Mary Balogh - At Last Comes Love

They swam for an hour or more, sometimes together, sometimes side by side. Sometimes they merely floated on their backs, watching the stars, trying to identify them, agreeing finally that stars had no real names anyway, only what had been attached to them by humans. "Of course," he said, "the same would apply to trees and flowers, would it not?" "And birds and animals," she said. "And humans," he said. "Perhaps none of us have real names at all – only what our parents chose for us." "And a good thing too," she said, "or the only way we would have of attracting one another's attention would be a 'Hey, you.' There would be thousands of /hey, you/s all over the world." "Millions," he said, "and in many different languages." "A mite confusing," she said, and they both laughed.

It seemed to be years since he had allowed himself to indulge in nonsense talk and laughter.

It /was/ years.

Finally they left the water and dried themselves off with two of the towels – he had brought three so that they would have something dry to use afterward. They sat on it, her back to him as he toweled off her hair.

They had not dressed. "I thought days like these were long over," she said, hugging her knees. "Swimming in a lake, sitting on its bank in the middle of the evening, laughing …" "You have not laughed since you were a girl?" he asked. "Oh, I have," she protested. "Of course I have. My life has not been a sad one – far from it. But I have not felt for a long time such… Oh, I do not even know the word." "Joy?" he suggested. "Carefreeness," she said. "There is no such word, though, is there? And oh, yes, joy. That is the perfect word. A carefree joy." He tossed the towel aside and combed his fingers through her hair, teasing them through tangles. "It is an impossible task without a comb," she said, turning to him and then lying back on the towel to gaze at the stars again. "It does not matter. I will brush it out later." He lay down beside her and took her hand in his. He laced his fingers with hers. /Joy/.

Yes, life still had it to offer. And in the most unexpected place of all – in his own home, with his own wife.

He felt quite consciously happy.

He raised himself on one elbow and leaned over her. Her eyes changed focus and looked back into his. She touched the fingers of one hand to his cheek.

He dipped his head and kissed her, and she pressed her lips warmly back against his. "I want to make love to you," he said. "What?" Her eyes widened. "Out here?" "Out here," he said.

She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "I want it too," she said. "There could be no more romantic setting, could there?" Though she might find the ground rather harder and more unyielding against her back than the mattress of their bed.

He lifted her over him and she kneeled astride his hips, hugging them with her thighs as his hands roamed over her, and hers over him. They smiled into each other's eyes as he settled his hands over her hips, guided her onto his erection, and brought her down onto it until he was fully embedded. "Mmm," she said. "I could not have said it better myself," he said, and she braced her hands on his shoulders, lifted herself half off him and proceeded to ride him, rotating her hips at the same time in a slow, almost lazy rhythm that brought a delicious mingling of pleasure and pain until he joined the dance, thrusting and withdrawing until they burst together into climax and beyond it into a relaxation that was so total it felt like – /Joy/.

They lay side by side for a long time afterward, their hands linked, their fingers laced again.

He almost said it aloud – /I love you, I am/ in /love with you/ – but he did not.

One day later it struck him that he had broken the rules of courtship by making love to her when he ought to have been content with kisses and romance until they got home to their bed.

But perhaps that would have made no difference.

Perhaps fate took no notice of such things.

Anyway, perhaps it ought to have been something other than just /I love you/. Something like /I have not been quite frank with you. I have not quite trusted you. Even now I am afraid… Ah, just afraid/.

How could one love and not trust? Perhaps he did not love her after all.

Except that the possibility brought the ache of tears to the back of his throat.

After another half hour of idle star-gazing and dozing, they got dressed, rolled up the towels, and strolled back to the house, hand in hand. "What a lovely evening this has been," she said. "The very best," he said – though all the evenings of their courtship had seemed the best at the time. "The absolute best," she said. "/Not/ that I am trying to have the last word." "In that case," he said, "I'll have it. It was the very absolute, perfect best." They both laughed at the silliness as he set one arm about her shoulders and she wrapped one about his waist.

And tomorrow, he thought confidently, would be even better. Perhaps tomorrow he would tell her the full story at last. It was strange how true that old clichГ© was – the one about molehills developing into mountains if one were not careful. Except that the story he had to tell bore no possible resemblance to a molehill.

He bent his head to kiss her lips, and she kissed him warmly in return.

It was possible to walk among trees about three sides of the park south of the house without ever emerging into open ground except to cross the main driveway.

It was a child's paradise.

On the afternoon after their swim at the lake, they tiptoed through the woods with Toby. They were explorers in the jungle, watching out for all sorts of ferocious, man-eating beasts and fierce, spear-hurling tribesmen.

Half of Margaret's mind was on a scheme she had concocted a few days ago and shared with Duncan the same evening to make a wilderness walk out of part of the woods. It must enhance the beauty of the natural surroundings rather than damage it with too much artificiality, of course. But it would be a lovely place in which to stroll and sit on hot days, a lovely place to bring visitors. It would be her contribution to the beauty of the park, as the flower garden had been Duncan's grandmother's.

The other half of her mind was upon Toby, whose energy and imagination were boundless, and upon Duncan, who was almost unrecognizable as the man with whom she had collided at a ball not so very long ago. Gone was the dark, brooding, almost morose gentleman he had seemed then. He looked relaxed now, cheerful, contented.

Oh, and she was contented too. More than that, she was happy. She loved, and she was allowing herself to be loved in return. Nothing had been spoken in words yet, but words were unnecessary. Or perhaps they /were/ necessary. Perhaps an unwillingness to speak them aloud showed that they still did not quite trust each other.

Perhaps soon she would speak the words and trust that he would say them back to her.

Soon.

Perhaps this evening.

Toby was scrambling up a tree to avoid the clutches of a ravenous lion – and Duncan, it seemed, was the lion, his fingers curled into claws as he snarled and roared.

Toby shrieked. "And you are a friendly tribeswoman, Aunt Meg," he called, orchestrating his own fate, "and come to my rescue with your spear and drive off the lion. You do not kill him, though, because he is only looking for food for his cubs while the lioness stays with them. He is just being himself." He shrieked again as Duncan lunged with one set of claws, and Margaret looked up at his flushed, excited face, as she had done so many times during the past week, trying to see something of Duncan in him.

Sometimes she thought she did, some fleeting recognition when he turned his head at a certain angle or assumed a certain expression. But it was always gone before she could grasp it, and he was again a small and delicate little blond boy with the heart of a warrior and the conscience of his father. /He is just being himself/.