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Matt’s heart did a sky leap into his throat. It was their wedding day all over again, yet there was a brilliant freedom from doubt and fear in this gift of herself that lifted it into a joyful new start for both of them, a better start, injected with a deeper knowledge of each other, the experience of having come through a crucible of pain, and what they were—what they had together—was still there, bonded so much more strongly this time.
“How do I love thee?” he murmured, the sheer pleasure of her overwhelming him. “Let me count the ways.”
He did it with his hands, his mouth, his body and soul, with every touch, every caress, every kiss, and he felt her response coursing through every part of him, like a stream of sweet soothing, like a river of no return, like a torrent of tumbling passion, like a sea of rolling ecstasy.
The thought of conceiving a child didn’t once enter Peta’s mind. She was filled with the man she loved, the man who loved her, and it was a fullness that needed nothing else, a fullness that wanted nothing else.
At the core of it was a deep, deep gratitude that they had found each other, that Matt was still here for her, wanting her, loving her, tapping a huge welling of love for him. It gushed through her in great waves, a flood of feeling that swelled her heart and flooded her mind and washed her soul free of any sense of loss.
This was the real start of their marriage.
The promises didn’t have to be spoken.
She felt them.
And knew them to be real and abiding.
They were joined once more and time and place meant nothing to Matt. The soaring togetherness transcended everything else. Only when the sense of fulfilment allowed room for other senses did his vision take in the roses cushioning Peta’s head, and their heady scent filled his nostrils, spreading the joy of ultimate harmony.
Roses...
Red roses...
For love.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FOUR children were unthinkable, Matt decided.
One would have to be enough.
“You’re it, Timothy Andrew,” he muttered to the day-old infant who was snuffling around his chest, clearly working up to making a demand for something his father couldn’t supply.
Peta was fast asleep and Matt was determined she should stay asleep. She needed all the recovery time she could get after the long, traumatic labour of giving birth. He himself was still in a state of shock, appalled by the pain she had suffered in producing this incredibly tiny bundle of humanity. He’d been emotionally battered and physically drained just watching her go through it. Torture. Absolute torture.
“You just hold off, Tim,” he commanded, shifting his baby son up to his shoulder and patting his back for comfort. “Curb your instincts for a while and consider your mother. You pushed her to the limit getting born.”
Though it wasn’t Tim’s fault, Matt conceded. Both he and Peta had been madly keen on having a child. Tim had had no say in it at all. And it was great to have a son, no doubt about it. Nevertheless, the result did not justify the means, in Matt’s newly informed opinion.
In fact, he’d like to go back to the prenatal classes he and Peta had attended and shove the real truth down those instructors’ throats, make them all have babies themselves so they knew their breathing control lessons were impossible to apply when it came to the crunch.
If only he had the power he’d revolutionise the hospital system, too. This idea of having the baby staying in the room with its mother all the time might be fine for bonding, but when was the mother supposed to get some sleep? If there weren’t nurses coming in to check off their charts, the baby needed attention. If he weren’t here to protect Peta from constant interference in the holy cause of entrenched hospital routine, she’d probably be dead from exhaustion.
It was ridiculous. It was inhumane. There should be a rule that a nurse couldn’t be a nurse on a maternity ward unless she’d had a baby. He’d already drilled two brisk, unsympathetic nurses on that point and shot them out of here, demanding someone with a bit of understanding tend to his wife. He didn’t care if he was labelled a “difficult husband.” He’d vowed to look after Peta and he would.
Tim started sucking on his shirt. Matt figured frustration would set in any moment now and for a tiny baby, Tim had a great pair of lungs. Bound to be a good swimmer when he grew up. In the meantime, he only knew to use them for yelling. Matt short-circuited the imminent impulse by heaving himself out of his chair and walking up and down the room, softly singing “Waterloo,” an old ABBA song he remembered from his childhood.
“Winning the war, Matt?”
Peta’s amused question startled him out of his absorption in serenading his son. She was wide awake and smiling at him. Matt shook his head in amazement. It was beyond him how she could smile at anything after yesterday’s dreadful ordeal but she seemed to manage it quite naturally.
“Merely staving off attack,” he answered ruefully. “Tiny Tim was trying to gobble up my shirt.”
“Give him to me. It’s past his feed time.”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I feel more rested now, thanks Matt. You’ve been so wonderful through all this.”
