The passage was small and tight. He could feel his heart beating in his throat and in his ears. He ignored two warring urges-one to withdraw lest he hurt her, the other to thrust mindlessly inward for release-and opened her as gently as he could. He felt the barrier and saw the pain of it in her face as she closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. But then it was gone and he moved inward to his full length.

He had never really thought before of sex as a uniting of bodies. He thought of it now. It was as if he had fitted himself to the missing part of himself. It was a magnificent, heady feeling, despite the fact that he was still fully aroused and pulsing with the need to thrust himself to climax.

Her eyes had opened again. He kept most of his weight on his forearms.

"Am I hurting you?" he whispered.

"There could be no happier moment than this," she said. "If only I could keep you here forever and ever."

He smiled at her. And he held still in her, allowing her body to accustom itself to the stretching and the invasion, allowing her mind to adjust to this new status of her being. Then he withdrew slowly.

Her hands pressed against his waist. "Oh, not yet," she said. "Must it end so soon?"

He lowered his head and kissed her softly. "It is beginning," he said to her. "I am going to love you, Adèle. Relax and enjoy it. Or if you want to move, if there is anything you wish to do for your pleasure, do it. We are together-not master and servant, but man and wife. We are both lover and we are both beloved."

"Oh," she said, "I am so ignorant. There was no one to tell me… I did not expect… Oh!"

He had pushed firmly back into her.

He had always been an energetic lover and he had always had experienced, uninhibited women. That was true of both his persons. He had always been able to take his own pleasure in the confident knowledge that his woman would take her equal share. It had always been two separate people taking pleasure from each other. Even with Allison.

Having to think of someone else, having to remember that this was all new to her, having to hold back his own pleasure so that she would remember her first experience with joy-it was all paradoxically erotic. He had never desired as much as he did now; he had never enjoyed as much as he did now. And he had never before now, he realized, made love. He had had sex-marvelously satisfying sex in many cases, but never more than that.

He made love to Adèle.

He moved slowly at first so that her body could learn the beauty of rhythm. When the insides of her thighs pressed more firmly against his and her pelvis tilted to allow him greater depth, he moved faster, pumping deeply into warm, moist depths, almost delirious with his knowledge of her- biblical knowledge. He had never before thought of the term while having sex.

Despite the weakness of his body, he used a strength and a control he had not thought himself capable of, working steadily in her until her hands spread over his buttocks and her legs twined about his and she closed her inner muscles about him. She was making soft guttural noises.

Then he slowed, deepened even further, coaxed her to the orgasm he could feel coming, held firm in her while it came and blossomed about his hardness-and while she shuddered into quiet fulfillment. He reached his own climax swiftly, urgently, blessedly, and let his seed gush deep inside her. His body had become one pulse, it seemed. He relaxed down onto her.

She was crying helplessly, with deep, painful sobs, a minute or two later. He drew free of her body, rolled to her side, gathered her to him, and pulled the blankets over their sweat-dampened bodies. He smoothed one hand through her hair, kissed her tears, made soothing, shushing noises.

She was his wife. They had been one as he had never imagined two people could be one. He knew why she was crying. He was not alarmed.

"One body," he said to her. "We know what that means now, do we not?"

"John." His name was almost an agony on her lips. "What have I ever done that God has been so good to me?"

"At the risk of being sacrilegious," he said, kissing her nose, "I do not believe God had much to do with that."

"Oh, but He did," she said earnestly. "John. Do you know just how ill you were? Do you know that just a few weeks ago I thought the pinnacle of human happiness would be to have your name? That I wished for nothing else-nothing!-except the privilege of holding you in my arms until you d-" She choked on the word. "I would have thought myself well-blessed. I did think it when you agreed to marry me-I never expected that you would. Our wedding day was the happiest day of my life. I never expected-oh, I never expected marriage."

"It is what you have, nevertheless," he said, finding her mouth with his. "And what you will have for years and years to come, God willing. You had better get used to it. Once or twice a night for the next fifty years or so, not to mention the days-do you like the sound of it? Or will it become one of those wifely chores that women have to endure in exchange for the respectability of marriage?"

She giggled-he loved the way Adèle could giggle without sounding in any way childish but only gloriously joyful. "Only for fifty years?" she asked. "But twice, John? Is it possible?"

"Perhaps not for another week or two," he admitted, grinning. "I must confess to feeling close to exhaustion. But after another week or two… You had better prepare yourself."

Being Adèle, she had caught only one thing he had said. She moved closer, getting slightly above his level as she did so. She drew his arm away from her neck and put her own arm beneath his instead. She drew down his head to pillow it on her breast while her free hand smoothed gently through his hair.

"Sleep, my dearest love," she said. "No more talking. You are exhausted."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, feeling deliciously warm and comfortable and sleepy. "But it was in a very good cause, you know."

"Sh," she said, "and don't be foolish."

He was smiling as he slid into sleep.


******************

She had always wanted to be John's wife. Certainly she had always known that she would never be any man's wife if she could not be his. But there had been a few years- perhaps about five after the age of fifteen, when she had actively dreamed of what marriage with him would be like. It had always been dream rather than hope. By that time he had been away from home a great deal and had treated her only with a careless sort of affection when he was home-except perhaps for that kiss on her seventeenth birthday.

And by the time she was fifteen she had understood the difference in their stations. He was the heir to a viscount's title and properties and fortune-he inherited when she was eighteen on the death of his father. She was the eighth and youngest child of a gentleman of no particular fortune or importance. When she was nineteen a great-aunt had taken her to town for a month of the Season. She had hated it. She had felt out of her depth surrounded by such wealthy and important people. And she had seen that John was a great favorite-and that he had something of a reputation as a rake.

The year after that he was ill.

Dreams-which she had never expected to become reality-had given way to despair. She would not be able to bear a world without John in it.

And then the dream had become a different one. One that had come achingly true just a few weeks ago. It had been such a narrow dream. She had not asked for much. She had been more grateful than she had ever been able to put into words for what she had been given. She had not been greedy.

Now the dream had expanded again like a glorious explosion of light, and she was happy beyond thought. And afraid.

The disease had gone. There seemed no doubt about it now. Although he had not seen a physician and she did not suggest it to him, she knew that he was getting better. She knew it no longer just with faith but with certainty. Every day he was stronger. Although he was still very thin, he was noticeably putting on weight and acquiring a healthy color. There were no more fevers and no more coughed blood. His eyes no longer looked on death but on life.

They walked now every day on the beach, sometimes almost briskly. They climbed the hills, pausing for breath as much for her sake as for his. They talked and read and wrote letters to their numerous brothers and sisters and to her mama and papa. They even argued-usually about the wisdom and comfort of leaving windows open. Those arguments always ended the same way. If she was chilly, he always said, grabbing her, she would just have to submit to being warmed-but not by closing the windows.

They made love so often-by night and by day-that sometimes her cheeks could become flushed just thinking about it and wondering if it was normal and proper. She decided that if it was not, she did not care for normality or propriety. On the few occasions when she hinted that he should not exhaust himself, he would laugh and tell her that she could cuddle him afterward as she had done that first time.

Making love, she had discovered, was a process that was taking a very long time to learn. Every time there was something new and something different. He was surely the best teacher in the world, though he claimed sometimes- she did not know how it could be-that he was also a pupil, that she was teaching him dimensions of the art he had never dreamed of before.

Making love, she had decided, was the most wonderful bonding experience imaginable. She could not understand how any two people could do those things when they were not married or even particularly devoted to each other. She could not imagine the pleasure being divorced from the love and the commitment and the union of hearts and souls.