Inès thought his consideration of her physical comfort typical of her husband’s kindness. They had spent so many hours of each day and night in their bed that it was true, she admitted to herself, she would not have sat a horse easily until now. But she would not have traded the diversion of riding for the bliss of her husband’s intimate attentions. He cared for her. Deeply. Sweetly. She cared in equal measures for him—and she loved him for all of it. Craved his attentions like a child craved sweets. His lips on hers—his hands on her body, his skin on hers—was all she required, and she was crazed enough to admit it.
“You are smiling at me again.” He brought his mount abreast of hers along the trail and raised a branch obstructing his way.
“I have much to celebrate these days.”
His brows arched over a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “As do I. It is the reward of honeymoons.”
She blushed deeply.
They made their way back to their lair.
“When did you first learn to play the piano?”
“I was six. My mother was very accomplished. I loved to hear her playing and wanted to be just like her. I asked and she began to teach me. I think in the beginning I liked it because the practice was so repetitive. I did not know that then, but of course, I do know now that it is the means by which one becomes proficient. I am glad you like my attempts at it. If it helps to establish me as your one and only partner, I am delighted.”
He stopped his horse. “Why would you think you arenotmy one and only, now and forever?”
“Is that young and foolish?” She put a hand to her cheek, hot with more silly embarrassment. She would be jealous. Crazy with it. “Forgive me. I know how men of your status take mistresses after marriage. They do in France. Here too. To expect fidelity from you is— I don’t know. But I want it.”
He slid from his saddle, threw the reins over a tree limb, and went to her side.
#
His hand went to hers. “Get down from there.”
She flexed her shoulders. “No. Je suis desole. I should not have started that. Let us go on.”
“No, Inès. We talk now. Here.”
“I want to return. Let this go.”
“No. Get down.” His hands rose to her. “S’il vous plaît.”
She went to him.
He backed her to a slim oak tree. “I do not want to hear more insecurities from you about our future together. If I have to ever say again that I love you with all the loyalty that implies,I will die of it. I promise you that nothing you could say or do would make me love you less.”
She said nothing, but nodded. Then turned for her horse.
“No!” He brought her around. “No more half measures! I know you were in Boulogne.”
As if she were in a dream, her mouth slowly opened. Her eyes clouded. “How?” she gasped.
“I was there.”
“In Boulogne?” She winced.
He nodded. “In camp. More than a year ago, September. I was there in disguise with a friend of Kane’s. We were invited to a reception of the army and navy staff. I heard you play.”
She shrank back from him. “You knew? All this time? You knew who I was and you—”
“No, I did not know when I met you that you had been the vice admiral’s lady. That night, long ago, I saw that woman from afar. In profile. She…wore a turban. I had forgotten the color of her hair. I saw only a wisp of it, you see. But she…” He gazed down at his wife now and saw the same beauty, the same elegance, the same sensitive lady he had witnessed that night and never forgotten. “She was so lovely, so accomplished, that I remembered the essence of her for many months.”
It would do neither of them any good at this moment for him to tell her he had coveted his memory of that lady.
“When I met you, she had drifted from my reverie long before.” He dug his hands into her waist. “There is only you in my mind and heart now.”
She stared at him, marveled at him. “When did you learn that I was that woman?”
