiest any of them had ever known.
And so Christmas Eve drew to an end. A baby had been born.
It was a little different when they were alone together in their room.
Some of the magic went from the evening. It was all right for her, Lady Birkin thought. She had been busy all day and directly involved in the wonder of the baby’s birth. Men were not so concerned about such matters. It must have been a dreadfully dull day for him.
“Henry,” she said, looking at him apologetically, as if everything were her fault, “I am so sorry that this is such a dull Christmas for you.”
“Dull?” He looked at her intently and took a step toward her so that he was very close. “I don’t think I have ever celebrated Christmas until this year, Sally. I am very proud of you, you know.”
Her eyes widened. “You are?” He so rarely paid her compliments.
“You worked tirelessly all day to help that girl,” he said. “You and Miss Wilder. I don’t know how Lisa would have managed without you.”
“But there was a physician in the house, after all,” she said. “What we did was nothing.”
He framed her face with his hands. “What you did was everything,” he said. “The doctor gave his skills. You gave yourself, Sally, despite being frightened and inexperienced.”
“Oh,” she said. She felt like crying. She had tried so hard to impress him since their marriage, dressing to please him, talking and smiling to please him. And losing him with every day that passed. And yet now he was looking at her with unmistakable admiration and… love?
“Henry,” she said, and on impulse she put her arms up about his neck.
“What is it about this Christmas? It is not just me, is it? Everyone has been feeling it. You too? What is so wonderful about it? This inn is not the inn, after all, and the baby is not Jesus, not even born in the stable.”
He slipped his hands to her waist. “We have all seen to the core of Christmas this year,” he said. “We are very fortunate, Sally. We might so easily have never had the chance. We have no gifts for each other.
They are somewhere with our baggage coach. And this inn has provided us with nothing that is usually associated with the season. We had all come to believe that Christmas could not possibly be celebrated without those things. But this year we have been forced to see that Christmas is about birth and life and love and giving of whatever one has to give, even if it is only one’s time and compassion.”
She should not say it, she thought. She might spoil everything. They never said such things to each other. There seemed to be a great embarrassment between them where personal matters were concerned. But she was going to say it. She was going to take a chance. That was what the whole day seemed to have been about.
“Henry,” she said. She was whispering, she found. “I love you so very much.”
He gazed into her eyes, a look of hunger in his own. He drew breath but seemed to change his mind. Instead of speaking he lowered his head and kissed her-an openmouthed kiss of raw need that drew an instant response of surprise and desire. She tightened her arms and arched herself to him. There was shock for a moment as she felt his hands working at the buttons down the back of her dress, and then a surge of happiness.
“I always have,” she said against his mouth. “Since the first moment I saw you. I have always worshiped you.”
She gasped when he lowered her bodice and her chemise to her waist, and her naked breasts came back against his coat. And then his hands were on them, cupping them and stroking them, and his thumbs and forefingers were squeezing her nipples, rolling them lightly until she felt such a sharp stab of desire that she moaned into his mouth.
“Henry,” she begged him, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth still against his, “make love to me. I have always wanted you to make love to me. Please, for this special day. Make love to me.”
She would die, she thought if he merely coupled with her as he had the night before and all those other nights since their marriage. She should not have said what she just had. She should not have given in to the temptation to hope. She should not have begged for what he had never freely given.
But she was on the bed before she could get her thoughts straight, before she could feel shame for her wanton words. She was flat on her back, and he was stripping away her clothes from the waist down, looking at her from eyes heavy with desire as he straightened up and began to remove his own clothes. She was surprised to find that she felt no embarrassment though the candles burned and those passion-heavy eyes were devouring her nakedness. She lifted her arms to him.
She had asked for it, begged for it, wanted it. He would not feel guilt.
This was not the way a gentleman used his wife, but they both wanted it.
They both needed it. He resisted the urge to douse the candles so that she would be saved from embarrassment. And as he joined her naked on the bed, he rejected the idea of somehow restraining his passion. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. For this one occasion, she had said. So be it, then.
He worked on her mouth with his lips and his tongue and on her breasts with his hands and his fingers. She fenced his tongue with her own and sucked on it. She pushed her breasts up against his hands and gasped when he pinched her nipples, hardening them before rubbing his palms lightly over them. Her own hands explored his back and his shoulders.
She wanted him. He felt a fierce exultation. She wanted him. This was not a mistress. This was his wife. This was Sally. And she wanted him.
He moved one hand down to caress her and ready her for penetration. She was hot and wet to his touch, something she had never been before. His temperature soared and his arousal became almost painful.
“Please,” she was moaning into his mouth. “Please. Henry, please.”
And so he moved on top of her, felt her legs twine tightly about his, lifted his head to look down into her face- her eyes were wide-open and gazing back-and mounted her, sliding deeply into wet heat. God. Oh, my God. Sally.
“Love me,” she whispered to him. “Oh, please, Henry. There is such an ache.”
She was going to come to him, he thought, the realization hammering through his temples with the blood. She was going to climax. He had heard that it was possible with some women.
“Tell me when.” He lowered himself on his elbows until his mouth was an inch from hers and he began to move slowly and deeply in her. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”
But she did not have to tell him. He felt the gradual clenching of her inner muscles, the building tension of her whole body. He heard her deep breaths gradually turn to gasps. And he watched the concentration in her face as her eyes closed and her mouth opened in the agony of the final moments before she looked up at him, stillness and wonder in her eyes, and began to tremble.
He lowered himself onto her, held her tightly, held himself still and deep in her, and let himself experience the marvel of his woman shuddering into release beneath him and crying out his name. Only when he was sure that she had experienced the full joy of the moment did he move again to his own climax.
It was the most wonderful night of her life. She did not care if it was never repeated. She had this to hug to herself in memory for the rest of her days, the most wonderful Christmas that anyone could hope to have.
She was nestled in his arms, watching him sleep. After more than three years of marriage she felt like a new bride. She felt… oh, she felt wonderful. And she would be satisfied, she swore to herself. She would not demand the
