Christopher buried himself and held, letting the convulsions of her body pull at him wetly, severely, the mutual release exacting groans from them both. And yet the need didn’t stop. The physical release opened into a craving for even more intimacy. Rolling them both to their sides, Christopher cradled her with their bodies locked together. Even now, he wasn’t close enough to her, he wanted more of her.

They emerged from the bed some time later to feast on the delectable cold supper that had been left for them, slices of game pie, salads, ripe black plums, cake soaked in elderflower cordial. They washed it all down with champagne, and took the last two glasses to bed, where Christopher made any number of lascivious toasts. And Beatrix made a project of applying her champagne-chilled mouth to various parts of his body. They played, and made each other laugh, and then they were silent for a while, watching the candles burn down.

“I don’t want to fall asleep,” Beatrix mumbled. “I want tonight to last forever.”

She felt Christopher smile against her cheek. “It doesn’t have to last. I’m personally quite optimistic about tomorrow night.”

“In that case, I’m going to sleep. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.”

He kissed her gently. “Good night, Mrs. Phelan.”

“Good night.” A drowsy smile curved her lips as she watched him leave the bed to extinguish the last of the candles.

But first he took a pillow from the bed, and dropped it to the carpet along with a spare quilt.

“What are you doing?”

Christopher glanced at her over his shoulder, one brow arching. “You’ll recollect that I told you we can’t sleep together.”

“Not even on our wedding night?” she protested.

“I’ll be within arm’s reach, love.”

“But you won’t be comfortable on the floor.”

He went to snuff out the light. “Beatrix, compared to some of the places I’ve slept in the past, this is a palace. Believe me, I’ll be comfortable.”

Disgruntled, Beatrix drew the covers around herself and lay on her side. The room went dark, and she heard the sounds of Christopher settling, and the measured sound of his breathing. Soon she felt herself slipping into the welcoming blackness . . . leaving him to contend with the demons of his sleep.

Chapter Twenty-five

Although Beatrix considered Hampshire to be the most beautiful place in England, the Cotswolds very nearly eclipsed it. The Cotswolds, often referred to as the heart of England, were formed by a chain of escarpments and hills that crossed Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire. Beatrix was delighted by the storybook villages with their small, neat cottages, and by the green hills covered with plump sheep. Since wool had been the most profitable industry of the Cotswolds, with profits being used to improve the landscape and build churches, more than one plaque proclaimed, THE SHEEP HATH PAID FOR ALL.

To Beatrix’s delight, the sheepdog had a similarly elevated status. The villagers’ attitude toward dogs reminded Beatrix of a Romany saying she had once heard from Cam . . . “To make a visitor feel welcome, you must also make his dog feel welcome.” Here in this Cotswold village, people took their dogs everywhere, even to churches in which the pews were worn with grooves where leashes had been tied.

Christopher took Beatrix to a thatched-roof cottage on the estate of Lord Brackley. The viscount, an elderly friend and connection of Annandale’s, had offered to make the place available to them indefinitely. The cottage was just out of sight of Brackley Manor, built on the other side of an ancient tithe barn. With its low arched doors, sloping thatched roof, and twice-flowering pink clematis climbing the outside walls, the cottage was enchanting.

The main room featured a stone fireplace, beamed ceilings and comfortable furnishings, and mullioned windows overlooking a back garden. Albert went to investigate the upstairs rooms, while a pair of footmen carried in trunks and valises.

“Does it please you?” Christopher asked, smiling as he saw Beatrix’s excitement.

“How could it not?” she asked, turning a slow circle to view everything.

“It’s a rather humble place for a honeymoon,” Christopher said, smiling as she bounded to him and threw her arms around his neck. “I could take you anywhere—Paris, Florence—”

“As I told you before, I want a quiet, snug place.” Beatrix pressed impulsive kisses on his face. “Books . . . wine . . . long walks . . . and you. It’s the most wonderful place in the world. I’m already sorry to leave.”

He chuckled, endeavoring to catch her mouth with his own. “We don’t have to leave for two weeks.” After he captured her lips in a long, searing kiss, Beatrix melted against him and sighed.

“How could ordinary life possibly compare to this?”

“Ordinary life will be just as wonderful,” he whispered. “As long as you’re there.”

At Christopher’s insistence, Beatrix slept in one of two adjoining upstairs bedrooms, separated only by a thin wall of lath and plaster. He knew it bothered her not to share a room with him, but his sleep was too restless, his nightmares too unpredictable, for him to take any chances.

Even here, in this place of unfolding happiness, there were difficult nights. He woke and sat bolt upright from dreams of blood and bullets, of faces contorted with agony, and he found himself reaching for a gun, a sword, some means of defending himself. Whenever the nightmares were especially bad, Albert always crept onto the foot of the bed and kept him company. Just as he had during the war, Albert guarded Christopher while he slept, ready to alert him if an enemy approached.