Simply Love

It was, he supposed, inevitable unless they were to live a separate, celibate existence for the rest of their lives, something he would find immeasurably less tolerable than remaining single. Sooner or later she would have to see him.

He just wished it could be later rather than sooner. He was so very tired…

But she was not waiting for his permission. She had got to her feet and lit a single candle on the small table on the near side of the bed. And then she came to kneel in front of him again and drew his shirt free of the waistband of his breeches after taking the blanket away. It would have been churlish of him not to raise his arm when she drew the shirt upward so that she could lift it off over his head.

He did not close his eye. He watched her.

The surgeon had amputated his arm a few inches below the shoulder. Because there had been no recent battle and consequently the surgeon had not been pressed for time while other wounded soldiers awaited their turn to go under his knife, he had done a good, neat job. The stump of the arm was not unsightly-as amputations went.

“I still have my arm, you know,” he said with a somewhat twisted smile, “and my hand. In my mind they are still there and very real. I can feel them. Sometimes they itch. I can almost use my hand. But they are both gone, as you can see.”

It was not just the stump of his arm she could see, though. The whole right side of his body was purple from the burns, the crisscrossing scars of the old cuts livid in contrast. They extended all the way down his side and leg to the knee.

She set her hand against the naked flesh of his side, just above the band of his breeches.

“Is there still pain?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Particularly about my eye, about the stump of my arm, and in my knee, which was not actually destroyed. But not always and not unbearable. It is worst in damp weather. It is something I am accustomed to, something that is quite within my control. One can learn to live with a great deal of discomfort and even pain, Anne. For about six months of my life, I wished fervently to die, but I am glad I did not. Life is very sweet despite all the losses I have sustained. I am not generally, I think, a complainer.”

“You are not,” she agreed.

She reached up her hand then and cupped it about the right side of his face. He closed his eye and leaned into her hand. So few people except physicians had touched his right side since he came home from the Peninsula. It was as if his torturers had laid everlasting claim to it. He had not even realized just how much he had craved someone’s touch-a gentle touch after all the violence. It felt almost as if healing flowed through her hand, as if after she had lifted it away his flesh would be whole again.

He swallowed against a gurgle in his throat.

And then he felt her thumb move beneath the black ribbon of his eye patch and realized her intent. He grabbed for her wrist and opened his left eye, but it was too late. She set the eye patch down on the floor beside his chair.

He gazed at her in horror and misery.

“It is all right,” she told him softly. “Sydnam, you are my husband. It is all right.”

But it was not all right. His right eye was gone. His closed eyelid lay flat against where it had been and there was some heavy scarring. To say it was not a pretty sight would be a gross understatement.

He would not close his eye. He clamped his teeth hard together and watched her as she gazed at him. And then she got to her feet, leaned over him, her hands on his shoulders, and set her lips softly against the outer corner of his eyelid.

He fought the tears that ached in his throat.

She was looking down at him then, a smile on her face.

“You look less like a pirate without the patch,” she said.

“Is that good or bad?” he asked.

“I think some women,” she said, “find pirates quite irresistible.”

“Perhaps, then,” he said, “I should put it back on.”

“You had better not tempt me,” she said. “I am a married lady.”

“Ah,” he said, “that is sad.”

“Not for me,” she told him. “I do not need a pirate, you see. I find my husband irresistible.”

He smiled and so did she.

But the air fairly crackled between them, and he was amazed to realize that his weariness had fled, to be replaced by an intense desire for her. And surely this time she was blatantly seducing him.

“I think,” he said, getting to his feet, “I had better find out if that is true.”

“I think,” she said, “you had better.”

She moved against him, and her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his breeches while she opened the buttons and undressed him until he was naked before her. Her eyes took in the wounds all the way down to his knee.

“Anne,” he said, “perhaps your condition-”

“We are married, Sydnam,” she said. “We married yesterday. We did it because of my condition, of course. We had said good-bye. We would not have seen each other again. But we are married. I want to be married to you in every sense of the word, and I believe you want it too. You do, don’t you?”

It was not exactly a declaration of love, only a practical acceptance of the relationship in which they found themselves-because of her condition. But for now it was enough. She was looking at his naked, damaged body, and yet she still wanted a consummation of their marriage. For tonight, for now, that was gift enough.

“And the baby?”

“I asked the physician Claudia insisted I see,” she said, “since I fully expected that you would come and wed me. He told me there should be no discomfort and no danger-except in the final month or so.”

In the shivering light of the candle he watched a blush spread over the exposed part of her bosom and up her neck into her face. She had actually asked the physician? He smiled slowly.

“Well, then,” he said, “why are we still standing here?”

“Because we have not yet lain down,” she said. And she crossed her arms and drew her nightgown up and off over her head in one fluid motion.

He explored and caressed her naked, shapely body with his hand, his fingers, and his fingertips after they had lain down. It was only as he did so that he realized they had left the candle burning. But he let it be. He would not hide himself from her any longer. If they were to enter deeply into all the many intimacies of marriage, he must give her the whole of himself as he was and trust her to accept his deficiencies.

He explored her and aroused her with his lips, his teeth, his tongue, his hand.

He spread his mouth over one slightly swollen nipple, licking it with his tongue, sucking on it, pulsing his teeth about it while caressing her in the hot, moist secret place between her legs. She moaned and threaded her fingers in his hair. And then, when he lifted his head to feather kisses over her face, to suckle one of her earlobes, her hands found his naked erection. One hand caressed him while one finger of the other hand circled him and the pad of her thumb stroked feather-light over the tip.

He closed his eye and inhaled slowly. He let the breath out on an audible sigh.

He moved onto her then, regretting fleetingly that he did not have two arms so that he could lift some of his weight off her. But she received him eagerly, spreading her legs, twining them about his, wrapping her arms about him, moving her hips until he was pressed to her opening.

He plunged deep inside and again had to inhale slowly in order to prevent himself from spilling into her too soon, before she had had time to share the pleasure.

This was their real wedding night, he thought suddenly, and he was making love with his wife. With Anne. The wonder of it caught at his heart, and he held deep in her, savoring the knowledge that he was not just a man having sex or sharing a sexual experience with a desirable, willing woman. He was making love with his wife, with the woman whom he had married yesterday and with whom he would share the rest of his life.

He withdrew slowly and pressed inward again, withdrew and entered, setting up a slow rhythm, feeling all the exquisite pain of holding back his desire so that it could be a shared experience of pleasure.