Susan Johnson (9 page)

The note Duras had sent to Teo wasn’t a love note. With a stub of a pencil on a sheet of paper torn from his campaign notepad, he’d written “Have a bath ready at nine.” And realizing it sounded too much like a command, added “if you don’t mind.” His name at least was personal. He’d signed “Andre.”

But he didn’t arrive at nine and Teo had finally sent Tamyr out at ten to see if he’d returned. Relieved to hear that Duras was safely back, she busied herself with seeing that food was prepared for him and his bath arranged. And she felt so gloriously happy that he was alive, she pitied the entire world for their lesser joy. She changed her gown three times and then a fourth, and when she had Tamyr take yet another gown from her wardrobe, her nursemaid dryly said, “He won’t notice.”

“But I want to look perfect. I want everything perfect,” Teo laughingly declared, twirling about the room in giddiness. “I want him to be as happy as I, as utterly blissful. I want him to wonder how he ever lived without me,” she grandly went on. “And once he’s here, he’ll stay and stay and stay …”

Wary of so recklessly tempting fate, Tamyr said, “Hush, child, or the gods will take notice of such wild rejoicing.”

“
My
gods aren’t so oppressive,” Teo playfully declared, laughing in sheer delight, allowing herself the self-indulgent pleasure of illusion. “They love
him
too, Tarn.”

Her old nursemaid had experienced too much in her sixty years to trust the durability of such elation. But how could she begrudge Teo her first true taste of happiness? “I’m pleased, child, that they love you both,” she graciously declared. And she wished with all her heart that the young girl she’d helped raise would indeed find a deep and lasting love.

Duras’s bath turned cold as did the food but Teo waited as patiently as possible, understanding the demands of leadership, knowing Duras couldn’t simply abandon all his responsibilities to come to her. She tried to read, then paced the sitting-room floor, stopping frequently at the window facing the street, hoping she’d catch a glimpse of him in the headquarters building.

She took note of the bustling activity even at the late hour, the various men, uniformed and not, arriving at the guarded door, the small cavalry troop that set out down the street, and she wondered if Duras was missing her half as much as she missed him, whether he anticipated their meeting as eagerly. And then she suddenly laughed out loud in sheer elation because he was actually here, short yards away—not fighting the Austrians or her husband, not in perilous danger, not in some cold, wet bivouac leagues distant—and sometime tonight, she’d hold him in her arms.

For the first time she truly understood the power of love
because her world was utterly transformed and the undistinguished village of Sargans with its narrow streets and modest residences was the paradise, nirvana, and Elysian fields of her dreams. She wouldn’t change one puddle in the muddy road or one garish red velvet flounce in the burgomaster’s parlor or a single stone of the castle looming over the town.

And he was actually
here
. Restless, impatient, she turned from the window. “Have cook make something fresh, Tamyr, and have the dishes taken from the table. How can he eat cold food? Don’t frown at me like that. Cook doesn’t care, she told me. Do you think Andre would like quail or fish or beef first?” she went on, her words uttered in a rush. “Men always like meat, don’t they? I wish I knew his favorite foods, but I’ve only seen him eat a few spoonfuls of ragout, and I don’t know what wines he likes or whether he likes scented or unscented soap. And his clothes. Should I lay out his clothes? Oh, Tarn, help me!” she wailed. “You know
everything
.”

So a fresh meal was being prepared in the burgomaster’s kitchen under Tamyr’s watchful eyes when Duras finally left headquarters. Standing at the window, Teo screamed with delight at the sight of him and raced from the room. She was out the front door in seconds and dashing down the steps in reckless leaps. Immune to the chill night air, unaware of the water seeping through the soles of her slippers, she ran toward him, calling his name.

At the sound of her voice he looked up and saw her, her pale gown flowing out behind her, her smile dazzling even from that distance, her arms opened wide in welcome. A jolt of pleasure struck him with such force, he stopped in the center of the street and held his breath for a moment. And then he smiled. “My darling Teo,” he whispered.

Seconds later she was in his arms and he in hers and for a moment civilizations could crumble and continents be washed away and they wouldn’t have noticed.

I’m home
, he thought, an unprecedented sensation to a
man who’d spent most of his life in transit. “I’m home,” he said into the silk of her hair.

“Yes, yes,” Teo murmured, holding him tight. “Tell me you can stay.”

“For a day … maybe two.”

“Oh, blissful heaven,” she exclaimed, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. “Can I have you for myself alone?”

“Between dispatches,” he replied, stroking her arms. “They’re being sent to your house.”

“I’ll help you read them or sit in a corner if you have to work. I’ll be quiet.”

“Don’t be quiet. I like to hear your voice. Oh, Lord,” he muttered, noticing the smudges he was leaving on her sleeves. “I’m ruining your gown.”

“I don’t care, ruin them all, as long as you’re safely in my arms. Lie to me, tell me you don’t have to go off to battle again.”

“Never,” he graciously replied, wishing for the first time in his life that there were no more wars to fight.

“We’ll sit by the fire and watch our children play.”

“I’d like that. I’ll smoke my pipe and you’ll sew,” he teased.

“If I could.” Her smile was delicious.

“We’ll have someone else sew, then.”

“Tamyr is very good.”

“There, taken care of. Have you missed me?”

“Every second, every breath and heartbeat. Did you think of me?”

“Even when I shouldn’t.” Even when it had been dangerous to daydream. “Bonnay was my conscience.”

“I must thank him for keeping you safe.”

“I had every reason in the world for coming back.” And he suddenly recalled Korsakov’s letter. “Are you happy here?”

“Now I am.”

“No misgivings?”

“Only about the name of our child,” Teo facetiously replied. “Tamyr tells me I can’t name it Sargans.”

“You must be getting cold,” he said in a different tone. He didn’t wish to think of the reality of children, of names and of places they might never be. Of battles lost perhaps and lives vanished, of a future too uncertain to contemplate. “And I should get out of this uniform.”

“Of course,” she politely answered, frightened by the distance in his voice.

“Did you get my note?” he asked, beginning to walk toward the burgomaster’s house, his intonation one of politesse, as if they were meeting over cards.

“Yes, thank you for letting me know you were safe,” she answered, bewildered by his sudden volte-face.

“My apologies for its brevity. I thought afterward that it may have offended you.”

“No, of course not. Did I
say
something?” she asked, her gaze perplexed.

“I’m tired, that’s all,” he lied. “We haven’t slept since we left.”

“You needn’t entertain me. Bathe and eat and go to sleep.”

“Not likely,” he softly said, turning to smile at her, the warmth back in his eyes.

She felt as though the sun shone again on her world.

Teo helped him undress, startled by the gruesome vestiges of war, the bloodstains starkly evident on his uniform. His tunic was beyond saving, saber cuts slicing the sleeves at several points, a tear below his ribs obviously a sword thrust barely eluded.

“Martinsbruck took longer than we thought,” he casually replied to her query regarding the rent garment. “The Austrians had a brigade in the city. Throw the jacket away, toss it out into the hall. Here, I’ll take all these,” he added, scooping up the rest of his clothes and walking to the door.

She’d apologized for the cool bathwater and offered to have more heated. “I don’t care if it’s warm or not,” he said, stepping into the copper tub before the fire, sitting down, immediately submerging his head, coming up a moment later sleek and dripping. He bathed and shaved swiftly, grateful to wash away the taint of battle, grateful to have the beautiful woman he didn’t know a week ago waiting for him on the bed.

He’d refused her offer to help him bathe, not inclined to make love in the cold water, and short minutes later, he rose from the tub. Wiping his hair briefly with a towel, he dripped water on the carpet as he moved toward the bed.

“You have too many clothes on,” he softly said, his dark eyes lush with promise.

“You’re absolutely beautiful,” Teo murmured, her gaze on his skin gleaming wet, the symmetry and grace of his form, his powerful musculature gloriously defined in the candlelight. He had the look of one of Tamyr’s northern gods, tall, virile, broad-shouldered, scarred like a warrior—healed saber cuts crisscrossing his chest, old slashes on both shoulders, remnants of wounds on his thighs and forearms, a new one seeping blood down his wrist.

Her small distraught cry drew his notice to it, and stopping before a chest of drawers in this bedroom that had recently been his, he extracted a handkerchief and looped it around his wrist. “It barely cut the skin,” he said, tying a simple knot, tightening it with his teeth. He almost said, “Doesn’t your husband ever get wounded?”

But he knew better than to ruin perhaps their only night together for a very long time or possibly forever, so he told himself he didn’t care that she had a husband, or that the man was a beast, or that she might be carrying his child.

Although the possibility had settled firmly in his mind since her playful comments on the street—unnerving thought, disturbing, fraught with a high degree of anxiety he’d not been able to ease.

Taking note of his frown, she said, “Don’t be unhappy when I’m so pleased to be with you.”

He stopped just short of the bed where she sat like a young child, her legs dangling over the side, her bare feet visible beneath the soiled hem of her gown. “I’m not unhappy. How could I be with you?” he said honestly.

Her smile did much to lighten his mood; her smile, he thought, could melt the snows of winter.

“
He’s
definitely not unhappy,” she observed, glancing at his beautifully formed erection.

“He’s been thinking about you all the way home,” Duras softly said. “And you still have too many clothes on.”

“Should
I
take them off or would you like to?”

“Would you mind?” His half-lidded gaze bespoke his fatigue. “I’m very near falling asleep.”

“How near?” Her voice was teasing.

“Not that near,” he answered with a grin, leaning over to kiss her before falling on the bed. “But I’m viewing the world through an increasing haze as though the sun were setting.”

“I should hurry, then.”

“Please.” He was too tired to even pull a pillow under his head, four days without sleep beginning to take its toll.

She couldn’t reach the buttons at the back of her dress though and when she suggested calling Tamyr, he gruffly said, “No.” As she leaned against the bed, he forced his eyes to focus on the tiny covered buttons and managed to undo enough to allow her to slip the dress free. The vision of her in her filmy chemise and petticoat rather precipitously roused him to a new level of wakefulness.

When she climbed onto the bed, he moved over to give her sufficient room to sit beside him. And with her hip nudging his, she untied the ribbons at the neckline of her chemise, a feeling of content inundating her soul. She had found him somehow in all the world and she wanted nothing more than to sit beside him like this and feel his gaze on
her. His hand came up a few moments later and slipped one lacy strap down her arm and a sudden answering heat flared through her body, altering the tenor of her contentment.

“While you were gone, I thought about you touching me,” she murmured. “Of how you could make me feel …”

He’d thought of her voluptuous warmth when he was cold and tired, waiting to attack Chur and Martinsbruck, earlier on his vengeful quest for Korsakov—and always in the dark chill hours before dawn. “I thought of this,” he simply said.

“I’ll be your talisman,” she answered, understanding.

“You are.” She had been. A strange and new sensation. Then his right wrist began to throb; the saber cut was deep enough, he knew, to require stitches in the morning. And he wasn’t sure he had the energy to stay awake much longer. Using his uninjured hand, he slipped the second strap over her shoulder and the sheer silk hung for a moment on her full breasts before he tugged it down over the lush swell.

She undid the small pearl buttons with trembling fingers, the proximity of his rigid arousal stimulus and incentive, her need for him pulsing between her thighs. Pulling the last button entirely off in her haste, she slipped the garment from around her waist and reached for the ties on her petticoat.

“Stand to take off your petticoat.” Low, velvet authority.

“Here?”

“Here so I can see you.” He indicated an area on the bed with a brush of his fingers. “Lift it over your head.”

His voice was without inflection, but the undercurrent of command set her pulses racing when softly uttered words shouldn’t affect her so, when she shouldn’t respond to any words that sounded like fiats.

“I may not want to,” she said.

“But you do.” His eyes held her for a moment and then he smiled.

“Don’t be so sure,” she whispered, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

“Has seven days seemed like a long time?” he murmured, watching the flush move down the pale flesh of her throat, over the flaunting curve of her breasts. “Stand up,” he whispered, brushing her taut nipple with the back of his hand. “Let’s see if you’re ready for me.”

“I am,” she said on a suffocated breath.

“Show me.” His whisper caressed her senses.

He steadied her as she came to her knees, his hand on the curve of her hip. “Hold on to my hand,” he offered. He stabilized her balance on the soft mattress with a hand on her ankle. “Can you lift your petticoat?” he gently queried.