A/N: Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews ... to which I am in the process of replying. My apologies ... it has been quite a week. Please do keep them coming.

*** Rating jumps to M, folks. NSFW. ***

xx,

~ejb~

He had found her just as she was beginning to teeter on the edge of sanity. He had known she would retreat to their bed, for it was exactly what she had done in the days following Matthew's death. The love between them had been such a fledgling thing then, barely discovered when the unthinkable had happened, but there was no place else she'd have dreamt of running than into his arms.

oOoOo

They are here now, he and she, locked away from the world in the haven of their bedroom, of their bed, and the worst is over. He repeats this sentiment to her.

"It's over, Isobel. It's over. You've done it. I'm so proud of you, my darling. You're stronger than anyone I've ever known."

She closes her eyes against the rush of emotion brought on by his words. Taking his hand, she presses a kiss to the center of his palm before bringing it to rest over her heart. To her it feels as though it only continues to beat right now because he holds it in his hand. When her eyes open it is to the sight of his locked on her, and wordlessly her heart screams the thought to which she cannot give voice.

I wish that baby had been Matthew, Richard. I wish to God he had been mine.

"I love you," she says at last, because it is all that she knows. He is her certainty, the rock to which she clings. "I love you, Richard. I love you." That is her oath, it is her vow. It is the ultimate truth and she is ragged and raw and vulnerable as she murmurs it against his ear, into his soul. Her eyes are red and swollen and in that moment she is more beautiful to him than she has ever been.

He kisses her gently, tasting the salt from her tears, his tongue darting out to drink it all in. It is her essence. He is in her blood now, and she in his. It calls up an image in his mind, that of her standing before him at the altar on their wedding day eighteen months ago. He recalls looking into her eyes as the vicar read from Mark's gospel:

For this reason, a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.

He looks into her eyes now and sees the need she cannot speak.

Take my sorrow. Give me your joy.

"Isobel," he whispers, her name a caress. He swipes at her tears with the pad of his thumb and then raises the digit to his lips, kissing it. Next he presses it to hers and she gasps.

Take my sorrow.

"Cold, Richard," she murmurs. "Cold, so cold. I can't get warm."

"Lie still, sweetheart. I'll be back in a tick." Stepping into the en suite, he turns the shower on as hot as it will go. He pulls two of the largest, plushest towels they own from the linen closet and retrieves her dressing gown from the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

"Come on, love. Let's get you warm," he says gently as he returns to her side. Turning back the covers, he holds out his hand for her to take. He closes the bathroom door behind them and she sighs as she feels the warm steam envelop her.

He can tell by her body language, the way she leans heavily into him, that she is not currently capable of doing for herself and so he reaches behind her, undoing the clasp of her bra, tracing his fingertips over her shoulders with slow deliberation as he draws the straps down her arms and then off. She sees the heat in his eyes as they rake over her form appreciatively. Even in her shattered, broken state he is hungry for her. The walls of her sex clench at the knowledge that he wants her and she shivers in anticipation.

He sees it and kneels before her in haste, his thumbs catching in the waistband of her panties and drawing them down her legs. "I'm sorry you're so cold, sweetheart," he tells her, pressing a kiss to each hipbone before standing to his feet and stripping off his shorts.

She shakes her head in the negative as he opens the shower door. "It's not that," she says, looking up at him.

"No?" he asks, his voice laden with intrigue and just a hint of mischief. He offers his hand once more, indicating she should step into the shower and as she does he watches her back up under the spray.

"No," she says earnestly.

"What are ye thinking, Isobel?" he rasps softly in her ear, and she moans at the slip into his brogue. He is so polished, the picture of precision and control in the workaday world and it gives her no small thrill that alone together like this she sees a side of him that no one else knows.

"I want you, Richard," she breathes as he rests a palm on either side of her head against the tile wall of the shower. He has her pinned there, confined, and it's—

"Yesss," she hisses, her eyes slipping shut. He kisses each closed eyelid and her hands clutch at him, fingers pressing hard into the flesh of his back.

"Tell me what ye want, beauty," he murmurs between nips along the line of her jaw. "Tell me what ye need."

Her knees threaten to buckle at his marked inflection and she leans heavily against the tile. He will not push her too far just now, but he is challenging the boundaries she has declared around her heart in the wake of this morning's upheaval.

"I want … I need your hands on me. I need to feel you touching me." She locks eyes with him, hers imploring. "You promised you'd make me forget, Richard. I need to forget." Once more he reads her thoughts.

Give me your joy.

"Beautiful woman," he says, his mouth so close to her own that she feels the syllables as much as she hears them. She can take a guess at what he is doing. She can forget the day's hurt surely enough, but it's not enough for him that she should forget. He wants - he needs - her to remember who she is and what she's made of. "Mine," he declares.

If she were any other woman she would have kicked against this show of apparent possessiveness, but she knows his aim and it is precisely what she needs.

"Yes," she answers, straining toward him, attempting to reach his lips. He backs up a little, out of her reach, and she groans in frustration.

"Isobel," he whispers, "say it."

"Yours."

He sinks a kiss into her mouth at long last and her hands come up, fingers digging into his scalp as they nip at one another's lips. With every kiss a fragment of her soul is rejoined with her body. Her healer is mending the breach.

His hands move to her hips. "Turn," he tells her, and she moves to face the wall with him behind her. Behind her. A frisson of electricity runs the length of her spine and she shudders. He sees it, feels it. "Move with me." He directs her beneath the spray and she laughs.

Give me your joy.

"I'm not shivering, darling."

He nibbles her earlobe. "No?"

She shakes her head, leaning back into him. "No. I'm … thinking."

His hands pull her hips back as his own snap forward. "Thinking, eh? About this, perhaps?" One hand moves to the flat plane of her lower abdomen, holding her to him as he grinds softly against her.

"Mm-hmm." She nods, throwing her head back as his hands travel up to cup her breasts, hissing as he rolls her nipples between his fingers.

She circles her hips against his growing arousal. "Yes, Isobel," he murmurs, and she can hear the building strain in his voice. He wants this. He wants me. "God, the feel of you …"

She smiles as she moves against him and the wall around her heart begins to give way along with her inhibitions. He rubs the soap over her warm, wet skin and she snakes an arm up and back, her fingers threading into his hair. She was weary; she was finished. Now life is seeping back into her bones, every pore of her skin infused with him.

She pushes back against him like she can't get close enough as his hands move on her body. She wants him everywhere at once. His mouth is hot and open, teeth grazing her shoulder, lips fastening to the side of her neck, marking her. Yours, I'm yours, just don't stop touching me … God, I'm yours.

His hands on her keep moving, sliding from her hips to her breasts and back and suddenly she is feverishly hot. She reaches behind them to hold his hips against her bottom and he works a hand down over her stomach and lower as he nudges her knees farther apart with his thigh. Slowly he draws the tip of his middle finger along her slit.

"Jesus, Richard … yes … ohh …" He smiles against the back of her neck as he nips her there. Isobel is eloquent when she speaks, except in moments like these. It gives him no small thrill to hear her panting and moaning and uttering nonsense because of him. "Touch me, darling … don't stop … God!" This as he slips a finger inside her, two, and curls them toward her back, pressing up hard. Her hips circle madly as she moves in counterpoint to his rhythm and she feels her sex swell. She throbs, an ache deep inside her, and the writhe of her hips pushes his fingers deeper. "Yes, Richard … harder … more!"

He grins. He loves her like this. He loves her always, but broken down as she is now, reduced to the basest level of want and sensuality she is supremely powerful. "Beautiful, Bel, so beautiful," he croons as his thumb brushes her just there.

She throws her head back and moans. The brush of his thumb is so light in contrast to the thrusting of his fingers and it's perfect, so perfect and her breath catches on an inhale.

She stills, quiets, and he knows she's close. "Breathe, darling." He wants her to prolong it until she just can't, wants her completely undone when she shatters.

"God … can't!" she gasps. "It aches! I need to—"

"Shh … you will, precious. Relax … breathe … feel it." He breathes with her as he touches her and she's silent, focused, until the walls of her sex start to clench his fingers and her breathing goes ragged.

"Breathe, beauty, you know you can," he whispers, pressing a kiss by her ear. She breathes with him twice more and then his thumb brushes a slightly different spot and she is gone.

"Richard!" It's all she can say as she breaks, shaking, breathless. He stills his movements, pressing the heel of his hand into her to make it last. He is supporting all of her weight or she would fall to the floor.

She clenches long and hard and wonders, in some far corner of her mind, if she will survive this. Death by orgasm, she thinks, and it makes her laugh.

She has just managed to surpass, in his mind, the most beautiful she'd ever been. Dear God, the woman laughs when she comes! He thinks his heart will burst at the sound of it as he remembers her silent plea.

Give me your joy.

He feels her trying to stand on her own as she recovers and he pulls his fingers from her, maneuvering her to the tile bench. He kneels before her and she looks at him, blinking him into focus. Her smile is radiant, her cheeks flushed beautifully pink. He holds her gaze as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, consuming her essence. "Incredible," he murmurs. "You taste like heaven."

She is enthralled by him, his words, his touch, his want of her but she cannot say it yet. Reaching for him she manages, "Richard … hold me."

He lifts her into his lap and her legs wrap around his waist. The hot water cascades over his back as he rests his forehead against hers, caressing her face, the contours of her cheekbones.

For long moments she simply melts into him - she has not come so hard in … quite possibly ever, she thinks, which is saying something with this man, who sees beyond the cut-glass-perfect elocution and fine manicures and accommodating smiles. This man has seen her bloodstained and death-ravaged … and wanton and wild and hungry; euphoric. His hands on her body touch her soul, the healer in him laying her bare, breaking her down and putting her back together stronger, fortified by the love that comes from knowing her entirely.

Love him. When her mind resumes conscious thought, it is her mantra. Eyes closed, she gropes blindly for his lips, her teeth raking along the bottom one. She plunders his mouth, breathing the breath from his lungs over and over, and it is at once invasive and erotically intimate.

He barks a laugh when her lips release his. He hears her unspoken plea - Breathe me back to life - and answers her. "Always. Always." He is still incredulous that she loves him, wants him, needs him so, for he has never known anyone as competent and capable and strong as she.

She is cupping his chin, wanting his attention. "Stand up, Richard." He lifts her from his lap, watching her long, slender legs unfurl as she stands and offers her hand to him. When he is on his feet her fingers encircle his wrist, her thumb instinctively feeling for his pulse. "May I touch you?" Her eyes, which were so wildly unfocused when she came and mercilessly insistent when she stole his breath, are suddenly innocent almost to the point of shyness.

He shakes his head, incredulous. She is a living, breathing study in contradictions, so delightfully puzzling she makes his head spin. And she is his. "Precious woman." He raises their joined hands, pressing hers over his heart. "Please touch me."

Her strong, delicate hands lather his body, cleansing and caressing. When the soap is gone she strokes her hands across his chest, following with her mouth and biting at his nipples. "Jesus, Bel," he gasps and she giggles, a sound that thrills his heart and sends his blood rushing south. He rubs his groin against her thigh and she trails her hand down his abdomen with aching slowness, savoring the feel of the muscles twitching beneath her fingertips. Her fingers enclose him as her other hand rides the curve of his bottom and he hisses, taking her bottom lip between his teeth. He pumps himself into her hand and she watches through half-lidded eyes. Beautiful, he's beautiful. His head is thrown back and he is groaning, murmuring about how "bloody good" it feels and cursing under his breath. The first time she came to him he learned that far from upsetting her, his loosened lips thrill her mightily.

Enthralled by the sight and sound of him, she has the nerve to ask cheekily, "Good, love?"

"Woman," he growls, his bright eyes gone dark. He lifts her in his arms and she yelps as her back makes contact with the cold tile wall. His hands grasp her bottom roughly and her legs wrap around his waist as he grinds against her and he buries his face in her neck, sucking at the skin. The wet-hot friction builds the ache inside her to a fever pitch and she pulls his hair, making him meet her eyes.

"In me," she pants, and he rubs his thumb over her kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"Bedroom," he answers, letting her slide down his body until her feet touch the floor. He turns off the water and once again takes her hand as they step out of the shower. He walks her backward toward the bedroom as hastily they work to dry one another and as her calves hit the edge of the mattress she lets herself fall, tugging him along with her. Her hands fall to his hips and he settles between her legs, rubbing the head of him along her swollen folds. "Like this?"

Her hips arch toward him. "Yes! Now … please!"

His eyes hold hers as he pushes forward and her mouth falls open in a soundless cry at the long, hot slide of him into her. She wraps her legs high around his waist and he flexes his hips, bottoming out inside her.

"Stay," she pleads, her voice high and tight, "stay … just stay … just ohh!" She draws him down close and pushes her hips up until every inch of their skin touches from shoulders to groin.

"We're one," he gasps, burying his face in the salty-sweet crook of her neck, feeling her nod against him as they savor the moment of their joining.

Her hands grasping at his hips signify that she's ready - oh, God, so ready, please Richard! - for him to move and he takes her lips roughly as he pulls out and then thrusts deep. She arches toward him until her back comes almost entirely off the bed, her fingernails leaving tiny crescent marks in the flesh of his back as she clings desperately to him. She tilts her hips up, up, up until he moves against that place inside her, the one his fingers had found and she babbles senselessly … Oh, my love, yes, God, yes … I'm yours … So deep, so good my darling.

He pulls out completely, the head of him rubbing against her swollen sex before plunging deep again. She is sleek and soft and hot beneath him, for him and his cries mingle with hers … Isobel, my beauty, my wife … so tight, so good, the way you move … Yes, my darling … So beautiful, so warm, you feel so good … Come for me, hard, love—

She does, and it's blindingly brilliant and she crushes her lips against his as her walls clench around him and all the while he moves within her, comes with her, willing her to understand that which he cannot say in words.

You're beautiful and warm and whole and here with me. Precious Isobel, my wife, my heart. I love you.

He sinks down upon her, still inside her, kissing her neck and shoulder as she alternately strokes his back and runs her fingers through his hair, fierce clutching and desperate grasping turned soothing and gentle in her satiety. They are silent as they recover, breathing in synchrony as their chests touch.

He speaks first, shifting his weight onto his forearms to look down at her. "Are you warm now, sweet girl?"

She loves his endearments, but this one in particular thrills her and she laughs, nodding as she nuzzles his nose with hers. "Oh, darling, that was wonderful." She kisses him deeply and wiggles her hips, both of them groaning softly at the sensation. "I love this," she whispers, "you inside me. There's nothing like it."

It is he who kisses her now, and when he slips out of her and she sobs he gathers her into his arms. "Shh, beauty … I'm right here. Can you sleep now?"

She blinks at him, here eyelids growing heavy. "Yes, I think so. Richard …" Cupping his chin in the space between her thumb and forefinger, she looks at him with such sincerity that his breath catches. "I love you. So very much and I …" She is caught short of words. Thank you flashes through her mind, and you always know just what I need, but they all seem so inadequate.

But her eyes tell him all that she cannot.

You've taken my sorrow. You've given me unspeakable joy.

Tomorrow she will see Ethel, and her heart will break a little for the circumstances. He will see the baby, and he'll release him into the care of his foster family. While she will never agree, she will come to understand in time. Every mother wants the best for her child, and sometimes what is best and what is ideal are worlds apart.

But now she sleeps, and when later on she wakes with him half-hard and pressed against her bottom, she awakens him with messy, sleepy kisses and moves atop him, slipping him inside her. It is slower and sweeter this time, silent and sensuous as their haze reduces everything to sensation, the point of contact. Her hips roll lazily as his mouth bathes her breasts and she falls into him as she comes. He is right behind her, flooding her with warmth deep within. The only words spoken are whispered—

I love you.

As she curls into Richard's side, she thinks that understanding may be coming to her now, in dribs and drabs, bit by bit. Her husband died, and then her son, and the script she had followed all her life changed in a heartbeat. And she supposes Ethel had likely written a script of her own at one time, and that choice and circumstance had rewritten some of the lines against her wishes.

But Richard and Isobel found their way to one another in an unexpected plot twist. She found her happy ending, her better story. And so, she supposes, will Ethel in time. Time does not deaden the pain of loss, but it brings with it grace and strength.

She will smile when next she sees Ethel, and it will be sincere. Strong women bear up under strain and share one another's burdens. And she can do this, will do this, because in the arms of the man she loves, who loves her, she has shed her sorrow. She has found her joy.

'Cause we know how this ends
We know there's a better story
- Sara Groves, "Rewrite This Tragedy"