“Justin ...” she said.
But he hushed her and stooped down to lift her into his arms, her knees resting on the blanket he carried. And he took her down into the clearing and twirled once about with her before setting her down on her feet.
“You see? There is no breeze down here. It is almost warm.” And when she smiled, he said, “Well, we can pretend it is almost warm.”
“Justin ...” she said.
“My snow angel was far more talkative than this,” he said.
“Your snow angel?”
“She chattered and played and laughed—and cried,” he said.
“She was happy,” she said. “For two days and two nights she was utterly happy.”
“Was she?” He turned from her to spread the blanket on the grass among the flowers and drew her down to lie beside him, her head on the crook of his arm. “Can it be recaptured, that happiness?”
“It already has been,” she said. “Now, at this moment, I am happy, Justin. And I don’t care about anything else but this moment. Nothing else exists. All we ever have is the moment.”
“And the hope of many more beyond it,” he said, his hand parting her cloak to touch her beneath it. “As many moments as there are, Rosamund. I want them all. I never said I was not greedy, did I?”
“Justin ...” She turned her face in to his neck as his hand found one breast and fondled it and then moved behind her back to undo the buttons of her dress. Her own hands began to open the buttons of his greatcoat.
“I want you,” he said against her mouth. “You understand me, don't you? I don’t mean just this and now. I want you, all of you for all time.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” And she waited for his hands to slide her dress from her shoulders and down her arms before opening his coat and putting herself inside it.
“Tell me you want me too,” he said, his hand raising her skirt, smoothing over her warm thighs.
“I want you,” she said.
“But not just in this way, Rosamund?”
“No,” she said, “not only in this way, Justin.”
And she was inside his coat and his waistcoat and his shirt, her hands and her breasts against the firm muscles and rough hairs of his chest, and his mouth was wide over hers and his tongue moist and seeking against her own, and his hand found her beneath the warm bunching of her skirt.
“Make love to me,” she said. “Please make love to me, Justin.”
Smiling eyes looked down into hers. “That’s what I am doing, love,” he said. “Haven’t we had this conversation before? Where do you want me to love you? Here?”
“Yes, there,” she said. “There. Please, Justin.”
He had intended to take longer. He had wanted to touch her, to play with her all night if possible before the final consummation. But she was right. This was not play. This was love. And he needed union with her as much as she needed it with him.
The moon was bright in a clear sky, the air crisp. They were surrounded by long grass and daffodils and the scents of spring. And the woman beneath him was hot and welcoming and moaned for him when he came into her.
All the glory of a spring night was above her. Her face was bathed in moonlight and starlight. The night air was cool on her bare legs. But the man above her and in her, his hands beneath her cushioning her as his body thrust her against the hard ground, was warm and heavy and wonderful.
They cried out together and clung to each other as the moonlight streamed down and the daffodils at the upper edges of the clearing waved in the breeze.
“I should have asked,” he said, his voice husky, feathering kisses over her face as he held her warmly against him many minutes later, his greatcoat and her cloak wrapped about them both. “Is there any chance that I have got you with child?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Ah. ” He kissed her mouth. “It will have to be by special license, then, and not by banns and betrothal parties and the gathering of trousseaux and St. George’s and all that. Will you mind?”
“What will have to be by special license?” she asked, running a finger along his jaw. “Have I missed something?”
