Pamela Sherwood (23 page)

Robin gave a slow nod, conceding her point. “Perhaps not. All the same, I intend for things to be a bit different next time.”

Sophie stretched luxuriously, savoring the sensation of his lean, hard-muscled frame against her own. “In what way?”

His eyes glinted. “Well, for starters, I insist on our making it over to the bed first!”

Amidst her laughter, he swept her up from the floor and carried her over to that article of furniture, which, on close inspection, proved to be more than satisfactory for their purposes…

Now let us sport us while we may;

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

—Andrew Marvell, “To His Coy Mistress”

Morning broke soft and dove-grey in Oxfordshire. Sophie woke first, and lay listening to the soft trills of birdsong outside the cottage. Nature’s music—one of the loveliest ways to wake up, she thought with a smile of drowsy contentment.

And waking up with a lover made it even sweeter. Raising herself on one elbow, Sophie studied the man still fast asleep beside her: the strong, angular features, the sweep of his lashes, the way his dark hair fell over his brow. There were lines about Robin’s eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there four years ago, lines attesting to the strain he’d lived with as an unwilling husband. Tolerating his wife’s many lovers, compensating for her neglect of their children, and at the same time, doing his best to run the hotel and make it provide for them all.

Last night had been both consummation and release for them, an unquenchable fire burning away years of hopeless longing, loneliness, and stoic endurance. Her loins still throbbed pleasurably when she remembered their first joining, so fierce, so hungry, so
immoderate
, to use Robin’s word. Later, at moonrise, he’d made love to her again, slowly this time, with all the tenderness, care, and… moderation of which he was capable. And Sophie had reveled in that second coupling, not just for its sweetness, but for what it revealed about him: that he was still, at heart, the gentle, considerate, chivalrous man with whom she’d fallen in love. Their years apart hadn’t changed him beyond recognition. Nor had Nathalie.

Nathalie… Sophie fretted her lip, suddenly uneasy. She did not want to think about Robin’s wife, not now and not
here
, the place where their love was to have free rein at last. But sooner or later, the subject would have to be dealt with. Nathalie Pendarvis was not an abstraction, but a person… if not a particularly admirable one.

For so many years, Sophie had thought of the woman—when she could bear to think of her at all—as the wicked witch in a fairy tale. Someone who had calculatedly, maliciously destroyed her happiness and Robin’s by appearing, with children in tow, to stake her claim anew. Perhaps she’d been less than fair. Nathalie might be malicious and calculating, but surely she was human too. Maybe it was desperation as well as greed that had driven her to Cornwall. Desperation not just for herself but for those two young children.

And now, four years later, Nathalie Pendarvis was a wife whose husband did not want her, who wished only to be free of her. And a bereaved mother, who had lost a son and who might have to forfeit custody of her daughter, if she and her estranged husband could not come to terms. Perhaps Sophie erred in giving Nathalie the benefit of the doubt, but it was possible that she was unhappy too, and lashing out in the only way she knew how—by making others as miserable as she. If she could be brought to see there was another way, even for her…

Robin was right; there was no point in making this situation uglier than it had to be. Sophie did not have to like her rival, but she could perhaps try to understand her. And do her part to improve things by whatever means possible. They would have to tread carefully, but there must be a solution with which all of them could live. She would not believe otherwise.

The young Sophie, so sure in the sanctity of her love, rearing her head? Perhaps, but she might be a little wiser now—and more patient. Barely a week ago, she’d never thought this was possible. She’d resigned herself, four years ago, to a life without Robin—and now the promise of it was within her reach again. What lay ahead would not be easy, but then, if she had wanted easy, she wouldn’t have fallen in love with this man in the first place.

She looked down at him again, love a warm weight inside of her: tender, passionate, and fiercely protective at once. Hers to cherish—and cherish him she would, till death did them part.

He stirred in his sleep, a faint frown etching itself between his brows. Even as she watched, the frown deepened and his head moved restlessly from side to side on the pillow.

Dreaming, she realized—and perhaps, to judge from his reaction, not particularly pleasant dreams. She reached out a hand, laid it against his cheek. “Wake up, dear heart.”

His breath hitched, and his hand seized hers in a grip so strong she cried out in surprise and pain. Robin’s eyes flew open, and he stared wildly at her before recognition came rushing back into his gaze.

“Oh, God!” He released her hand, instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, love! I don’t know what I was—”

“You were dreaming,” Sophie told him soothingly.

He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“And—not a good dream?” she ventured.

Robin exhaled shakily, tried to smile. “On the contrary, it began as a
very
good dream, about us. It just… took an unexpected turn.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, still studying him.

“I’d—rather not, if you don’t mind. Thank you for waking me.” He caught sight of her surreptitiously rubbing her hand, and his eyes darkened with remorse. “Sophie—”

“It’s nothing,” she assured him, showing her hand. “See? Not so much as a bruise.”

He captured the hand, bestowed a gentle kiss on it. “No thanks to me.”

“Hush! No one’s to blame for what happens during a nightmare.” Sophie stroked his hair. “But I’m sorry you had such a rude awakening.”

“It’s over now—no need to dwell on it,” he said, with a firmness that reminded her a little too much of the old Robin, protective to a fault and secretive as an oyster. “Besides, I would much rather talk about last night than this morning.”

She smiled, even as she recognized the diversionary tactic. “Last night was wonderful.”

His expression eased. “For me as well. Everything I ever dreamed it would be.” He reached out to gather her in, and she snuggled against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

Robin let a lock of her hair spill over his fingers. “Your hair smells like violets. The way I remember it.”

She had combed a few drops of the scent through her damp hair after bathing. “I couldn’t bear to wear that scent for years,” she confessed. “Because of what it made
me
remember. But now… it seems only fitting to wear it again, and for you.”

“Thank you.” He touched his lips to her brow. “I’ve always thought of violets as a—hopeful flower. A promise that spring is coming and the world will be made over. They took on a whole new meaning when I fell in love with you. No doubt it was sentimental folly on my part, but… every spring, I would find or buy some violets and keep them in my chamber, to remind me of you. And the time we had together.” He took a breath. “And perhaps, deep down, I was hoping that someday, somehow, you and I would have—a second spring.”

Sophie swallowed, her eyes stinging. He’d never spoken so openly or at such length of their past and his own secret hopes. “We’ll have it,” she promised. “Another spring and every other season, for the rest of our lives.”

His arms tightened around her. “What could be better than a love for all seasons?”

“A love for all seasons, followed by breakfast?” she suggested after a moment.

Robin raised amused brows. “You’re hungry again?”

“Remember how we spent the night. You know I’m
always
ravenous after a performance. To say nothing of the encores!” she added mischievously.

He laughed then, and gave her a quick kiss. “Point taken. And now that you mention it, I should be glad of breakfast myself. It must be a good twelve hours since we last ate.”

“Well, then, let’s get dressed, and I’ll start breakfast,” she said briskly. “It seems only fair, since you made dinner for us last night.”

“Dressed, washed, and in my case, shaved.” Robin rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “I’ll see you downstairs, then.” He kissed her again and sat up, tossing the bedclothes aside.

Sophie watched from the bed as he moved about the room retrieving his garments. The morning light, stronger now and faintly tinged with gold, played along his lean, hard-muscled frame, illuminating angles and contours like the hand of a master painter. She feasted her eyes without shame: Robin, her lover now, in every sense of the word.

Despite her present happiness, the look on his face and the shadows in his eyes when he’d awakened still niggled at her. Whatever lay at the root of that dream he so adamantly refused to discuss was clearly not some vague phantasm but something real and disturbing… that disturbed him still.

She did not want to pry. Courtesy dictated that she respect Robin’s wish for privacy and not force the issue. But secrets had torn them apart before.

“Robin,” she said, after he had pulled on his drawers and donned his shirt again.

He glanced up from buttoning his shirt. “Yes, love?”

She hesitated, then began, “You know you don’t need to protect me anymore, don’t you? Not as you did when I was seventeen.”

His brows rose. “I know you have grown into a formidable young woman. But you must understand that it’s second nature for a man to want to protect the woman he loves.”

“Yes, but it’s also second nature for a woman to want to support the man she loves,” Sophie countered. “To be his partner in good
and
bad times. After all these years, you should know that I’m not a fair-weather friend. Nor will I be a fair-weather wife.”

Their gazes locked, and his fell first. “I do know that,” he said, not looking at her.

“I am glad to hear it.” Sophie let her voice soften. “So, dear heart, if you should wish to discuss what was troubling you earlier, I am here. Ready to listen—and to help, if I can.”

He looked up, his expression unreadable but a trace of warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. I will—bear that in mind.”

Sophie smiled at him. “That is all I ask.”

***

Robin stared at his lathered reflection in the glass as he shaved.

Why
couldn’t he tell her?

This was the woman with whom he wished to spend his life. Intelligent, perceptive… He’d known since the earliest days of their acquaintance that Sophie would not stand for being shut out. That was why he had ultimately trusted her with the truth of his life.

Trust had never been the issue. Was it that he feared to hurt her again, when he had hurt her so deeply before? That must be part of it, surely. She knew some of his life with Nathalie, but he’d tried to spare her the more sordid details.

For whose sake—hers… or his?

You
know
you
don’t need to protect me anymore. Not as you did when I was seventeen.

He grimaced, acknowledging the truth of her words. The innocent girl he’d once wished to shield from every harsh wind had grown into a strong, sophisticated woman who could hold her own on stage, in Society… and in bed. Thinking of how she’d matched him passion for passion last night was enough to arouse him all over again.

And remembering what he’d dreamed was enough to drive all physical desire away, as effectively as a freezing shower bath.

Who
are
you
really
protecting
with
your
silence—Sophie or yourself?

The answer gave him no satisfaction. Mouth tight, he scraped the last of the shaving soap from his cheek and wiped his face clean with a damp cloth.

Time
to
stop
being
a
bloody
coward, Pendarvis.

He heard Sophie singing from the kitchen—a merry Gilbert and Sullivan air from
The
Mikado
—when he came downstairs, and the sound lifted his spirits at once. Standing in the doorway, he watched her, fresh and pretty in a green skirt and lace-trimmed shirtwaist, as she put the kettle on to boil, then began to carve slices from yesterday’s loaf for toasting.

She broke off in mid-chorus when she saw him and smiled brilliantly. “Good morning, dear heart! How many eggs would you like? It always seems a waste to dirty a fork on just one.”

Robin returned her smile. “Two, then. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sophie shook her head. “I have everything under control. Just make yourself comfortable over there.” She waved the bread knife in the direction of the table.

He sat down, still watching her. “You were right, you know.”

“Hmm?” she returned absently, reaching for the toasting fork.

“My dream did disturb me. And I am—ready to talk, if you are still willing to listen.”

Her gaze went to him at once, and she gave a tiny nod.
Go
on
.

“I said I started out dreaming about us,” Robin began. “Which was true. We were lying in bed, and you were wearing your pearls,” he added, smiling a little despite knowing what followed. “Except that as I looked at you, you disappeared… and Nathalie was there instead. Laughing at me. Taunting. Saying I’d never be free of her.”

Sophie’s green eyes brimmed with sympathy. “Oh, Robin.”

“That’s not the worst of it. Looking at her, I felt such
rage
. All I wanted was to wipe that smile off her face. She was wearing a necklace—this gaudy diamond pendant. I grabbed the chain and started to twist—” He broke off, swallowing convulsively.

Sophie dropped the toasting fork and went to him at once, putting her arms around him. “It was a dream, my love,” she soothed. “Just a dream.”

He leaned into her embrace. “I know. I know. And you woke me before I could… But it’s not something I can easily forget!”

She stroked his hair, not saying anything, just letting him speak.

The words spilled out of him, all the pent-up strain and longing of the last four years. “I said Nathalie and I weren’t living as husband and wife. That is entirely true. But one night, not long after you’d left Cornwall, she climbed into my bed while I was sleeping. Her scent awakened me, and thank God it did, because otherwise…” Robin shook his head, suppressed a shudder. “I got up and went to my dressing room. And barred my chamber door ever after.”