"Neither can you," she responded, struggling upright again, fumbling with the buttons of her jacket. "My fingers are all thumbs."

"Let me do it." He pushed her hands away and unbuttoned her jacket. His hands brushed her breasts as he pushed the coat off her shoulders and her nipples instantly hardened, pressing darkly against the thin lawn of her shirt. Slowly he laid his hands over the soft mounds. Her tongue touched her lips as she stood immobile, her eyes locked with his. The rain beat against the closed shutters of the tiny window. Downstairs a soldier stirred and groaned in his sleep, the hilt of his sword scraping on the floor.

With abrupt urgency, and in total silence, Marcus stripped the clothes from her body. Her eyes were on fire but her skin was cold as he ran his hands over her nakedness. "Get under the blanket!" he rasped, pushing her to the bed.

Judith obeyed, huddling under the scratchy wool, watching as he threw off his own clothes. She held up the blanket for him as he slid beneath, pulling her against him, fitting her body to his. Soon there was warmth where her skin touched his and cool places where they were apart. His palm cupped the flare of her hip, flattened against her thigh, drew her leg across his own thighs, opening her body.

Judith shuddered, unfolding to the fervid, searching caress, the deep exploration of the heated furrow of her body. Her thighs slithered against the muscular hardness of his and her tongue dipped into the hollow of his shoulder, tasting the salt on his skin before her mouth locked with his. Their tongues warred, danced, plunged in a wild spiral of passion that excluded all but their partnered bodies and their frantic need.

"Love me," Judith whispered against his mouth. "Now, it must be now."

Marcus drew her beneath him. He parted her thighs, then paused for an instant on the threshold of her body. Her eyes were closed, her face lost in joy, but as he gazed down at her, the luxuriant fringe of her eyelashes swept up, showing him those great golden-brown lynx eyes awash with passion. "Love me," she whispered again.

With a little sigh he entered the moist tenderness of her core, and she closed around him. He eased deeper, feeling the suppleness of her body, and bent to brush her damp temples with his lips, to touch the corners of her eyes, trailing his tongue over the sensitive corner of her mouth. She smiled at the caress and reached down to touch him where his body was joined with hers. He drew breath as his pleasure surged. His hands closed over her buttocks, lifting her to meet him as he plunged to the very center of her being. The blossom of delight within her burst into full bloom, and she cried out against his mouth.

Marcus thrust once more, deep within her, feeling in his own flesh the pulsating throb of her climax. As he moved to withdraw from her, her arms tightened around him as if to hold him within, but he resisted the pressure, leaving her body the instant before his own core burst asunder.

They lay entwined as the fever abated, and Marcus felt Judith's heart slow as she slipped into sleep. He held her, wondering why he had withdrawn at the last. She was his wife now. She could carry his child. But the truth was that he hardly knew her, and had little reason to trust her.

He awoke slowly, wonderfully, to the awareness of his body coming alive beneath whispering caresses. He heard Judith's soft murmur of satisfaction as he rose beneath her ministering hands, and he reached down dreamily to twine his fingers into the curls resting on his belly as she concentrated on her task. In the aftermath of passion's extremity, she made love to him now with a languid pleasure, learning his body as she tasted every inch of him, exploring his planes and hollows, and he yielded to her orchestration before conducting his own symphony on her delicate, thrumming femininity.

Beyond the shuttered windows the rain-soaked sky lightened on the morning of Sunday, June 18, 1815. The storm had passed and a bird in the ivy began an insistent, stubborn song.

Judith stretched luxuriantly beneath the rough blanket, glorying in her body's satiation, its complete relaxation. She was warm and dry and thought life could hold no greater joy than to spend the day in this loft with Marcus, sharing and exploring their bodies. But her husband was already pushing aside the blanket.

"Must you?" she asked with a tenderly inviting smile.

"Yes, I must." He bent to kiss her. "But you stay here and sleep. I'll see what I can find in the way of breakfast." He stood up, shivering in the damp chill of early morning. He picked up his clothes and grimaced. "Everything's still wet. Stay under the blanket, and I'll take your clothes to dry by the fire."

"You can't hang up my clothes in front of all those men," Judith squeaked.

"This is neither the time nor the place for such niceties," he said, shuddering as he fastened his britches. "Now stay put and I'll be back soon."

"Yes, sir," Judith murmured, pulling the blanket over her head. "Without any clothes, I don't have much choice." His laugh hung in the air for a minute, then the door closed and she heard his booted feet on the staircase.

She fell asleep again for an hour and woke to the sound of a bugle and the tramp of feet. After struggling up on the bedframe, she pushed open the shutters and gazed down at the courtyard where men and horses were splashing purposefully through the puddles. The bugle sounded again, an urgent clarion call that stirred her blood with both fear and excitement.

The door banged closed below and Marcus's step sounded on the stairs. He came in with her clothes and a basket. "Good, you're awake," he said briskly. He looked distracted as he put the basket on the floor and dropped the bundle of clothes on the bed. "Your clothes are dry, at least. Other than that, there's not much I can say for them. There's coffee, bread, and jam in the basket. I'm going to have to leave you now."

"What's happening?" She sat on the bed, wrapping the blanket tightly around her.

"The French are advancing. We're-" A roll of cannon fire shattered the air, and for a second there was an eerie silence. Then it came again. "We've opened the attack," Marcus said, his mouth grim. "I don't know when I'll be back. You're to wait for me here."

"Where will you be?"

"With Wellington."

"On the field?" Her heart lurched. Somehow she hadn't thought of him under fire.

"Where else?" he said shortly. "Tactics change constantly as the position changes." Bending, he caught her shoulders and held her eyes with his. "I'll come back for you. Be here."

"Don't go just yet." She put a hand on his arm.

His expression softened. "Don't be frightened."

"It's not that… not for me… but for you," she said hesitantly. "I want to be where you are."

"It's not possible, lynx. You know that." He brushed the line of her jaw with a gentle finger.

"Answer me a question." She didn't know why she was going to ask this question now; it was hardly an appropriate time or place for discussion of something so serious. But for some reason, after the passion of the night and in their present warm accord, she desperately needed to know his answer.

He waited.

"Why did you withdraw from me last night?" She regarded him steadily, waiting for his reply. When, last night, instinctively, she had tried to hold him within her and he had resisted, she had been drowning in the sen-sate glory of loving and had felt only the barest flicker of loss. In the cool clear light of day, she knew she was not ready for pregnancy herself; there was Gracemere to deal with before she could be ready for other responsibilities. And a husband to get to know before he could be the father of her child. Did Marcus feel the same way about her? About their situation? Or was it something else?