She forced her eyes open, just as he cupped her heel and lifted her foot, kissing the inside of her ankle. His eyes darkened with desire as his lips moved up the inside of her calf, leaving tender, wet kisses in their wake. He paused at her knee, where the kisses became light nips, and a surge of wetness flooded between her legs, and she gasped.
He hesitated. “Are you all right?”
She swallowed hard, still unable to find words, and nodded.
His smile, slight and sweet, faded as he continued alternating the quick nips on the inside of her thigh with lush kisses. His hands pushed her night rail up, bunching the fabric above her hips.
Now the word erupted. “Stop!”
Matthew halted, concern washing over his face. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “It was wonderful. But...” She pushed down at the bunched fabric. “Can we not... can you do it without...”
His face relaxed, understanding clearing his eyes. He stretched out on the bed beside her, letting his hand rest on her stomach. His thumb stroked a gentle pattern as he spoke, his eyes focused on hers. “Sarah, please listen to me. I do not find your scars horrific—”
“You have not seen them all.”
“But I want to. They are a glorious part of you.”
She pushed back against the pillows, staring at him, wondering if she looked as dubious as she felt. “Glorious.”
He smiled. “Glorious. They speak of your strength, your courage. Your perseverance. Your character. I told you I am a soldier. I have seen worse. Scars mean you survived a battle for your soul as well as your body. I want to see them.”
“That,” she said quietly, “is a brave speech for someone who has not seen these scars.”
“And I am certain of each word.”
Sarah closed her eyes. As her husband, Matthew could have demanded to see her unclothed body—it was his right. But he had asked, and she believed that if she said no, he would not continue. Sarah also knew that she could not hide from him forever.
She nodded, eyes still closed.
“Sit up. Let’s remove this.” He plucked lightly at her night rail.
Sarah opened her eyes, searching his. After a moment, she pushed up. He leaned back, and she raised her hips, his hands slid up her thighs and hips, slipping the fabric up over her body, then he dropped it over the side of the bed. She watched his face as the dim light revealed the extent of her scarring. In addition to her face and neck, the burns had covered most of her right arm, and from her waist they stretched down her hip and thigh, wrapping around to her back and right buttocks. His eyes widened and his mouth tightened, and she waited for the revulsion to settle over him.
Instead, his eyes glistened with tears, which he blinked away as his hand reached out, one finger tracing over the edges of the scars. “Tell me.”
“I already have.”
“Telling it many times will help. Tell me.”
Sarah swallowed, still focusing on his face. “I was bent over, picking up a bracelet I had dropped. One my grandfather had given me. Owen pushed me from the left, and I fell sideways toward the fire. I reached out to catch the mantel”—if only Owen had stopped, not touched her again—“and I would have stopped had he not shoved me again. I fell. My head hit the edge of the hearth, and for a few moments, I was unaware the dress had caught. All I could see were the flames, right before my eyes. Then the pain when the fabric began to sear and mold to my skin.”
Matthew’s face remained smooth, calm as she talked, but his fingers now roamed over a greater extent of the scarring. Sarah had looked at them herself earlier in the evening, something she seldom did. They were irregular, with some patches being pink and slightly puckered, others whitish and slick, like polished porcelain. Some almost silver. “The doctors said that the different types of scars are because of the way the layers of my clothes burned.”
“Can you feel—”
“No. I have to be careful with my stays or standing near a fire now, because there is no feeling beneath them.”
“You cannot tell I am touching you.”
“No. I only know you are because of what I can see.”
He nodded and paused with his exploration. As she spoke, her hair had fallen forward, covering the scars on her face and neck again, and he pushed it back, cupping the side of her face with his palm. “You cannot feel that.”
“Not beneath the scar. But I feel your fingertips in my hair, your hand on my chin.”
“And none of them hurt?”