Her fingertips just grazed the skin in the small of his back then drew back swiftly as he stirred, muttered something into the bolster. Part of her wanted to watch him wake, become aware of her, but part of her wanted him to sleep on so she could have him all to herself – and think.
A small, cold knot tightened in her chest. She had given him everything her untutored body could offer. He would expect no less of her mind, and that she could not give him until James's secret was no longer hers to guard. And now there was the added complication of the message in the glove. Henrietta told herself there was no need for panic. The chest held only winter cloaks, no one would open it for months.
But the thought was the worm in the bud. It had spoilt her tranquillity, shattered her mood. Suddenly restless, she wondered what she should do now. From the height of the sun it must be at least eight and the household would be long about its business. She was unused to sleeping on this side of the house, close to the main stairs. As her hearing sharpened she became aware of the clatter of heels on the treads, the muted voices of the servants as they hurried to and from the guest chambers, shaking out the feather mattresses, hanging bedcoverings to air from the rear windows overlooking the yard.
No doubt the wedding guests would be breaking their fasts below in the hall even now, and the early risers out taking the air in the knot garden or walking up to the Home Farm to see what changes had been made since their last visit. Should she get up, look to her duties as hostess? No, as soon as it was thought she knew they would not expect it, not on the morning after her wedding. Nor, after that boisterous bedding ceremony, did she feel able to look her friends and neighbours in the eye. Not yet at any rate. Aunt Susan would be getting much pleasure from overseeing such a momentous and happy occasion for Winterbourne.
‘You are very pensive, Henrietta. What's going on in that dark head?’ Matthew had woken and turned over quietly while she sat lost in thought. One long, questing finger stroked a lock of hair back from her bare shoulder, cool against her suddenly heated flesh.
Taken unawares, Henrietta felt the betraying colour rise in her face and was rewarded with a lazy, sensual smile that sent shivers down her spine, presaging her body's instinctive response to the promise in that smile.
‘Our minds are in accord, I see.’ His smile broadened as he reached up to pull her down into his arms, cradling her naked skin against his long frame, her softness against his hardness.
‘Matthew,’ Henrietta whispered, half in shocked protest at his boldness, half in delighted anticipation. ‘Again?’
‘That's not what you said at dawn, when, as I recollect, I was trying to get some sleep.’ His teeth nibbled wickedly along her earlobe, the roughness of his unshaven chin grazing her neck. ‘Where has my wanton wife gone? Or are you showing proper consideration at last for my years? There's many an old husband been worn out by a passionate young wife before now.’
‘I am not wanton – and you are not old,’ she protested.
Matthew rolled her on to her back, tickling over her ribs to make her giggle. She looked up into his unshadowed, laughing eyes, which held none of the suspicion they had so often held before. Surely his suspicion that she might be in love with another man was now well and truly banished now?
‘Not wanton?’ he teased. ‘Let me be the judge of that. I want you to be wanton – with me. There should be no shame between man and wife.’
‘I…I know,’ Henrietta faltered, her breath catching in her throat at his caresses, the movement of his fingertip tracing maddening circles round and round the tip of her breast. ‘But our guests… it must be eight of the clock at least…’ Why was she protesting, fighting her emotions? The very least of her desires was to get up and leave this room. I love him.
‘Our guests are in good hands and well able to entertain themselves. Besides,’ Matthew added, his weight pressing her gently into the yielding goose-feather mattress, ‘if they see us at this time in the morning they will conclude I have failed to please you. Perhaps that's true?’ He raised an interrogative eyebrow before dropping his dark head, his lips seeking the swell of her breasts.
‘No, Matthew – ’ It began as a denial, then became a protest, but ended in a moan of pure pleasure, her fingers interlacing into the mass of his dark, tumbled hair as desperately as she would have held on to the mane of her horse before a jump.
*
Warm, pleasured, shameless, Henrietta curled up against the bedhead and watched her husband stroll naked to the foot of the four-poster and pick up his chamber robe. What had she, Henrietta Wynter, done to deserve a husband like Matthew Sheridan? She had had many suitors, resigned herself to the thought she would marry for duty, to ensure the future of Winterbourne and its people. And now, out of the worst possible beginning, she was in love, even if she couldn't yet tell him.
And perhaps, one day, he would love her in return.
She allowed herself to relish the graceful strength of his back as he bent to pick up the robe, the golden sheen of his skin, the length and straightness of his legs, then caught her breath in horror as she saw the savage slash of the scar running across his ribcage.
‘Matthew! How did you come by that terrible wound?’
She scrambled from the bed, dragging on her robe anyhow. By his side she touched its beginning below his left nipple with tentative fingers. ‘Does it pain you still?’ The wound had knitted badly, leaving a raised, reddish welt against the smooth skin. Her own undamaged flesh knotted in a spasm of sympathetic pain.
His fingers captured hers, abruptly arresting her exploration. ‘It aches now and then when the weather is both wet and cold.’ He shrugged on his robe, lacing it loosely, then pulled the bell-rope by the bedhead. His body was suddenly tight, withdrawn from her and their intimacy.
‘But how did it happen? You must have been in danger of your very life.’ Henrietta was appalled, amazed that even in the darkness her caressing fingers had missed the puckered flesh. With her new awareness of him his face and body should have warned her this was forbidden ground, but she still had much to learn about Matthew Sheridan.
A discreet tap at the door stopped her questions. Matthew turned the key sharply and opened it to reveal Letty standing shyly on the threshold. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Breakfast for your mistress and myself, then bring warm water.’ Wide-eyed with curiosity at her first sight of the newly married pair, Letty bobbed a hasty curtsy before the door was shut on her.
‘Was it very dreadful?’ Henrietta would not, could not let the subject drop as he so obviously wanted.
‘Yes.’ His mouth twisted in a smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘Too dreadful to fill your ears with.’
Henrietta tugged urgently at his sleeve. ‘Matthew, I am your wife. If something has hurt you so grievously I want to know, to share it with you. Do you not trust me?’
Matthew's eyes rested on her face, his expression considering. Then he seemed to reach a decision. ‘It was a pike-thrust. It laid my side open to the bones. Another inch and it would have gutted me.’ It was as if he were describing something which had happened to someone else, there was no emotion, no colour to the bare words.
‘A pike-thrust?’ she said slowly, her mind working on the few facts he had given her. ‘You were in battle? You fought in the Rebellion?’