The Bride Insists by Jane Ashford Page B

Her husband obliged, drawing her further and further into a torrent of sensation, until there was nothing left in her world but the two of them, in the firelight, together. The feeling became almost unbearably intense, and then it burst into waves of delight that shook her to the depths.
    Feeling her response, Jamie plunged into the mysteries of marriage like a madman diving off the sea cliff behind Trehearth. A flash of vertigo, and then he was immersed, riding a tide of pleasure that carried him far beyond the realms of rational thought.
    Clare felt a flash of pain, a mere nothing compared with what she had just experienced. She held Jamie as he moved within her, and felt an odd sort of pride when he cried out in an ecstasy of release. She’d made him lose control, just as he had done to her. There was a sort of reciprocal power in it, as well as delight.
    He held her in his arms, their hearts pounding together, breath gradually slowing. Then Jamie slipped away to lie beside her on the white pillows. He didn’t speak, and after a while Clare grew self-conscious. “I suppose we are truly married now,” she said. When he didn’t reply, she risked a glance. Jamie was asleep in a tangle of limbs next to her. The long days of riding had caught up with him.
    Freed now to look as much as she liked, Clare turned on her side and watched him. The planes of his face were smoothed in repose, and he looked younger and more vulnerable. She wanted to brush his black hair back off his forehead, but she didn’t dare disturb him. What would it be like to trace the outline of those skillful lips with a fingertip? she wondered. Or to explore all the contours of his male body with her hands, as he had hers? A thrill went through her as she realized that she could soon find the answers to those questions. There would be a thousand other nights like this. More than a thousand. She’d feared that her unorthodox marriage would make this part of life difficult. She was very glad to have been proved quite, quite wrong.

Seven
    Waking just past dawn, Jamie was at first disoriented by the angle of light filtering through the ancient curtains. The bed was on the wrong wall. Then his perceptions realigned, and he remembered he was in Clare’s room. She lay beside him, gleaming hair scattered across the pillow, breath soft and even. Her face, which could sometimes seem remote in the waking world, was an image of peaceful beauty. He hadn’t woken once in the night, he realized. It was years since he’d slept that well, a seemingly endless period of bolting upright in the small hours, sweating with fear about the future. He had Clare to thank for that in a number of ways.
    She was so lovely, lying there, unconscious of his gaze. His hand reached out to touch that silken skin. If last night was any measure, she would welcome him with open arms. He imagined those pale eyelids lifting, her tiger eyes meeting his, and his hand pulled back. Jamie Boleigh had never been in a relationship with an adult woman that he could not easily break off. His liaisons had been pleasurable and fleeting—with no occasion to wonder what a lover might think of him. Night and morning were such different creatures. He didn’t want to put a foot wrong. His stomach growled, protesting yesterday’s near fast. His head throbbed with an echo of its usual morning ache. He had so much to do.
    Jamie slipped out of bed, quietly added wood to the coals of the fire, and gathered his scattered clothing. He eased through the connecting door to his own room, fruitlessly wishing that he would find a can of hot water there. And a cup of strong tea. He would have done much for a simple cup of tea.
    Clare felt precisely the same longings when she woke a while later. In the households where she’d lived, even a governess received those small luxuries. Today, she would absolutely find Mrs. Pendennis some help. And tomorrow, perhaps, the cup of tea