The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(7)

She tried to relax, tried to smile at him. She wished she was more experienced. What if I do this wrong? And then she reminded herself that if even she did this wrong, it didn’t matter. Because this was merely the first night of their marriage. There would be dozens more opportunities to get it right.

She saw Gareth’s throat move as he swallowed. His hand lifted and came to rest lightly on her hip, warm through her nightgown. “Let’s kiss for a while,” he suggested.

“All right.”

Cecy leaned closer and touched her lips to his.

They kissed for several minutes, slowly at first, gently and tenderly, then more deeply, their tongues delving into each other’s mouths. Cecy slid her arms around Gareth’s neck and pressed closer. His chest was warm through the thin layers of linen, broad and firm.

They broke for air, both breathing raggedly. Cecy no longer felt like a marionette. She felt alive, blood rushing in her veins. It was surprisingly exhilarating to sit on Gareth. His lap felt very warm, hot even, and much fuller than it had been five minutes ago.

Cecy stole a glance at Gareth’s lap.

Yes. His organ was tenting his nightshirt.

Cecy’s pulse gave an odd, eager little leap, as if impatient for whatever came next. She rather thought she might enjoy riding St. George.

She glanced at Gareth’s face. He looked as if he felt as alive as she did; his skin was flushed, his eyes bright in the candlelight. “Is it time to pull up your nightshirt?”

“Yes.”

Cecy unwound her arms from around his neck and sat upright. One of the pillows tumbled sideways. They both reached for it, Cecy with two hands, Gareth with his amputated arm.

Cecy captured the pillow. “They’re determined to get away from us tonight.” She said it lightly, cheerfully, but that futile left-handed grab of his had been painful to see—and even more painful had been what had come afterwards: the fleeting expression on his face, vivid for a split second and then gone, shock and loss and grief combined together, as if he’d forgotten he had only one arm and then been suddenly reminded of it.

Gareth smiled at her comment, but it was perfunctory, not reaching his eyes, and the emotion that leaked off him was . . .

Shame?

Is he ashamed of having only one arm?

It was such a horrible thought that for a moment Cecy lost the power of speech. She looked at Gareth, that tight smile, that amputated arm, and she literally couldn’t speak.

She swallowed, and offered him the pillow, and found her tongue: “Would you like it back? Or shall we consign it to the floor?”

Gareth took it with his right hand and tucked it behind his shoulders, and another pillow tumbled down, jostling his truncated left arm.

This time he didn’t try to catch the pillow; he flinched with his whole body.

Cecy caught the pillow instinctively, and clutched it to her chest, aware that something was very wrong. Gareth was tense, every muscle in his body tightly clenched, and he appeared to have stopped breathing.

“Gareth? Are you all right?”

He exhaled a shallow breath, and stretched his lips in another smile. “Yes, of course,” he said, but Cecy knew he was lying. The lines at his mouth and eyes weren’t laughter right now; they were pain.

Cecy tossed the pillow on the floor and reached for his right hand. It was tense. “That hurt your arm, didn’t it?”

“Of course not,” he said. “It was just a pillow.”

She held his hand, held his gaze. “Gareth . . .” she said softly.

He sighed, and some of the tension in his hand eased. “It hurt a little.”

Cecy squeezed his fingers gently. “Does your arm often hurt?”

Gareth sighed again and looked away from her, towards the fire. “Sometimes it does.”

“What makes it hurt? Tell me, Gareth. Please.”

He sighed a third time, and met her eyes. There was a long moment of silence, and then he said, “It hurts if I knock it, or if I put pressure on it—I can’t lie on it at night—and sometimes . . . sometimes it just hurts for no reason at all.”

Cecy bit her lip, and nodded. “It’s hurting now?”

Gareth looked away from her again. “A little.”

Cecy substituted the words “a lot” for “a little.” She sighed, too, and released his hand and put her arms around his neck again, stroking his nape soothingly, stroking his hair, and leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “My poor Gareth.”

He stiffened.

Cecy drew back, so that she could see his face. “Gareth? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

It was another lie. A lot of things told her that. His smile, for one—too tight, too thin. His tension for another—the rigidity of his shoulders, the rigidity of his jaw. The way he looked at her without quite meeting her eyes.

His thighs were tense beneath her. She stole a glance down.

Gareth’s organ was no longer tenting his nightshirt.

“Shall we kiss again?” Cecy said, aware that things had gone wrong between them and uncertain how to fix it.

Gareth hesitated, and she thought he was going to say no, but instead he said, “If you wish.”

Cecy leaned closer and kissed him, but their mouths didn’t fit together this time. The kiss was wooden and awkward, and instead of feeling alive and eager, she felt anxious. She tried harder, desperately trying to recapture what they’d had only a few minutes ago, the heat, the pleasure, the deep sense of connection . . . but it didn’t work.