Tall Poppies (20 page)

‘I do love you,' she whispered, not knowing whether she was trying to convince him or herself.

He stooped to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat, then on he went, his mouth nibbling a trail to her breast. When his tongue gently circled the sensitive nub, shivers wracked her spine and she arched against him with a small, frenzied cry. He abandoned it in favour of the other breast, which swelled willingly into his mouth as if offering itself as a sacrifice.

She'd never imagined that making love would be so pleasurable, so frustrating, so exquisitely unashamed and so  . . . so abandoned, as his hands created magic in her and she opened to his touch.

She dared to respond, her fingers gently stroking him, until a little groan came from his mouth. He'd begun to perspire, and the salt on his skin against her tongue had the tang of the ocean about it.

She became aware then of the subtle change in him  . . . of his need  . . . of her own need in the moisture of their loving. But his breath was coming harshly, and she instinctively knew they'd lose the magic of what was happening between them unless she helped him achieve what he'd set out to do.

Her hands closed around him, the silky shaft, half-aroused, gradually grew rigid. ‘I don't think  . . . I can manage this  . . . no strength,' he panted.

‘I have some to spare, just help me a little.' She moved astride him and poised over him because it seemed the right thing to do, her moist centre just touching and teasing him.

His palms slid one over each buttock and he brought her sliding down his shaft. His murmurs were contented as she began to move, his hands guiding her. Eventually he found enough energy to allow his pelvis to rise and meet her.

She leaned forward, feeling the need to kiss him, but his breath was laboured now. Instead, she took his golden curls loosely in her fingers and looked into the brilliance of his eyes, flickering in the candlelight.

‘You smell of rose-musk and arousal,' he murmured, and he closed his eyes as she tightened her muscles around him. It didn't take long, and he gave a heartfelt groan when everything came together into a climax of sorts. He reached the point of satisfaction, but Livia still felt a little keyed up, as though she was on the outside looking in. She'd wanted more, and still did, but thought that it might be a different feeling for women.

Afterwards, he drew in a storm of harsh, ragged gasps, his chest heaving and his heart beating rapidly against her palm. It scared her.

‘Do you feel all right? Should I fetch Beamish?'

‘Not needed  . . . be all right  . . . soon.'

Gradually his breathing calmed, and he said, ‘I never thought that would happen. Thank you, my love.'

‘I'd better go back to my own room.'

‘No  . . . stay with me tonight  . . . please.'

‘I'll blow the candles out.'

‘They'll blow themselves out.'

She cuddled into him and he kissed her ear. ‘I adore you, my darling, wonderful Livia. Goodnight.'

She watched him fall asleep, and contemplated the fragile fey beauty of his face. It was as if he'd been marked by his fate since the beginning of time. A tear crept down her cheek and fell on to his, where it glistened like a diamond.

She watched over him while, one by one, the candles drowned in hot wax and sputtered into extinction.

He would go like that too, his blessed flame snuffed by his last breath, she thought. And she'd miss him beyond measure.

Beyond the window was a false dawn, the thin threads of yellow light dividing the darkness into bands. Downstairs in the hall, the clock struck four. It was one of the witching hours when souls were most likely to leave the body – or so she'd heard.

Richard murmured something in his sleep when she rose from their warm nest. They won't get your soul tonight, my love, she thought, as she pulled the curtains across.

Livia woke to find Richard gazing at her from the chair by the window. Light streamed in from behind him, forcing her to screw her eyes up. He was fully dressed.

‘Are you up already?'

He laughed. ‘It's ten-thirty.'

‘Esmé!'

‘Don't worry, everything is organized. Mrs Anstruther took her to school. I've ordered breakfast for eleven; that gives you half-an-hour in which to get bathed and dressed. Florence has run your bath.'

Her eyes widened. ‘Florence knows I slept with you?'

‘The whole house will know by now, I expect. We are married, after all.'

‘No wonder you look so smug.'

‘I feel extremely smug. I slept well. You?'

‘I watched you sleep until the candles went out.' She looked round for her robe, found it on the end of the bed and slid into it.

‘No wonder you slept late. We're going into Poole to see a dressmaker after breakfast. I can't have my wife walking around in my mother's cast-offs, and wearing circus tents to bed. You can choose your patterns and fabrics from their catalogue.'

‘I didn't wear anything to bed.'

‘Except me.' He grinned. ‘It was fun, wasn't it?'

She kissed his cheek on the way to the bathroom as a reply, even though she was blushing rosily all over at the thought of what had taken place between them.

‘Livia.'

She turned.

‘What happened between us  . . . you enchanted me last night, and it makes me feel as though I've made the child mine.'

She returned to where he was seated and her eyes searched his. ‘But that wasn't the reason behind it, was it?'

‘No  . . . it was because I adore you, and wanted the intimacy of us being part of each other. I don't know if that can ever happen again. I don't know—'

She placed a finger over his mouth. ‘Don't say any more, Richard. Let's love each other the best we can, while we can, and take each day as it comes.'

‘Will you stay in my bed?'

‘Is that a request or a question?'

‘You know which it is. Well?'

Her head slanted to one side and she gave him a faint smile as she touched her stomach. ‘Yes, I'd like to  . . . at least, while there's still room. And while it's comfortable for you.'

Poole was in its usual bustle. It was a busy port, the quay a hive of activity. The berths were full of ships, their masts swaying with the movement of the water. Seagulls wheeled and shrieked overhead. Brownsea Island dominated the harbour.

‘Didn't you spend some time at Brownsea recovering from your injuries before you came home, Richard?' she said.

He nodded. ‘It depends whether you regard a mental condition as an injury. They treated the bullet wounds before I went there. They nursed soldiers suffering from shell shock and nervous breakdowns. Some people classified it as cowardice  . . . including my father. He was ashamed of me being there, and only visited me once, on the day I came home. Luckily, I have the scars from the bullet wounds to redeem my worth in his eyes.'

He was brutal about his condition, and about his father, and she tried not to flinch.

‘Mrs Van Raalte, who owned the island, was very good to us all. Beamish joined me there. He insisted on looking after me and refused to leave. In the end he was found a room and became an honorary nurse. They found him useful for lifting us about. I don't know what I would have done without him.'

Beamish shrugged. ‘Neither do I.' He placed Richard in a wooden chair with wheels, to trundle him around town in.

They found an establishment with a discreet shop front, which was very superior. Livia went through the patterns and fabrics, and was measured from head to toe. She ordered several outfits, and bought a couple of frocks that were already made up.

She would still wear Margaret Sangster's legacy to her, though. Longer skirts were still in fashion, and she could always alter the length if need be.

They had lunch in a hotel, where the men supped on a glass of ale. After they'd eaten the two men exchanged a glance, and Beamish grinned when Richard handed Livia a wad of money and said, ‘Why don't you go off and buy some frilly bits and pieces? We'll wait here for you.'

She gazed from one to the other, suspicious. ‘I smell a conspiracy. I'll be back in one hour, and I'll expect you both to be sober.'

She was exactly one hour. They weren't sober. Richard's smile was so wide it threatened to swallow his ears, and she couldn't smother her laugh at the thought. This man had so much charm he could get away with anything with her, and she suspected he knew it.

She glanced at the half-empty glasses. ‘Are you nearly ready, gentlemen? I have the car outside.'

Their hands reached out for the glasses, Richard's shaking slightly as it folded round the glass. The liquid disappeared down their throats in one smooth swallow apiece.

Richard and his wheelchair were stowed in the back amongst the parcels.

‘There isn't any room for my feet, Beamish old boy,' he said.

Beamish offered a solution. ‘Stick them out of the soddin' window, Captain. That's what it's for.'

Beamish gazed to where Livia had taken her place behind the wheel. He looked as though he were about to argue, until she said, ‘Say one word, Mr Beamish, and you can walk home. Give the handle a turn, would you please.'

Behind her, Richard deflated himself with an authoritative belch and lay down, saving himself the bother of trying to arrange his feet.

Beamish scrambled into the front passenger seat, banging his head on the roof on the way in. He tried to look casual as she set the car in motion. Soon his head was nodding on his chest as she drove sedately through the countryside. Both men began to snore.

‘The pair of you are a disgrace,' she said, giggling because she couldn't find it in her heart to blame them for their transgression. They all needed to unwind now and again.

It was four p.m. when they arrived home, and she was a bit peeved that her passengers hadn't stayed awake to observe her driving prowess. Beamish had recovered his wits, and he gave her a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry.'

‘Don't be. You should take Richard to the local inn for a pint sometimes. It will do him good to mix with other people.'

‘We have to be careful with his medication.'

‘Perhaps it's something I should learn to manage. After all, you'll be married soon and will want to spend more time with Florence.'

Beamish's face assumed a slightly stubborn expression. ‘Captain Sangster's welfare is my responsibility.'

‘I rather think the doctor is in charge, don't you?'

The huff of laughter he gave was derisory. ‘Your husband would tell you otherwise if you asked him.'

Though instinct told her not to, she pursued the subject. ‘I'm sure Doctor Elliot would teach me how to give Richard his injection if I asked.'

His eyes came up to hers. ‘Injection? I think you're mistaken, Mrs Sangster. The only medication the captain is prescribed is a sedative to calm him down on occasion.'

‘I'm sure I saw a hypodermic needle in the bathroom once.'

‘With respect, it would be better for all concerned if you forget about what you saw. That's your husband's business, and he knows what's best for him.'

So that's why Beamish went on day trips to London now and again. ‘What is he addicted to?'

‘Cocaine.'

He leaned into the car and brought the wheelchair out before giving Richard a gentle shake. ‘We're home, Sir.'

Richard woke with a grunt and gazed around him. ‘We got home safely, despite having Livia in the driving seat, then?'

Her sigh was exaggerated. ‘Less of your impudence, Sangster.'

Taking Richard under the armpits, Beamish slid him out of the car and into the wheelchair. ‘Upstairs or downstairs?'

‘Up. I want to see what Livia has in all those parcels, though it will take a week to get them all out of the car.'

‘Are you sure you've got your feet with you, Richard?'

‘My feet?' He gazed down at them, then at her with some bewilderment. ‘I do have a vague recollection  . . . did I lose them?'

Beamish chuckled. ‘Mrs Sangster's mind is as keen as mustard today, so if I were you I'd leave the matter right there, Sir.'

Knowing the advice was for herself, not for Richard, Livia decided it might be wise to take it.

From then on, and as the weeks carried them on towards summer they made love in a rather one-sided manner. Richard's ability to function fully as a man had not returned after one further brief exchange, although he still appreciated and enjoyed the intimate, sensory exchange between them; saying it was relaxing.

Livia thought it was rather that he wanted to please her. He'd learned when the moment was right for her, and she for him, so they didn't leave each other in need.

‘I don't want a frustrated wife who will look to be satisfied in bed elsewhere, so tell me if you need more attention, and don't be shy.'

‘What about you?'

‘This is as good as it will get for me. I'm thankful you were too inexperienced to know the difference between myself and a man who has his health and strength, and love on his mind.' Now, he brushed the hair back from her brow and kissed her eyelids. ‘You look lovely when you're aroused. Your eyes are seductive and your mouth trembles. Am I making you happy?'

‘I couldn't be happier.' She could only think of one thing that would make her happier  . . . but his complete recovery was impossible. Living intimately as she was now, she'd noticed his breathing deteriorating, and she knew he needed to rest more. He seemed driven, trying to cram more and more into his day, and sometimes seemed too exhausted to speak.

‘My love, you should rest more,' she said.

‘I haven't got time to rest. I was thinking it would be nice to have a supper party and invite everyone. The end of June might be a good time. It's my birthday about then, so we can use that as an excuse. If it's a nice evening we can open the French windows and use the patio off the drawing room for dancing. I'll write the guest list and send out the invitations.'