She’d bitterly regretted that their short honeymoon hadn’t resulted in a child for her to cherish during his long absence. Warmth flooded her, when she realized that now Canforth was home, children might lie in their future. How wonderful that would be.
“Flick, you’re here,” he said again, although she remained unsure that he was awake. At least the horrors receded from his gray eyes, and his deathly grip on her hand loosened.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said, still combing her fingers through his hair with a languorous pleasure that felt wicked. She’d itched to touch him like this since he’d return
ed.
His hold tightened. “Stay with me.”
Her heart somersaulted with a giddy mixture of excitement and nerves, as she stared into eyes clouded with sleep and the ghost of his dreams. She tugged her hand free and bent to straighten the bed, pulling up the blankets. With a deep sigh, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.
After stoking the fire, she blew out the candle and slid in beside him. Unsure how to proceed, she, too, lay on her back, clinging to the edge of the mattress and shivering with cold. Canforth had dropped back to sleep. He lay mere inches away, breathing deeply and steadily. Whatever cruel memories had disturbed his slumber, they seemed to have receded now.
She’d felt so bold joining him. Now her courage deserted her. A braver woman might cuddle into his side or wake him with kisses. Felicity remained where she was, her heart racing. Surely she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
***
This dream had tormented Canforth a thousand times before. He woke in a soft, warm bed that smelled of Otway, a million miles from the rough, cold ground of the Pyrenees. It was dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. His wife slept, trusting and relaxed, in his arms. He was naked, and hard and ready for her. The sweet scents of home and Flick tinged the air. He was safe, and free to linger as long as he wanted in bed with the woman he loved.
He lay on his side, his chest pressed to Flick’s back. She was tucked against him in perfect peace, her head resting on his outstretched arm. His other arm curved around her, one hand cupping her breast.
For a delicious interval, he basked in this imaginary paradise. Soon enough, there would be orders and maneuvers, and later, the likelihood of violent, bloody mayhem. But right now, he could give himself up to the fantasy that he was back at Otway, and all was well with the world.
As nobody yet seemed to be clamoring for his presence, he let the dream spin toward its end. Usually some interfering blockhead dragged him back to brutal reality before he got too far.
Drowsily he bumped his hips against the perfect curve of Flick’s rump. He buried his nose in the fragrant mass of her hair and breathed in her rich scent.
Today’s dream was particularly vivid. Most times, Flick was naked, but on this occasion, his imagination taunted him with a flannel nightgown between him and her skin. The breast in his hand had the weight and feel of reality, and when his thumb flicked her nipple, it hardened with gratifying swiftness. She made a sleepy sound of encouragement and nestled closer.
Dreading the inevitable awakening, he shifted and rolled her toward him. He reached down to lift the plain nightdress—next time he had this dream, he’d dress her in silk. Or nothing at all.
She made another of those damned suggestive murmurs and arched against him. He slid his hand between her legs, seeking her hot, silky core. She wriggled in welcome, and he kissed her neck until she quivered with eagerness. He didn’t dare open his eyes. Not now. Not when, even if only in his mind, rapture hovered so close.
His lips drifted lazily over her face until they met hers. So soft. So full. The kiss’s sultry sweetness shuddered through him.
“Canforth,” she breathed in ardent invitation.
Odd. In his fantasies, she always called him Edmund.
He stroked her cleft until she was slippery and ready, and slid one finger inside her, to find the slick honey of her arousal. As sleek heat coated his finger, he leaned in and kissed his wife with a carnal hunger he’d always leashed when he’d had her, virginal and fragile, as his bride.
Dream Flick responded as she always did.
Well, not quite. She opened her mouth and put her arms around him to bring him closer. But her endearingly clumsy kisses were an enchanting reminder of the girl he’d left so long ago.
Canforth rose and positioned himself between her thighs, desperate to claim her. By God, this was the best dream he’d ever had. If his tomfool sergeant interrupted him now, he’d shove the fellow in front of the nearest firing squad.
In wordless welcome, she tilted toward him. He groaned into the warm curve of her neck, the scent of her sleep-warmed skin the sweetest fragrance in the world. He bit down on the sensitive nerve and heard her gasp with rising excitement.
He lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Damn it.
Astonishment gripped him, banished disappointment. Instead of a rough tent pitched on an Iberian mountainside, he saw a familiar bedroom, shadowy with a dying fire. And the woman beneath him was no figment of his imagination, but his beautiful, fastidious wife.
“For pity’s sake, Flick, why didn’t you stop me?” So close to possession, it was sheer agony to pull back. But he managed it, over the howling, excruciating protest of every muscle in his body.
She bit lips swollen and red with his kisses and stared up at him. “I…”