Mary Balogh - Web of Love

IT WAS FIVE DAYS after the end of his fever when he woke up one night to the sound of his own voice. He was sitting up in bed, the pain from his ribs only just penetrating his consciousness and robbing him of breath. He was cold with terror.

Ellen had been sleeping in Jennifer’s room, as she did each night, the doors open so that she would hear him if he called. He had yelled several times in succession, and she had come running.

“What is it?” she said. She bent toward him in the darkness, a hand on his shoulder. “Is there something wrong?”

“God!” he said, gasping through his pain. “God!”

“Was it a nightmare?” she asked. Her other hand was cool on his brow.

“God!” he said again. He had been bending over dead eyes with all hell breaking loose about him. “Yes, a nightmare.”

“It will be all right now,” she said gently. She helped him to lie down again, and smoothed the hair back from his brow. She was leaning right over him, a slim young woman with a shawl thrown over her white nightgown, and heavy fair hair falling forward on either side of her face and over her shoulders. He could see her quite clearly, used as his eyes were to the darkness.

He felt instantly comforted. “I woke you,” he said. “I am sorry.”

“You need not apologize,” she said. She was stroking his cheek with her fingertips. She had done that before. He could remember. “Would you like me to sit by you for a while?”

He shook his head. “I have kept you up long enough,” he said. He did not know he had lifted his hand until he saw it put one side of her hair back over her shoulder. He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. Soft warm skin.

She did not move. His fingers were warm and gentle on her cheek.

“Ellen,” he whispered.

Neither of them knew afterward if he drew her head down or if she brought it down of her own accord, or if perhaps they both moved with that strange togetherness that had grown between them in the past days. However it was, their mouths met. And held together. And opened and caressed and explored. And one of his arms moved around her shoulders and the other hand to cup the back of her head. Her hands were on the pillow at either side of his head. Her wrists rested against his shoulders.

Thick silky hair. The scent of her that he had been aware of for weeks. The beauty and warmth and softness of her. The gentleness and sweetness and womanliness of her.

“Ellen.” His hand was at the buttons down the front of her nightgown, and she raised herself on her arms to help him. She was not stopping him. She was helping him, encouraging him. “Ellen.”

He pushed the linen away from her shoulders to her arms and took her breasts in his hands. Full and firm. Silky smooth. Nipples already taut. Taut for him. She wanted him.

She wanted him. His hands were warm and gentle, as she had known they would be. They knew where to touch her. How to touch her. His thumbs brushed the peaks of her breasts, creating a sweet agony that rose into her throat and spiraled down into her womb.

“Ellen.” He was staring up into the shadows of her eyes. She had raised herself the full length of her arms, but she made no attempt to cover herself or move away from him. He reached across himself to grasp the bedclothes and pull them back. She looked down at them and stood up beside the bed. She wriggled her shoulders so that the nightgown slid down her arms and fell away from her completely, and she accepted his invitation by climbing into the bed beside him. He covered her with the sheet and turned onto his side, biting his lip as he did so.

He could feel the heat of her as soon as he touched her, the tautness of her, the eagerness to find his mouth in the darkness. She was warm, soft, shapely. Eager for him. Not with the feigned eagerness of the numerous courtesans with whom he had lain in the past, but with the hot straining eagerness of a woman for her lover.

She came to him, put herself against him, felt the warm length of his limbs, felt his arms close about her, his mouth reaching for hers. And there was no thought to holding back. She gave herself fully and eagerly. This was what she had wanted. What she had always wanted. She had always wanted him. Always loved him. And there was an enormous hurt somewhere that he would soothe for her. That he would take away.

He covered her mouth with his and traced her lips with his tongue before plunging into the warm, moist cavity beyond. She was beautiful. All woman. All eager hot yielding woman. Eager and hot for him. Yielding to him.

And he wanted her. God, he wanted her. Had wanted her for days. For weeks. All his life. He had always wanted her. Always searched for her. Only for her. He took fire.

And turned her beneath him on the bed. And rolled heavily on top of her and lay still until he could get the pain under control. He could not lift his weight away from her. He was forced to crush her into the mattress.

But she did not complain. She wrapped her arms about him, opened herself to him, raising her knees to his hips. And she lifted her face to his again.

“Ellen.” He kissed her, deeply, deeply. And moved his hands down her warm sides, past her breasts to her slim waist, over the very feminine curve of her hips. And beneath her. She hugged him with her thighs. And he found her in the darkness, the entrance to her, and he hid his face in the soft silkiness of her hair and pushed himself into the blessed deep heat of her.

They both gasped.

“Dominic. Dominic.”

Her hands were roving over his back, above and below the bandages, and she tilted herself to meet him, moved against him and with him so that he clenched his teeth and closed his eyes very tightly and willed control on himself.

“Yes. Oh, please. Yes.”

“Ellen. So beautiful. Oh, my love.”

“Yes. Dominic. Oh, please. Please.”

They found a rhythm together, and he moved his hands up into her hair and took her mouth with his again.

And this. Oh, yes, this. Dominic. He was loving her and she him. This was as it had to be. As it had always had to be. Dominic loving her and she loving him. Nothing held back. Giving and receiving. Together. Loving. Yes. Oh, this. Surely some part of her had always known.

He turned his face into her hair again and drove into her and into her until he lost himself-long before he wanted to and long before he was sure she was ready. He took all that she had to give and gave her all of himself until he lay throbbing and spent in her, all of his weight pressing down on her.

He rolled away from her, biting down hard on both his lips so that she would not hear his pain, and keeping one arm beneath her head. He pulled the bedclothes as neatly as possible around them and looked at her. Her eyes were open, he could see.

“I squashed you?” he asked, putting her hair back over her shoulder with his free hand.

“No.” She traced the line of his lower lip with one light finger and then closed her eyes.

There was a bewilderment. An emptiness. A disappointment. She had not been ready to let him go. And yet there was an exhilaration. A warm glow. A satisfaction. He was her lover. He loved her. He had been inside her. There was still the throbbing, the aching pain where he had been. And his arms still held her. She breathed in the warmth of him.

And she loved him.

She slept almost immediately. He could tell from the evenness of her breathing. He was breathing shallowly, waiting for the pain to recede, knowing that it must do so eventually if he lay very still.

And he watched her the while in wonder. Wonder at himself that he had not recognized her until that night. He had known her for a long time, had liked her, respected her, admired her. Even felt the pull of an unwilling attraction. But he had not recognized her. For three weeks while he had lain in this bed he had come to depend upon her, to feel comforted and happy only when she was there. And yet he had not recognized her. For days he had drawn closer to her, felt her beauty, the sweetness and strength of her character, known that he did not want these days to end. But he had still not recognized her.

He had searched for her for years. And he had persisted in looking for her in young girls who were frail and in need of his protection. But she was strong and had sheltered him with her protection. And she was no girl. He simply had not recognized her.

But here she was anyway, in this bed, in his arms, warm from his lovemaking. The woman of his life. The love of his life. Ellen.

He tested a somewhat deeper breath. The pain was receding.

Was she always as wildly passionate? Had she been like this for Charlie?

No, no, no, no. No! Lord Eden found that he was shaking his head from side to side on the bed and gritting his teeth. Not yet. Not that name. Not yet. He was not ready yet.

He gazed at Ellen and knew beyond any doubt that this was no brief passion for him. He loved her. She had just given everything with no demand for anything in return. But he would give anyway. All of himself. All that he had. It was all hers. He had searched all his life for her. Now that he had found her, all he had, all he was, was hers.

Ellen.

His pain had gone. Her bare legs felt warm and smooth against his own. He could smell her fragrance again. She felt very, very good.

He closed his eyes.

MADELINE CAME VISITING THREE TIMES. And Ellen went out each morning to buy food and to have some fresh air and exercise, and once she went to bid farewell to Mrs. Byng, who was going to join her husband in Paris. But apart from that they were alone together for six days. Six days and nights of magic that they both knew must come to an end but did not wish to end. Six days during which they both held at bay what both knew must be faced soon. Six days of wonder and of love.