Chapter 17

If Atlas had seen hell in the Netherlands, he glimpsed heaven now. Its location England, Hampshire, Briarcliff, his bedchamber, the warm center of his very own bed. The luscious body of his very own wife. Who welcomed him to her side.

"I'll give you everything you need," he whispered, his lips against her neck. Cowardly words that hid the truth—he meant to take. Everything he could. While he still could. He dragged his lips down the length of her neck and nibbled along her collarbone. He nipped at the round of her shoulder, licked his way to that little crook in her elbow, bent because her hands were tangled in his hair, igniting his scalp with a field of sparks where skin caressed skin.

"I'm a greedy woman." Sounded like a warning. "What if I need everything?"

He almost couldn't touch her, her luscious body too perfect a work of art to mar with his rough hands. If he'd drawn the perfect woman, it would have resembled her in every way—tall, soft, strong, generous curves, a study in contrasts with pale skin and dark auburn hair. Her breasts—so much more than a goddamn handful… Was he salivating? They made him feel a wolf, ready to pounce.

Unable to look without touching after such a long fast of adoring Clara with his fingertips, he settled his hands gently on her. He palmed her breast, stopping her words, then dragged his lips over her breasts. A bounty, a feast. A distraction from her question. Her dark nipple puckered, a deep-red bloom on a creamy field. He licked it, sucked it, and she arched with a moan while he played with the other breast. Good. So, so good. He'd almost forgotten the taste of her—sweet with the tang of sweat. He tasted her again, a shiver rioting through him. Nothing better than Clara with a sheen of sweat across her skin. And so much skin to delight him. Her breasts overflowed from his large hands, and his cock throbbed harder. She moaned. He ached to drive into her.

Not yet.

Keeping a single, blessed hand on her bosom, he licked a line down her torso, kissing each silvery mark of stretched skin on belly. The woman possessed art all over her body, the paintbrush that had marked her a life lived boldly. She was thick and creamy and soft. Strong muscle beneath her curves. Her entire body winding his like a clock. Tight and hard and needing to thrust home.

Not yet.

He wanted to tend to her needs first, and she'd liked it when he'd cupped the curls between her legs, when he'd slipped his tongue into her and stroked her to a frenzy. He'd liked it to. Like? Ha. Such a paltry word. He'd wanted to taste her morning, noon, and night. He craved her as he'd craved any morsel of food, water, safety, when he'd been abroad. Her lovely form all of that combined—sustenance to break his fast, water to revive him, safety to curl up in.

Stroking his hands up and down her body, from knee to her perfectly curvy hip and back again, he tasted her. She grabbed for him, couldn't quite reach, fisted her hands in the blankets instead. His name a moan on her lips. Her taste a miracle on his tongue. He'd do nothing to muck it up this time. She'd somehow found reason to invite him back into the bed, and he'd do everything in his power to remain there.

"Atlas," she breathed. He'd lost count of how many times she'd said it. His name rushed forth with every breath she took.

His body raged to take her. He caged it.

Not yet.

Her hips rolled and bucked, her body close to where he wanted it. So he pulled away, flipped her from back to belly, and reached a leg backward for the edge of the bed. He lowered himself to the floor. She rolled her head to regard him quizzically, sleepy eyes round with curiosity.

He answered her question by clasping her hips, dragging her backward. She gave a little yelp, then a laugh, and as her feet settled on the floor before his, she wriggled her delectable arse into his cock.

He hissed, his every muscle snapping rigid.

"Too slow, Atlas," she moaned. "It's been so long. Now."

He lightly smacked the side of her bloody gorgeous arse, and she yelped, chuckled, seemed to sink deeper into the bed.

He leaned over her until his body fit perfectly against hers, her backside tight and warm in the crook of his hips, and he whispered in her ear, "I'm not done tending to you, love."

Her breath hitched, but she huffed and mumbled, "Selfish scoundrel."

A truth, though she didn't mean it.

He stood upright until only their thighs touched. Their thighs and the hand he stroked up and down her spine, letting it find a home at the base and dipping the tip of his thumb between her globes. "Yes, yes I am."

Her body jerked. She tried to turn. "No, Atlas, I was teas?—"

He dragged the tip of his cock between the perfect halves of her arse, his hands tightening on her hips. Her thighs clenched together as he dipped his shaft between them, teasing her swollen sex. He kissed a path up her spine, nipped at the back of one shoulder, at her neck.

Her body trembled, her hand clenching and unclenching in the sheets. "I want to touch you."

"I'm not done giving you what you need."

"I need to touch you, damn you, Atlas."

He chuckled, nipped at her earlobe.

"I need you inside me." A plea.

He needed that, too. And since she asked so nicely… He tried to never disappoint.

He slid one hand beneath her to tend to that perfect breast as he drove into her from behind. All of him all at once. Her sharp inhale, then her muscles going limp for a languid moment. He slid out of her, then back in with even more hot intention, watching her react to his every move, watching her writhe and grin and revel in what their bodies created together.

In and out of her, so slowly, so many times. He bit his lower lip, his body crying out for him to go faster. Better to ignore that urge and give her pleasure in the slick slide of him, so slowly, inside of her. She couldn't move much, but she didn't seem to mind. She laid herself bare and open before him. He fisted a hand in her hair and tugged her toward him, arching her neck. His other hand fastened tight around her hip, holding her steady, and he thrust hard and fast. Faster. Almost…

Not yet.

All for her. He slipped a hand around to the front of her body and found that little pearl he loved to tease. The slightest circle of pressure around it produced a little cry from her lovely lips, and he almost lost himself in it. Couldn't hold on anymore. He thrust again, then faster, harder, his hand working her toward the pleasure he would soon take for himself. Each slap of his hips against her arse, a note of pure abandon; the moan and cry that flew from her lips when she found release, a lovely lyric. The grunt of his own shattering orgasm as he pulled from her body and spent on the sheets, a crescendo of perfect harmony.

Rough, heavy breaths rent the air—his and hers. Barely able to stand, he kissed whatever skin his lips could reach. She laughed, a huffy sound, and reached for him, her own movements heavy, lazy.

With a grunt, he hefted himself onto the bed, gathered her to him, and dragged them both toward the top of it, tucking their sated bodies beneath the blankets, her back pressed against his front. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, wrapped his hand around her gorgeous, thick hair. Could he reach her jaw? He could. So he kissed that, too. And he continued kissing as the heaviness of satiation settled across him like a velvet cloak, and he whispered to her.

No, he sang to her. A song that came to him from the fog of sated pleasure, the haze of satisfaction. "The lord hid in the shadows, made darkness his domain. But his tender bride knew sorrow, and how to heal the pain." Words only for her, whispered into the shell of her ear as his hand stroked and teased, circled and worshipped. She partnered his thoughtless lyrics with little mewling moans of pleasure, with gusts of his name.

"Atlas, oh Atlas." She rolled her hips against his hand, rolled her backside against his hips.

He nipped her shoulder, tweaked her nipple, and she shattered, conscious thought gone with a cry. She spun in his hold to bury her face into the cradle of his arm beneath her, her body still bucking and rolling like the sea, and when he kissed her nape, he tasted the salt of her sweat. The last time he'd been on a boat, in the ocean, he'd been wounded, casting up his accounts, wishing someone would just throw him overboard and be done with it. To return home, to his family, as a burden instead of a helping hand—impossible. A nightmare.

Since then, he'd not thought of the sea without thinking of pain, of failure. But now, now, every time he thought of that vast expanse, of salt and the rolling waves beneath his body, he'd think of Clara, not of pain, but of beauty and pleasure and the trust a woman put into a man's hand when she opened her body for him. Words sang around the edges of his fading consciousness. Home was lost and beauty dead until she gave me life. Incomplete. Songs were more than single sentences. But they started somewhere, and those words, Clara in his arms, felt more like a beginning than it should.

The sun peeped in through the window, shy, as if it were a society gossip, eager to discover the events of the night before and not be caught. Clara would give it news aplenty. Despite the warm heaven of Atlas's sleeping arms, she rose, folding herself upright and peering at her husband's legs. Covered by the quilt, unfortunately. And when there was sun enough to see properly. How very unaccommodating of him. She rolled gently out of the bed, found her poor wrinkled shift, and pulled it on, then padded across the room to the wardrobe. She opened a small drawer, it's shush the only noise in the room. Where was it? Ah, yes, just there—a small green bottle stoppered with cork.

She grasped the oil and shut the drawer, then padded back to bed. Squeaks and creaks and groans as she crawled atop it, settled herself in a cross-legged position at her husband's hips. She glared at the blanket. Quite in the way. But no hardship to her to get rid of it. Slowly, though, so as not to wake him. But… perhaps she did wish to wake him. She touched her lips. They curved so easily into a smile. Made her smile deepen, grow. Inside, too.

The sheet lay bunched under his arm, just under his chest, and she allowed herself a moment to appreciate that lovely bit of Atlas before she curled her fingers around the sheet edge and pulled.

His eyes flashed open. He grinned. "Good morning."

"The best of mornings. You underestimate."

He rolled onto his elbow, his palm supporting his head and pulled her down for a kiss, his other hand wrapped around her neck. Firm lips, warm Atlas. Her heart danced.

But she had a mission. She broke the kiss and nudged him to his back with a palm to his chest. "Stay just there. No objections, either. They'll sail in one ear and drop out the other."

"Can't object when a beautiful woman demands I recline before her in bed." He folded an arm behind his head, and, holy Hepplewhite, the ripple of muscle beneath skin stole her breath. Stole her soul, likely. Soldered for life to that round bit of flesh. So much strength, and he bent it all to her will.

Her throat became parchment. Her hands tingled to touch.

No, the cool glass bottle weighing her shift in her lap said, you've a goal, a purpose—keep it in mind.

Yes. For him, for that aching limb. Then, later. For her, his other aching limb.

She plucked the bottle from her lap, held it up. "Oil. With various herbs. Quite fragrant." She held up her hand with the shortened finger. "It aches. Has since it happened, as you can imagine. And it feels lovely to massage it a bit. With the oil. Do you"—her gaze flicked to his thigh—"possess any similar habits?"

The easy grin, the soft jaw—disappeared as his brows slashed downward, as his gaze honed in on the bottle in her hand. "I'm quite well. No need to?—"

"Bollocks. As you would say." She pulled the sheet lower, despite the distraction the plane of muscle that functioned as his abdomen caused.

His fingers joined hers on the sheet edge, pulling back up.

"Modest suddenly?" she asked. He scowled. "Keep your modesty. I just want your leg."

She dove over him, grabbed the side of the sheet dangling off the bed, and yanked it across his body. He still clutched the sheet to his chest, so it covered his shaft. Pity. But she'd tease the entire sheet away from him later.

After.

The wound stretched from the top of his hip to his knee, and the thickness of the scar tissue twisting up his leg spoke to the depth of the gash. Much deeper than the other wounds he'd suffered, much worse. The bullet hole on his shoulder seemed a tiny, insignificant thing in comparison. And the small slashes littered about his chest and back mere cuts, claw marks from an angry cat.

A thrusted bayonet intending to kill.

A miracle Atlas lay like a god on this bed beside her. Alive. Able to move, mostly, as he pleased.

She wrapped her hands around his thigh, smoothed them up and down, learning the feel of his scar, of his muscle. Knotted where it should not be, hard as rock even relaxed. And he was relaxing beneath her touch, every other muscle in his body releasing the tension that had sprung to life within him as soon as she'd dove for the sheet and unveiled his body like a housemaid removing a dust cloth from a bit of furniture long in disuse.

She uncorked the bottle then paused. "May I? Please? I think it might bring you some relief."

"I don't need relief," he grumbled. "I'm perfectly well. Perfectly capable."

"Capable and well are not the same. And I would never suggest you are other than capable. Of course you are. You never stop moving, working, thinking, helping. Of course you are bloody capable."

She tucked her legs beneath her and curled over him until her lips met his scar. She kissed it. "The most capable. I know from experience. But"—she straightened, letting her fingers play across his thigh like his flew across a pianoforte—"being perfectly capable does not mean we are entirely well."

His fingers trailed down her arm, the top of her thigh, traced circles on her knee.

"May I? I think you'll enjoy it." She found a cheeky grin, just for him.

He drew in a shaky breath. "I'd never tell you not to touch me."

"I was counting on that." She pulled the stopper from the bottle and drizzled a bit of the oil into her palm. Holding it like a pool of gold in her palm, she stoppered the bottle once more and set it aside, then rubbed her palms together until they fizzed with warmth. Then she cupped her hands and breathed into her palms. "Best to heat it first."

"I'm already hot, Clara."

And the spark in his eyes gave truth to his words; the rhythmic stroking of his fingers down her thighs sparked heat in her, too. Later. She needed to heat up his leg first.

She curved her palm around his hip at the top tip of his scar and stroked downward, coating his leg with the oil, applying just the tiniest bit of pressure.

He groaned.

"Hurt or…?" She paused, watching his face for an answer.

"Or."

"Don't lie, Atlas Bromley."

"A bit of both."

She restarted her rubbing, up and down, pressing the sharp edges of the side of her hand into the downward motion. "It is a… terrifying wound. Will you tell me about it?" A gentle smooth upward, a hard rub down.

He would not answer her.

She sighed.

"The battle would be won in an hour or so." He gave a brittle laugh. "So close to escaping without more than a few scrapes." He fiddled with the hem of her shift. "The gate had been closed. We were holding against the French. Everyone… elated. Me too. No, not quite. The stench of death too thick for that. But… a body doesn't always know when it's hurt. I'd felt a burning tear. I'd seen the man's eyes who'd done it. Wide and bright with fear." He closed his eyes. His head lolled to the side, the scruffy profile of jaw hard against the snowy white of the pillow. "I killed him. So I got the better end of the deal."

Still she massaged his leg, now rubbing little circles slowly around the scar's raised edges.

He groaned and shifted. "Wasn't till later, after the gate was secured and the French inside the walls"—he swallowed hard—"all dead, that the fire in my leg— God. I couldn't hold myself up anymore. Only risked looking at it once. What a bloody nightmare. I was lucky, though. Still alive. And found and tended to early. Others… they remained for days on that field. Dying. Not dead." He cursed, closed his eyes. "I was lucky. Had a good surgeon to sew me up. Didn't lose the leg. Came home, and my mother tended me. Not long."

She wept a bit. Inside, where he could not see. For him, she snorted. "You wouldn't allow her to for long, I'm sure."

The corner of his lip tipped up. Thank God. "No, I wouldn't." He sighed and opened his eyes. "My family less lucky than me."

Her hands stilled on his thigh. "Not at all. You were alive! Quite lucky indeed."

"But unable to help Raph on the estate. Giving my parents all kinds of worry. As if we didn't have enough woes already."

She massaged a bit harder than she perhaps should, digging her knuckles into a tender spot.

His body jerked. "Hell! Clara?"

"Yes?" she asked sweetly. "Too hard? I do apologize."

He hinged at the waist just enough to send his muscles flexing, scattering her thoughts. Not that she needed them after he wrapped his hand up in her hair and pulled her down to the bed for a kiss. "Minx."

"Shall I continue?" She licked the seam of his lips. "Or…"

"Or. Definitely or. But that…" His hand fluttered to his thigh, covered her hand where it still rested there. "But this… I like this."

"Did it help?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"You'll let me do it again?"

"Yes." He squeezed her hand, nudged the side of her nose with the side of his.

"You'll tell me when it aches?"

A pause, the life in his eyes darkening, leaving. Then he blinked and returned to her, inhaled, exhaled, kissed her cheek. "Yes. I will."

A rare gift, that concession. She'd treasure it and ensure he kept his end of the bargain. This man protected her with his name and pleasured her with his body. He protected everyone as well as he could, even with his silence. She would do the same for him.