Page 57 of Against the Wind

“I have. Would you like to see?” She flipped through her sketchbook until she came to one of the earliest sketches she’d completed since coming to Pentridge and showed him.

He studied it for a moment then said, “’Tis a nice picture. Better than my true face, I think.”

“Not to me,” she replied. “I’ve made one for your mother, too. You’re a handsome fellow, George. Have you never noticed the attention village girls pay you, or does it take a woman to see that?”

A red blush crept up his face, and he dropped his gaze to his shoes. Well…I suppose I have noticed a few.”

Kit pondered the man before her. He still seemed more like a younger brother to her, even though his ruddy complexion and wavy blond hair would never have been seen in her family. Perhaps his youthful demeanor came from living in the country where life was simpler. His eyes did not speak of experience. In London, she had seen so much at such an early age she felt a decade older.

“There, you see? Even you have observed the girls of Pentridge watching you from beneath their lashes. When it comes to choosing a wife, you will have your pick.”

“Do you think so, ma’am?” he asked.

“I do.” And when she smiled up at him, he returned the expression and sauntered off with a lighter step, leaving Kit pleased she could bring him some joy. It saddened her to think that the fair-haired young man was involved with the men planning an uprising, even at his mother’s insistence, and she worried for him.

A moment later two little girls rushed by at play, teasing each other. Kit hurriedly flipped her sketchbook to a new page to capture them. One had blonde curls and the other a more common brown. Though very different in appearance, they reminded her of two other girls the same age a long time before. Kit remembered again the day that she had rescued Anne’s doll from the bullies; they had played together just like these two. Pausing in her drawing, she realized not for the first time that she would never again hear Anne’s sweet voice, never again have the chance to comfort her. Kit had said a brief good-bye, and that was the last memory she would have of the sister she loved who called herself the brown mouse.

That evening, after dinner, Kit and Martin wished John a good night and entered their rooms. Martin settled into a chair in the sitting room, while Kit went to the bedchamber.

“What’s this sketch?” Martin called.

Kit glanced over her shoulder to see her husband studying her sketchbook and remembered the drawing she’d left open when she’d returned that afternoon. “Two village girls I was watching play near the inn.” She put on her blue wrapper, tying it in front of her waist and went to retrieve the book, worried he’d see more.

“There is something about this drawing,” Martin continued. “So much emotion between the two girls.”

“Perhaps it’s because they reminded me of my sister and me,” Kit said, taking it from his hand.

He must have heard the quaver in her voice, for he rose and followed her into their bedchamber where she took a seat and began brushing her hair. Leaning down, he wrapped his arms around her. “What’s wrong, Kitten?”

“There are times, like today,” she explained, setting the brush down, “when the loss of Anne overwhelms me. I’m reminded…” She turned to the side as her voice caught and took a deep breath before continuing. “I will see something, like a pale pink ribbon she would have loved, and I want to buy it for her. But then I remember she is gone and I’ll never again share such a gift with her.” She turned to find his indigo eyes filled with sympathy. “I’ll never see her again, Martin. Not in this life.”

“I know, Kitten,” he said, pulling her up from the bench and drawing her into his arms. “I know.”

He reached his hand to her face and wiped away the tears she could feel spilling down her cheeks. She supposed he did know, for he too was living with the loss of someone he loved.

“Come,” he said. “Let me help you forget the sadness.”

Willingly she let him undress her and, having doffed his clothes, he gently pulled her to the bed. He kissed away her tears and loved her with his gentle hands just as he had that first night they came together. The scent of him and the heat of his body surrounded her, and she pulled him closer. He kissed her deeply as she delighted in the rough hair on his chest teasing her breasts.

“Oh, Martin,” she sighed as she pulled him closer. He was so perfectly formed; she slid her hands over his back and rubbed her face against the rippling muscles of his chest. “You smell good, Martin. An spicy scent, all earthy man.”

He chuckled. “Enough of that. I want you.”

They made sweet love together. When their passion subsided, she clung to him, cradled in his arms, and let out a sigh of contentment. Her husband stroked her arm, tender in his touch, and she was reminded that she had made a wise decision in marrying him. No matter the questions that still remained, she would trust him.

“I love you, Martin,” she said.

“Ah, Kitten, you’ve made me a happy man. I’ll never grow tired of hearing those words, nor of giving them. I love you, too.”

“I wanted to tell you for a long time, but I was afraid. I didn’t know if I could trust you,” she whispered in a revelation.

“And you do now?” Martin whispered back, softly kissing her temple.

“Yes,” she admitted, shivering.

“You and I are very much alike, you know.”

“How is that?” she asked, nestling deeper against his body.

“We both want to control our lives. It’s why you wouldn’t have married me when I asked, not if you’d had the baron’s money then…and it is why I gave up the sea and left my father’s ships. You’re brave, independent and curious, and you care for others, like your sister Anne and even the people of this village. You make me care, too, Kit. It’s because of you I have more sympathy for the plight of these people of Pentridge.”

She kissed him then, a soft thank-you for who he was: her knight. There had never been anyone like him in her life. Not her father, who loved her but failed to understand his younger daughter, nor Anne, who admired her strength but did not share it. Martin understood her and loved who she was. He encouraged her drawing and gave her time many husbands would have denied. He’d met her need for small comforts on their trip north. He sent her a bath and tea even when he was angry. And, too, there was that first night at Willow House. In some mysterious way she could not explain he’d understood what she’d needed even then.

She wanted to be the wife who met his needs. “I don’t care about having control anymore, Martin. I care about sharing a life with you. Please don’t do anything that would jeopardize our life together.”