Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand (19 page)

"No, Amabel, not here," Roxanna said. She rose from her seat at the piano and stood in front of him, leaning back against him as if daring him to move. "I cannot permit you to rip at my husband that way. You may return to the dower house now, or silence your tongue. This is our home, not yours, and we do not speak that way."

Her words were quietly spoken but they carried to the far corners of the room. My God, Roxie, he thought as he gently rested his hands on her shoulders. She was trembling, but she did not take her eyes from Amabel. Helen continued with the Scarlatti invention, and soon his relatives were conversing with each other again. Amabel said nothing more.

Roxie returned to the piano bench and soon Edwin reclaimed his attention, demanding to know what it was really like at Waterloo. When he looked around finally, she was gone, and so were her daughters. Clarice was regarding him with something close to fondness.

"I think we can see ourselves to bed, Winn," she said. "Good night."

Roxie wasn't in their bedroom so he knocked quietly on the next door, and opened it when Lissy called out. She lay in the girls' bed, a daughter on each side of her. Lissy sat up and motioned to him. "Mama tells the most wonderful stories," she said. "You can lie down, too."

He did as she said, finding himself a spot at the foot of the bed where he could grab Lissy's toes and make her shriek. Soon even Helen was laughing. When Roxanna finished her story, she kissed her daughters and sat on the edge of their bed as they said their prayers.

"Good night, my dears," she said as she snuffed the candles and then closed the door behind her.

He followed her to their room, chagrined that she had not once looked him in the eye. You must be so disgusted with my relatives, he thought as he closed the door behind them. I am so ashamed of them. And myself.

"Roxie, I..."

She turned around then, her eyes bright with tears. "You have every right to be upset with me," she began, raising her glance to meet his. "I just couldn't bear to hear Amabel go on that way, digging at you like a harpie. I know I have no right."

He pulled her close to him. "You were wonderful, my dear. Thank you."

She stepped back to look at him, astonished. "You're not angry?"

"Heavens, no," he said and released her. "I don't know when any husband has ever been so adroitly defended. Anything you want from me? Just name it, up to one half my kingdom."

She laughed then, relieved laughter. "I have my limits, sir," she said. "I do not think Amabel and I will be on speaking terms, but perhaps she will not harrow you up again in my presence. Here, let me help you off with your shoes. I noticed you've been gritting your teeth since dinner."

"It was the company, not the toe," he. assured her, but allowed her to assist him. She took off his sock, and stared in dismay at the blood on the bandage.

"Sit right there," she ordered, and went to the washbasin.

"Roxie, I can take care of it," he insisted.

"I am sure you can," she agreed, returning with a tin of water and a cloth. "You've been taking care of yourself for far too long. Do allow me my penance for getting stern with your relatives."

"Really, Roxie," he protested as she knelt by the bed and carefully lifted off the bandage.

It looked disgusting, but she did not even flinch as she dabbed at the crusted blood around the sutures. "I suppose you will now bluster and protest and tell me that you rode your horse ail across Europe with your bowels hanging out, and your nose on by a flap of skin only, and your backbone open to the spine," she murmured as she worked, her hands expert.

He laughed. "Yes, I do go on like that, don't I?" he agreed. "How insufferable for you."

She stopped and sat back to look up al him. "There's no shame in letting someone do for you, Lord Winn. Hold still."

He looked down at her in self-conscious amusement. "It doesn't look too appealing."

"It is nothing, really. You should have seen Anthony's bedsores before he died," she murmured as she dried off the wound. "His skin was breaking down and we couldn't do a thing about it," she said, her voice matter-of-fact. "I cried a lot, but not when he was conscious."

There wasn't anything he could add to her artless statement, but admire her sensible courage in silence. He pointed out the fresh dressings on his bureau and let her re-bandage his foot. "That should keep you until morning," she said as she stood and gathered up the old bandage. "Let me look at it again before you leave."

"Yes, doctor," he replied.

She grinned then. "I do become somewhat managing, don't I?" she said.

"Yes, you do," he agreed as he untied his neckcloth. "But I am tired, and don't intend to worry about it tonight." I feel old, too, he thought as she helped him from his coat and arranged it over the back of a chair. And bitter, and disgusted with myself, and missing you already.

"Well, good night, Fletch," she said and went into the dressing room with her lamp.

She was out in a moment, her eyes wide. "Do you know where Mrs. Howell found that extra cot for Edwin's friend?" she asked, her face red.

There is a God, he rejoiced. Play this carefully, Fletcher, he told himself, as he continued unbuttoning his shirt. "Your bed?"

She nodded. "I suppose I can find enough blankets in the linen room to make a pallet on the floor."

He shook his head, trying to appear casual. "I'm afraid you're out there. I'm sure Mrs. Howell gathered up the last of the blankets to make up those beds for Edwin and his friends." He pulled out his shirttails. Do this right, Winn, he thought. "Do you trust me, Roxie?"

"Yes," she said. "But. . ."

"Well, then, I will share my bed, as long as you promise not to touch my foot. I'd probably shriek and then my sisters would come running." He shuddered elaborately.

She stood there at the door of the dressing room for a long moment as he regarded her. "In for a penny .. ."

"... in for ten pounds," she finished. "Oh, very well! It seems I do not have a choice. Why has this become my Christmas refrain?"

She returned to the dressing room and he hurried into his nightshirt, wishing that his hands would stop trembling. Winn, you are too old to be coy, he thought as he put on his dressing gown, took out his book, and lay down on the bed.

Roxie came out in a moment, wearing Anthony's dressing gown with the sleeves rolled up that he remembered from his first sight of her two months ago. She went to the dressing table and took the pins from her hair, shaking it out with a sigh. She started to brush her hair, and the crackle was pleasant to his ears. He put down the book and watched Roxie over the top of his spectacles as she brushed out her long hair and hummed to herself.

He screwed up his courage and closed the book, going to stand behind her at the dressing table. "Hand me your brush," he said as she watched him in the mirror, her eyes wary. She did and he brushed her hair, pulling the brush vigorously through the length of her hair from root to stem. It fell nearly to her waist in a glorious wave of dark brown, lively with electricity.

"Oh, much better," she sighed. "Helen tries, but she doesn't have the force to make that feel so good." She closed her eyes in pleasure. "I've thought about cutting it."

"Don't you dare," he said, his whole body on fire, hoping that he did not sound like he was panting. "There now."

She pulled the mass of hair over her shoulder. "Wonderful. This excuses all your social blunders of this evening, Fletch."

He laughed and sat down beside her on the bench. "Roxie, you're too easy to please."

She tied on her sleeping cap and went to the bed, standing there a moment in reflective indecision. "This really isn't a very good idea," she said dubiously.

He took a deep breath and removed his dressing gown and got into bed. "Well, the floor's too cold to stand there ruminating too long, Roxie," he said, and blew out the lamp. "Maybe you'll lose a toe tonight."

He held his breath as she still stood there. "Oh, bother it," she said at last and took off Anthony's robe. She crawled into her side of the bed and punched down the pillow, wrapping her arm around it and looking remarkably like Lissy.

He turned to face her. The moonlight came in through the draperies he had forgotten to close, and her skin was lit by the soft glow from the window. She chuckled. "Do you know, I almost laughed out loud this morning when Lissy threw a snowball at Lettice!"

"She has a good throwing arm," he agreed, relaxing and letting the mattress claim him. The fragrance of lavender surrounded him and he felt more peace than at any time he could remember. "But I don't think she expected Lettice to throw one right back!"

They laughed together. He took her hand. "Good night, Roxie," he said softly. "Thanks for coming to my rescue."

She gently eased her hand from his loose grasp. "Someone has to save you from yourself," she replied, her voice sleepy.

He lay there a moment, contemplating all manner of mischief, and rejecting it. Ah, well. "Good night, Roxie," he said again. He raised up on one elbow to kiss her chastely on the cheek. She had started to turn away from him as he leaned over, and they cracked heads.

He thought about it later, recognizing the event as a pivotal moment similar, somehow, to Wellington's decision to attack Quatre Bras and bring on Waterloo. Once begun, inescapably engaged. They could have laughed, said good night, and turned over again, but they didn't, and the chance turned into something wished for but not expected.

Even moments later, he couldn't be sure who began it. Did she grasp him around the neck and pull him closer? Did he kiss her on the lips, and then do it again when her arms went around him? Her lips were as soft as he imagined, gentle and demanding at the same time. She sighed and moved closer, her hands in his hair now, her body sliding under his as though she belonged there.

He hesitated a moment, his thoughts wild. I will not regret this, he considered as he tugged up his nightshirt, but, Roxie, will you? He rested lightly on her then, his mind screaming one thing, his body another. And then she said, "Please," her voice filled with as much desire as he felt himself, and he understood perfectly.

He gave her time to divest herself of her nightgown, helping with the buttons, and then he was captured in love, devoured by it, overwhelmed as never before—and his memory was excellent. She was a woman starving, and it gave him the most exquisite joy to pleasure her over and over again until they were both boggled with exhaustion. Even then, she allowed him to leave her only with the greatest reluctance.

"Roxie, I weigh too much," he said finally.

She relaxed her grip then even as she protested. He lay beside her, his mind completely blank. Then the cool night air reminded him that the blankets were somewhere and he searched for them. She lay watching him as he covered her. He smiled and picked up her hand, letting it drop to the mattress again, limp as a rag doll.

I shall not say anything, he thought as he lay back next to her. I shall lie here and breathe lavender and Roxanna, and it will be enough. Everything I ever did in life before this moment is of no consequence. I have been baptized with love and I am clean as never before.

Roxie sighed, and he turned his head to look at her, raising up on one elbow.

"I should be ashamed of myself," she murmured. "I can't imagine what you must think." As he watched her lovely face, tears slid onto the pillow.

Careful, Fletcher, he thought. Say the right thing for once. Don't laugh off her genuine remorse at breaking so thoroughly your idiotic marriage of convenience, or at giving me a glimpse of the intensity of female love I wasn't sure existed. There's more here than even she understands.

He touched her face. Please God, the right thing. "Tell me, Roxie, and tell me frankly: when was your husband last able to pleasure you?"

She closed her eyes. "He's been dead nine months now, and before then . . ." She sighed again. "It was two years before then that he had the strength. I suppose nearly three years."

"That's a long time for a healthy young woman, Roxie," he said.

She hesitated, then thought better of speaking.

"Tell me, my dear," he urged. "Please don't be shy."

"I enjoy making love so much," she whispered, and then covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God, so many nights I wanted to touch Anthony and turn him into someone healthy, anyone. I cannot tell you how many miles I have walked over these hills, trying to wear myself out!"

He did chuckle then. "I seem to remember surprising you once on one of your forced marches."

To his relief, she laughed softly. "Yes." Her voice turned serious again. "But this is not something good women talk about, I suppose."

"You can talk to me," he replied. "Let me say that I feel... oh, I don't know . . . honored almost, to have given you something you needed. And Roxie, there's no shame in wanting what I gave you."

She shivered, and sat up to find her nightgown, buttoning it slowly as she looked at him in the moonlight. "Then I thank you, sir," she said, quite serious. "I do regret that I trampled on our convenient agreement."

"No regrets, Roxie," he commanded. "I don't think either of us had much control over this circumstance. We can overlook it."

"I know, but..."

She lay down again. He put his arm out, inviting her into his embrace, but she shook her head, clutching her pillow again, but still looking at him. "I feel such relief," she said finally and then closed her eyes.

He watched her, loving her with all his heart. At some point, Roxie, he vowed silently, you'll consider me and see a real husband. I can wait until that happens. He touched her hair and she moved a little closer, more into his warmth.

"Roxie, are you still awake?" he whispered.

"H'mmm."

"If you wish more refreshment again before morning, I'm a light sleeper."

Her voice was drowsy. "But you said once that your aide-decamp had to punch you awake," she murmured, her face in the pillow.

"He wasn't Roxie Rand. Good night, dear."

She woke him before morning, rubbing his back, and her love was even more thorough. At first, he hoped everyone at Moreland was a sound sleeper, and then he didn't care.