Web of Love

Chapter 10

HE WAS STILL SLEEPING WHEN SHE WOKE UP. It was a deep and peaceful sleep. There was none of the tossing and turning of his head and the heightened color and the mutterings that she had become used to in two weeks of nursing him. He was sleeping. He was going to get well again.

Ellen was feeling cramped from lying on the hard floor. But she did not move for a while. She lay still and looked at him. Would she even call him handsome if she were to see him now for the first time? His normally fair wavy hair had not been washed in two weeks, except at the forehead and temples with the damp cloths she had used so often to cool his face. He had a two-week growth of beard. And his face was thinner than it had been. Even his arm and hand, flung out on top of the covers, were thinner.

But he had come home, and she had fought for his life. And he was going to live. The question of whether he looked handsome or not was supremely irrelevant.

Ellen gazed at Lord Eden for a long time without moving. It seemed that she had slept for the first time in a long, long while. And she felt refreshed. There was a deadness somewhere inside her, an enormous load that might weigh her down if she dwelt upon it. But she would ignore it for the present. It was not time yet to take it out and explore it. She had slept and she was refreshed and she would allow herself to regain strength and energy before looking too far inward.

She had washed and changed and was folding the last blanket that had covered her on the floor when she turned her head to find him looking at her.

“You are awake,” she said.

“Did you sleep there?” he asked. “It must have been very uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps it was,” she said. “But I was sleeping too soundly to notice.”

A ghost of his old grin flashed over his face. “Have I been a hard patient?” he asked. “I can remember only that the furniture was walking about the room. Most disconcerting, I assure you.”

“You have not been a difficult patient,” she said.

He looked keenly at her for a few moments. “Two weeks I have been here?” he said. “There have been others too? You look run into the ground.”

“There have been others,” she said. “There still are in the other part of the house. They are all recovering.”

He closed his eyes.

“You should not talk,” she said. “You are very weak.”

“And will be as long as I lie here sleeping and saying nothing,” he said, opening his eyes again. He felt his jaw. “Ugh! I must look like some sort of monster. May I trouble you for some water and a towel, ma’am? And can you possibly lay your hands on some shaving gear?”

“I will bring them,” she said, picking up her blankets and pillow and leaving the room. But when she came back with the things he had asked for and took hold of his blankets to fold them back, she found one of his hands on each of her wrists.

“I shall do this myself,” he said. “I gather that for the last fortnight you have cared for every single one of my needs. It quite puts me to the blush to think of it. But no more, ma’am. I thank you, but I shall see to my own bodily needs from now on.”

“You are weaker than you think,” she said. “You will exhaust yourself.”

“Then I shall sleep afterward,” he said. “I have a comfortable bed in which to do so.”

Ellen hesitated.

“I am ravenously hungry,” he said. “Do you have any food in the house, ma’am? Do you have any money? I am afraid I have no way of knowing if I do. Do I?”

“The surgeon said you are to have only tea and toast,” she said. “I shall bring you some. He is coming sometime today to bleed you again.”

“Devil a bit!” he said. “I feel as weak as a baby. I don’t think I can spare any surgeon one drop of my blood. I need it all myself, and a beefsteak and some porter sound altogether more palatable than tea and toast.”

Ellen felt herself smile. “Perhaps some eggs with the toast,” she said. “And some milk instead of the tea.”

When she entered the room next, he was lying on the bed, his eyes closed again. But he was clean-shaven, and his hair was damp and clean. He was looking very pale.

“I feel as if I had done a week’s work,” he said. “Damnation! This weakness. Pardon me, ma’am. My brain must be addled. Can’t think what I am about, using such language in a lady’s hearing.” He did not open his eyes.

“You must sleep,” she said, crossing the room and laying light fingers against his forehead. But it was quite cool. “You shall eat when you wake up again.”

“You cannot know how tempting your suggestion is, ma’am,” he said. “But I need to eat if I am ever to get up off this bed without coming nigh to fainting.”

“I shall fetch the tray then,” she said. “It is all ready.”

By the time she came back with it he had managed to drag himself into a half-sitting position, with two pillows behind him. And he felt as if he must scream with the pain and faint from the exertion. He gritted his teeth and smiled at her. Boiled eggs had never looked so appetizing, he thought. Two of them with two pieces of toast and a large glass of milk. He thought he could probably eat the plate and glass as well.

“The beefsteak for dinner?” he asked.

“I shall see what the surgeon says,” she said.

He kept talking to her as he ate. She stood beside the bed for a while, her hands folded in front of her, and then she sat down and watched him quietly.

As she had done for the two weeks previous. He could remember that too. And her face bent over his. Always soothing him. He could not remember quite how. He could not recall all she had done for him. But there appeared to be no servant in the house. She must have done everything. And even though his hair had been unwashed and his beard of two weeks’ growth, the rest of him had been perfectly clean, he had discovered when he had washed himself, including his bandage and his large nightshirt.

He owed her everything. And he was embarrassed, self-conscious. They were alone together in her rooms, as far as he could tell. She was beautiful. He must have noticed that before. She was pale and thin. There were dark shadows below her eyes. And the eyes themselves were tired. But she was beautiful. And she must be no older than he. She should not be nursing him.

He had been wholly dependent on her for two weeks. She had talked to him. He recalled that now also. Her voice soothing and caressing. He could still hear it, though he could not hear any of the words she had spoken. He must have called to her often. He could remember her sleeping in the chair in which she now sat.

What was he doing there? Why there in particular? Madeline was still in Brussels. Mrs. Simpson had sent to her the night before, after his fever broke, she had told him. Why was he not with Madeline? He was about to ask as he talked on about nothing in particular. But something stopped him. There had been a reason. He could not remember what. He would not remember what. He did not want to remember. Not yet. He needed some of his strength back before he could cope with that memory.

“Damnation!” he said, looking down at his tray and realizing that both plate and glass were empty. “I have never felt so tired in my life. Did you give me a sleeping potion, ma’am?” He was aware of a noisy and inelegant yawn, which he supposed came from his own mouth.

“No,” she said. “It is just that your body has a little more sense than you have, I believe.”

The tray was gone from his hands. There was an arm behind his shoulders, and when it eased him back, his pillows were flat on the bed again. And cool and comfortable. And her hand on his forehead was light and cool. He sighed with contentment. “Magic hands,” he murmured, and let himself fall into a deep and welcome nothingness.

LORD EDEN WAS still sleeping when his twin arrived during the afternoon, hurried and breathless.

“You must think I do not care,” she said to Ellen. “I cried so hard when I received your letter last evening that Lady Andrea misunderstood and launched into a speech about how Dom was better off where he was than suffering on unnecessarily. And I cried and laughed all night long. I would have come early this morning, but Lieutenant Penworth needed me again. The poor man. He has no will to live, you know, and no one can do anything at all for him but me. He refuses to eat or drink or even move for anyone else. He needed me this morning. His leg was paining him again, or rather the stump of his poor leg. And I knew that Dom was out of danger and in good hands. I am prattling, am I not?” She burst into tears.

Ellen put her arms about her and hugged her. “Yes, he will live,” she said. “And it is only after a long period of anxiety is over that one realizes how much of a strain one has been under. I have never doubted your devotion to your brother. Not for one moment. He is sleeping. Go and see him.”

“You have shaved him,” Madeline said with a laugh when she came back out of the bedchamber. “And did not cut his chin even once. How clever of you.”

“I was allowed to do nothing for him this morning except bring him a food tray,” Ellen said. “If he had had his sword beside him, I believe he would have held me off with that.”

Madeline laughed again. “Oh, you do my heart good,” she said. “Dearest Dom. And I suppose he was demanding kidneys and ale for breakfast?”

“Beefsteak and porter, actually,” Ellen said.

Both women giggled and felt strange doing so, as if they were performing some long-forgotten skill. They looked at each other in some embarrassment, and both ended up with tears in their eyes.

“I do wish Lieutenant Penworth were roaring with such discontent,” Madeline said. “Oh, I do wish it. But then, his injuries are in many ways worse than Dom’s, though I do not believe he was ever as close to death. He has to learn to live without a leg and an eye. It is bound to take longer, is it not?”

“He is fortunate to have someone who is willing to spend her time and sympathies on him,” Ellen said with a smile.

“And Dom is fortunate,” Madeline said. “But I cannot help feeling that we are imposing upon you now, Mrs. Simpson. Perhaps you would like to be free to leave here. Shall I make arrangements to have him moved to Lady Andrea’s? I am sure she will not mind. I was hoping to have heard from Edmund in England by now, but still there is nothing. I suppose the mails have been disrupted in the past two weeks.”

“I have no plans,” Ellen said. “And I would not want Lord Eden moved before he has regained some of his strength. Please leave him here.” Her voice shook a little. “I believe I need something to keep me occupied for a while yet.”

Madeline bit her lip and looked away. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I shall leave him here, then. And thank you. Will you tell Dom that I have been? The lieutenant was asleep when I left, but he does not sleep for long. He will be needing me again. I shall call again tomorrow if I may.”

She hurried away again soon after, eager to return to her main patient. She felt so very sorry for him. He was very young to have lost both his looks and his fitness. And he had been a vigorous young man who had enjoyed exercise and outdoor activity more than anything. She tried to imagine the same thing happening to Dom, and she knew that he would rather be dead. As Lieutenant Penworth would. He had told her that more than once.

He needed her now. She was the only person he would respond to, the only one he would listen to. She sat by his bedside sometimes for an hour or more, chattering away about her childhood, her girlhood, Amberley, the strange circumstances that had brought Edmund and Alexandra together, anything she could think of to distract his thoughts for a few minutes. And talking was something she had always been good at.

It felt lovely to be needed. Although she would many times prefer that the lieutenant had not been so wounded, since he had, she was glad that chance had brought him to Lady Andrea’s house and her. For the time, at least, purpose had been given to her life. It would be many weeks, perhaps months, before he would be fit enough to return to England. In the meanwhile, she would stay with him. Lady Andrea had no intention of removing from Brussels while her husband was with the army in Paris anyway.

She herself had nothing to return to England for. Even when Dom was well enough to travel, he would have Mama and Edmund to go back to. She would not be essential to him. She would be her old restless self again. Here she would be needed, perhaps for the rest of the summer.

And it was good to be needed.

She wondered why Edmund had not written. She wondered if he had yet received any of the three letters she had sent. But it did not matter. Dom was safe. And she was so busy that she had very little time to fret for family and home.

LORD EDEN MADE A determined effort over the next few days to regain some of his health and strength. His chest wound was healing nicely now that the abscess had broken, and his ribs were knitting together again. But there was still an annoying amount of pain. He could not move without wincing and gritting his teeth.

He was appalled at his own weakness. Just the effort of standing to wash himself in the mornings exhausted him. He could not walk without leaning heavily on Ellen’s shoulder, and the ten steps to the doorway of the bedchamber and back were almost beyond his endurance. After sitting up in bed for a meal he would slide gratefully back to a lying position again. And he seemed to be sleeping his life away.

He offended the doctor the afternoon after his abscess burst by flatly refusing to be bled, and added insult to injury by laughing at the man outright when he had turned to Mrs. Simpson and recommended a continuance of the diet of toast soaked in weak tea for another two weeks at the least. The surgeon washed his hands of him there and then and did not return after.

He determinedly ate whatever was put in front of him, and would several times have asked for more had he not had the uncomfortable feeling that he was living on Mrs. Simpson’s charity. She had not answered his question about whether he had any money or not. He had no idea where his clothes and gear were. His coat at least, he supposed, must be in sorry shape if the appearance of his chest was any indication.

But he did not worry a great deal about anything except regaining his strength. Those days seemed almost suspended beyond time, and he was not sure that he craved the day when he would be ready to leave those rooms and return to normal life.

They were alone together. Only once-on the morning after his first full day of returned consciousness-did a manservant appear from the other part of the house to stay with him while she went out, presumably to buy more provisions. He told her afterward that he had felt decidedly uncomfortable with the man standing silently just inside the door of the bedchamber, just like a large and humorless jailer. She laughed and left him alone after that during the few spells when she was out of the rooms. Madeline, of course, made whirlwind visits about every second day.

Most of the time, however, he and Mrs. Simpson were alone together. But his self-consciousness disappeared after the first day, once he had taken over looking after his own bodily needs. And he found her a cheerful and gentle companion. She spent most of her days in the room with him, sitting quietly sewing much of the time.

They talked. He told her-at her request-about his childhood and all the numerous scrapes he and Madeline had almost constantly been in. She even told him something of her own childhood, a happy one, she claimed. The man she had called father had always been kind to her, though as the years went on she had seen less and less of him, and sometimes when he came he had been in his cups. He had never mistreated her even then, she said, but she had not liked his glittering eyes, the smell of liquor on his breath. Her mother had always been a lovely, vivacious, seldom-seen presence, admired and adored from a distance.

“It is only looking back from an adult vantage point that I can realize what an unhappy household it was,” she said quietly, stitching at her embroidery. “Children very readily accept almost any kind of life as normal. I used to hate to hear them quarrel, but I did not hear it so very often. Tell me more about your own parents. It must have been dreadful to lose your father when you were only twelve.”

And so he talked on and sometimes even brought a smile to her eyes and a laugh to her lips.

But they did not always talk. Sometimes she sat quietly, her head bent to her work, and he watched her until he fell asleep. And sometimes he would open his eyes to find her sitting watching him.

It should have been embarrassing, the silences, the meeting of eyes in a quiet room in an empty house. But it was not so. Not at all. Sometimes their eyes would hold for several seconds before one of them would say something or smile or before he would close his eyes. There was never any feeling of discomfort.

She was an amazingly strong woman for someone so slender and of no more than average height. She never stumbled, though he leaned heavily on her at first when he walked. And she could take much of his weight on her arm as he sat up in bed or lay down again, so that he would not have to put so much strain on his chest muscles.

Often when she thought he slept, he would hear the rustle of her skirts and feel the coolness of her hand on his brow, checking for a return of his fever. He would never show her at such moments that he was not sleeping. He liked the nearness of her, the touch of her.

IT WAS FIVE DAYS after the end of his fever when he woke up one night to the sound of his own voice. He was sitting up in bed, the pain from his ribs only just penetrating his consciousness and robbing him of breath. He was cold with terror.

Ellen had been sleeping in Jennifer’s room, as she did each night, the doors open so that she would hear him if he called. He had yelled several times in succession, and she had come running.

“What is it?” she said. She bent toward him in the darkness, a hand on his shoulder. “Is there something wrong?”

“God!” he said, gasping through his pain. “God!”

“Was it a nightmare?” she asked. Her other hand was cool on his brow.

“God!” he said again. He had been bending over dead eyes with all hell breaking loose about him. “Yes, a nightmare.”

“It will be all right now,” she said gently. She helped him to lie down again, and smoothed the hair back from his brow. She was leaning right over him, a slim young woman with a shawl thrown over her white nightgown, and heavy fair hair falling forward on either side of her face and over her shoulders. He could see her quite clearly, used as his eyes were to the darkness.

He felt instantly comforted. “I woke you,” he said. “I am sorry.”

“You need not apologize,” she said. She was stroking his cheek with her fingertips. She had done that before. He could remember. “Would you like me to sit by you for a while?”

He shook his head. “I have kept you up long enough,” he said. He did not know he had lifted his hand until he saw it put one side of her hair back over her shoulder. He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. Soft warm skin.

She did not move. His fingers were warm and gentle on her cheek.

“Ellen,” he whispered.

Neither of them knew afterward if he drew her head down or if she brought it down of her own accord, or if perhaps they both moved with that strange togetherness that had grown between them in the past days. However it was, their mouths met. And held together. And opened and caressed and explored. And one of his arms moved around her shoulders and the other hand to cup the back of her head. Her hands were on the pillow at either side of his head. Her wrists rested against his shoulders.

Thick silky hair. The scent of her that he had been aware of for weeks. The beauty and warmth and softness of her. The gentleness and sweetness and womanliness of her.

“Ellen.” His hand was at the buttons down the front of her nightgown, and she raised herself on her arms to help him. She was not stopping him. She was helping him, encouraging him. “Ellen.”

He pushed the linen away from her shoulders to her arms and took her breasts in his hands. Full and firm. Silky smooth. Nipples already taut. Taut for him. She wanted him.

She wanted him. His hands were warm and gentle, as she had known they would be. They knew where to touch her. How to touch her. His thumbs brushed the peaks of her breasts, creating a sweet agony that rose into her throat and spiraled down into her womb.

“Ellen.” He was staring up into the shadows of her eyes. She had raised herself the full length of her arms, but she made no attempt to cover herself or move away from him. He reached across himself to grasp the bedclothes and pull them back. She looked down at them and stood up beside the bed. She wriggled her shoulders so that the nightgown slid down her arms and fell away from her completely, and she accepted his invitation by climbing into the bed beside him. He covered her with the sheet and turned onto his side, biting his lip as he did so.

He could feel the heat of her as soon as he touched her, the tautness of her, the eagerness to find his mouth in the darkness. She was warm, soft, shapely. Eager for him. Not with the feigned eagerness of the numerous courtesans with whom he had lain in the past, but with the hot straining eagerness of a woman for her lover.

She came to him, put herself against him, felt the warm length of his limbs, felt his arms close about her, his mouth reaching for hers. And there was no thought to holding back. She gave herself fully and eagerly. This was what she had wanted. What she had always wanted. She had always wanted him. Always loved him. And there was an enormous hurt somewhere that he would soothe for her. That he would take away.

He covered her mouth with his and traced her lips with his tongue before plunging into the warm, moist cavity beyond. She was beautiful. All woman. All eager hot yielding woman. Eager and hot for him. Yielding to him.

And he wanted her. God, he wanted her. Had wanted her for days. For weeks. All his life. He had always wanted her. Always searched for her. Only for her. He took fire.

And turned her beneath him on the bed. And rolled heavily on top of her and lay still until he could get the pain under control. He could not lift his weight away from her. He was forced to crush her into the mattress.

But she did not complain. She wrapped her arms about him, opened herself to him, raising her knees to his hips. And she lifted her face to his again.

“Ellen.” He kissed her, deeply, deeply. And moved his hands down her warm sides, past her breasts to her slim waist, over the very feminine curve of her hips. And beneath her. She hugged him with her thighs. And he found her in the darkness, the entrance to her, and he hid his face in the soft silkiness of her hair and pushed himself into the blessed deep heat of her.

They both gasped.

“Dominic. Dominic.”

Her hands were roving over his back, above and below the bandages, and she tilted herself to meet him, moved against him and with him so that he clenched his teeth and closed his eyes very tightly and willed control on himself.

“Yes. Oh, please. Yes.”

“Ellen. So beautiful. Oh, my love.”

“Yes. Dominic. Oh, please. Please.”

They found a rhythm together, and he moved his hands up into her hair and took her mouth with his again.

And this. Oh, yes, this. Dominic. He was loving her and she him. This was as it had to be. As it had always had to be. Dominic loving her and she loving him. Nothing held back. Giving and receiving. Together. Loving. Yes. Oh, this. Surely some part of her had always known.

He turned his face into her hair again and drove into her and into her until he lost himself-long before he wanted to and long before he was sure she was ready. He took all that she had to give and gave her all of himself until he lay throbbing and spent in her, all of his weight pressing down on her.

He rolled away from her, biting down hard on both his lips so that she would not hear his pain, and keeping one arm beneath her head. He pulled the bedclothes as neatly as possible around them and looked at her. Her eyes were open, he could see.

“I squashed you?” he asked, putting her hair back over her shoulder with his free hand.

“No.” She traced the line of his lower lip with one light finger and then closed her eyes.

There was a bewilderment. An emptiness. A disappointment. She had not been ready to let him go. And yet there was an exhilaration. A warm glow. A satisfaction. He was her lover. He loved her. He had been inside her. There was still the throbbing, the aching pain where he had been. And his arms still held her. She breathed in the warmth of him.

And she loved him.

She slept almost immediately. He could tell from the evenness of her breathing. He was breathing shallowly, waiting for the pain to recede, knowing that it must do so eventually if he lay very still.

And he watched her the while in wonder. Wonder at himself that he had not recognized her until that night. He had known her for a long time, had liked her, respected her, admired her. Even felt the pull of an unwilling attraction. But he had not recognized her. For three weeks while he had lain in this bed he had come to depend upon her, to feel comforted and happy only when she was there. And yet he had not recognized her. For days he had drawn closer to her, felt her beauty, the sweetness and strength of her character, known that he did not want these days to end. But he had still not recognized her.

He had searched for her for years. And he had persisted in looking for her in young girls who were frail and in need of his protection. But she was strong and had sheltered him with her protection. And she was no girl. He simply had not recognized her.

But here she was anyway, in this bed, in his arms, warm from his lovemaking. The woman of his life. The love of his life. Ellen.

He tested a somewhat deeper breath. The pain was receding.

Was she always as wildly passionate? Had she been like this for Charlie?

No, no, no, no. No! Lord Eden found that he was shaking his head from side to side on the bed and gritting his teeth. Not yet. Not that name. Not yet. He was not ready yet.

He gazed at Ellen and knew beyond any doubt that this was no brief passion for him. He loved her. She had just given everything with no demand for anything in return. But he would give anyway. All of himself. All that he had. It was all hers. He had searched all his life for her. Now that he had found her, all he had, all he was, was hers.

Ellen.

His pain had gone. Her bare legs felt warm and smooth against his own. He could smell her fragrance again. She felt very, very good.

He closed his eyes.