Author's Note: Ah! The reviews are climbing. :)
I tried to find where I mentioned 'Tim' earlier in the story but couldn't. In the original draft I wrote almost a decade ago, I had him early on in the story but changed it now - seemed like a nice little way of showing that Mark cares for Brigands that he brought in help with the workload so Brigands can see to his wife more. Maybe I missed pulling that out in the early chapters. If it's in there, pretend there wasn't a cook until Tim came in a couple chapters ago. :)
Even though she ran from appointment to appointment to meet with lawyers the next week, the days dragged on forever. Brigands refused to take her to 'that hell hole' again, so it was at the trial that she saw Mark next.
The place overflowed with gawkers, reporters and anyone eager to see him sentenced to death. The crowd could be heard as they cast slurs and insults at him. She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Berthamore, England's fiercest lawye. The lawyer from Mark's previous trial, Mr. Tibbs, followed as she shoved through the crowds. The trial started one minute ago. "Hurry!" She called to them and pressed on.
Guards held the crowds back from the doors. She came toe-to-toe with a rough, brawny man who would've frightened her days ago. "I have lawyers for my husband's trial. Let us through." The stress and hardship of the past week gave a hard edge to her tone.
The man blinked and then his face stoned over. "No. The trial already started."
Mr. Berthamore caught up. "It started a minute ago! Let us in!"
"Keep them out! He doesn't deserve a lawyer!" Someone in the crowd called.
The last thing needed right now was a riot. She pointed to the left to no one in particular. "Then why is he here?" The moment the guard looked to the left, she ducked around him and banged both doors open to the courtroom. All eyes flew to her as she marched down the aisle to the front of the room, Mr. Berthamore smothering a chuckled behind her.
No one would've ever known Mark had once been a rich, proud man. His clothes were tattered, filthy and caked in what looked suspiciously like old blood speckles where there wasn't dirt. He'd obviously been denied a bath, shave and comb for days, which the lawyers said the Courts would do to make him look like a broken man - and further his appearance as a man wrestling with a guilty conscience. They hadn't only shackled his wrists but his ankles as well. Shock widened his eyes the moment his gaze met hers.
"Guards! Get them out!" the judge called.
That finally pushed her over the edge. She stormed to the railing at the front of the Court, her heart pounding with outrage. "These are Marcus Debonairo's lawyers. If you try him without representation, I will take this ruling to the King to be thrown out!"
The judge stared, speechless for a moment. "Who the hell are you?" Even the jury gawked.
"His wife. The council the Court has provided him is hereby removed - "
"You cannot do it after the trial starts," the judge said, an arrogant smile touching his lips - a judge out for Mark's blood too.
"Actually, Your Honor - " Mr. Tibbs began.
"Everyone has not been sworn in, so my husband can do any damn thing he wants with his council," she spat.
The judge looked at Mr. Tibbs and Berthamore behind her. "Are you two going be counselors or is she?"
Mr. Berthamore folded his hands and grinned. "She's doing a fine job, Your Honor."
"Thank God women cannot be counsel, or I'd end the trial here to shut her up," the judge muttered. He looked at Mark with little patience. "Do you wish to replace your counsel?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Mark rasped.
"Fine. Counselors, your names and then take your seats."
Mr. Tibbs announced himself and a soft murmur buzzed around the room. Mark cracked a smile, apparently pleased at her choice. When Mr. Berthamore gave his name, stunned silence filled the room - even Mark's mouth hung open. The judge even cursed.
She took her seat, the only one on Mark's side of the Court. Mark turned and met her gaze, the shock still apparent. But hope replaced the humiliation in his eyes. 'Thank you,' he mouthed, and a slow smile spread over his lips as he shook his head, like he couldn't believe that she actually had come, cannons firing.
Prosecuting lawyers went straight for the jugular, accusing Mark left, right, front and back. They did a fine job of making him look like a horrible human being for whom the gallows was too quick of a death.
The moment Mr. Berthamore opened his mouth, he blasted everyone out of the water.
The temperatures in the room climbed from the crowd with each passing hour as the prosecutors tried time and time again to thwart Mr. Berthamore and Tibbs. They seemed to have the bloodthirsty lawyers under control, so she slipped outside into the cold winter air as the temperature inside made the room spin. Holding her back to ease the aching of sitting for four hours, she stood at the bottom of the courthouse steps a few feet from the crowd. She looked up at the snowflakes that drifted down in quiet peacefulness.
The crowd hummed as word of what was being said in the trial made it's way out to the steps.
"They said he saved the woman from certain death." One man turned to her, obviously having no idea who she was. "How can they say that when he murdered his late wife just years ago? It was another woman he tried to kill now too."
She stuck her hands in her cape to hide her belly and identity and took the opportunity. "Didn't you hear? His late wife had cancer that had spread through her body. He tried a new treatment that has been found to work in a few women, but he found the cancer too late." More eyes turned to her. "She died from the cancer, not from him."
"But I heard - " A woman frowned.
"You heard the rumors here in town. I heard it from a physician who was there for her death. Debonairo didn't kill her." No need to say that physician had been Mark. More eyes focused on her, people obviously confused. "The woman he operated on last week - she had tumors of the belly. Physicians thought him mad for his diagnosis, and she was on her deathbed. I saw her myself a couple days ago - she's no longer bedridden and looks as healthy as a horse."
A man snorted. "He tried to kill her too. He's a monster. Physicians didn't agree, so he - "
She met his eyes. "That man was once one of the best physicians who introduced ideas that saved countless women in childbirth. Was he not once the one you wanted there for yourselves, your wives and daughters during childbirth because his patients rarely died?"
Some of them looked away.
The words came calm and sad. "He knew when he did that woman's surgery that he was trading his life for hers. He saved a woman. And yet we scream to crucify him. Whom does that make the monster?"
They had no words for that.
One woman met her eyes. "Years ago, my sister gave birth in another town. She bled and bled and the babe died. The midwife said she would die. Her husband rode all night to find Dr. Debonairo. He did crazy, unconventional treatment. But she lived and had two more babies who lived."
The crowd on the steps murmured at the story, no longer paying attention to the trial. If they could be turned, a riot in favor of Mark if the Court found him guilty just might save him. She spoke up and took the opportunity that presented itself. "When I was with child, I was sickly and the babe threatened to come early. Dr. Debonairo stopped childbirth and the babe grew strong. He saved my babe and likely me." Her heart beat faster with hope as stories of distant friends or relatives who survived because of Mark crept out of the woodwork.
"He saved my daughter's friend!" A man from the top of the steps near the doors caught everyone's attention.
"My granddaughter!" Someone else to the left called.
"My nephew was a stillborn delivered two months early! He brought him back!" Another from the opposite side of the crowd called.
"Maybe he did poison his wife, but what if it was a mistake?" A man called. "What if he was trying so hard to save her like he has others that he didn't have any option left? What if poison, just a little, is what he was told would cure the cancer? What if she was too weak and what should've worked didn't? Did he mean to? No! We condemned him and sent him to an asylum. He's left us alone for six years, hasn't he? My wife is a midwife who worked with Debonario to learn his ways. She swears she has saved women using what he taught her!"
"He murdered his wife!" Another man called.
"What proof do you have? Even the Court couldn't prove it!" A woman protested. "Free him!"
More and more stories came forth, even being passed along from inside the Courthouse. "Free him!" each one called after telling their tale.
"Free him!" The crowd began to chant, and energy taking hold that offered hope.
Tears burned and she held her hands over her mouth in a silent prayer of thanks. The crowd had too much enthusiasm to be able to push her way into the courtroom, so she stood on the steps and waited.
A roar of cheers exploded an hour later. She grabbed a man's sleeve, unable to hear what everyone was saying at once. "What happened?"
"The Court set him free!"
Her knees buckled from profound relief as she burst into tears.
The guards came and he stared in shock as they removed the shackles. His eyes lifted to the lawyers, who grinned and shook his hand.
"Does it feel good to be a free man? Don't just stand there gawking, man. Go find your wife!"
It had to be a dream. "I'm free? To leave?" That couldn't be. They had to be taking him to an asylum or another prison. It couldn't be this easy.
"Free as a bird! And I daresay your wife is outside starting the riot for your freedom," Mr. Berthamore smiled.
"Free him! Free him!" The chant leaked into the courtroom.
A choked cry of relief, joy, disbelief all rolled into one burst out. Tears fell.
Mr. Tibbs smiled. "She got a room for you both at the inn."
"She knew I'd get out?" Tears streamed down with joy yet.
Mr. Berthamore snorted. "The woman wouldn't accept any other answer. She barged into my office four days ago and demanded I take your case. When I said I couldn't because I had too much work, she sat outside my office all day for two days, harassing me about it any time I stepped out of my office. I gave in just to shut her up. Damn persistent she is. Anyways, she insisted on the inn because she said you're in no shape to travel home yet."
He clutched their hands. "Thank you."
"Don't thank us until you see the bill," Mr. Tibbs laughed. "Go tell your wife the good news."
He hobbled toward the doors, his knee unable to bend and making the journey to Tanya far too long.
"Debonario! Take this!"
Turning, he caught Mr. Berthamore's cane that flew through the air. "Thank you!" He opened the door and the crowd cheered and the press shoved forward. He stopped in his tracks and stared. Instead of slurs and punches, people slapped him on the back in congratulations.
"How does it feel to be free?'
"Are you going to demand a retrial for your license?"
The press pelted questions and the crowd made it hard to go anywhere. Finally, he looked at them and pleaded, "I just wish to hold my wife." An impossibly stupid grin took hold. "I don't know why, but she loves me."
The crowd laughed and a couple men pushed back. "Let him through!"
"Let him through! Get the man his wife!"
"Find his wife!"
A path slowly opened. His heart beat faster and he limped toward the front doors. Just on the other side. Dreams had been plagued by this moment that he hadn't thought would come. And yet it tasted sweeter than he could've imagined. She must be out on the top steps rallying the crowd.
But they still called to find his wife when he stepped outside. His eyes scanned for a beautiful face, ignoring the shivers from the cold in his tattered clothes. Disappointment heavied his heart. She wasn't here. Maybe the inn. "Where's the inn?"
"A woman left the crowd in a large black cape. She went the direction of the inn!" Someone pointed to the right.
Black cape - she must be wearing his yet to keep the babe warm. Hands took his arms and assisted him down the steps, excitement rising again to find her.
"Do you want my carriage?" A small woman pointed to her conveyance at the bottom of the steps.
His eyes narrowed, trying to place her. Ten years ago. A cottage outside of France and her daughter having a difficult birth. Her daughter and grandson pulled through in the end. He smiled. "Thank you, but bouncing in a carriage may bring me to tears." He hurried down the street as fast as possible.
Every bone hurt by the time he reached the inn two blocks away. He hurried through the front door.
"Marquess Debonairo?" The innkeeper, a middle aged man, looked up from the desk and didn't seem the least bit offended by his appearance.
"Yes?"
"Your wife said you'd be coming. Room five." He pointed to the staircase.
"Thank you."
"Do you need help - "
He plowed up the steps, stumbling and forcing his knee to cooperate. "No, thank you!" Never in ten minutes had he said 'thank you' as many times, but it felt wonderful. Like being born a new man. Being given a second chance at life. Because of the angel upstairs. He half hopped up the stairs, unable to hurry fast enough and not caring who saw him look like an idiot.
He stood before room five, his heart thundering. His hands trembled. What to say? What to do? It was like being born again, this time having something to live for. Closing his eyes, he basked in this moment, this thrill of coming home - because home was where she was. Then he opened the door and stepped inside, so happy he could burst. Except the room was empty. A note lay on the bed. He limped over. Maybe it was the wrong room.
Getting dinner. Back soon.
Tanya
Tears spilled over like a child as the disappointment swelled and broke his heart, the ache physically painful. All he wanted was her.
She dragged her feet up the stairs, nervous about how she'd be received. The last time Mark had come home from a trial, it'd been after Anna's death and the asylum. His feelings of guilt and grief would surely be stronger than when he'd left. And he'd resent coming back to a woman who wasn't Anna.
She stared at the door, almost not wanting to open it. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped in with the food and set it on the table by the door. Then she looked up.
He stood at the vanity mirror, already washed and just finishing a shave. He wore nothing but a towel around his waist. His eyes met hers in the reflection, and he patted his face dry and turned with a soft smile.
The breath caught in her chest and her hands flew to her mouth to muffle the gasp of horror. His body hardly had a single spot without black, green or purple bruises. Abrasions spotted his torso and arms. Welts mapped his back in the mirror's reflection, and his knee was swollen to almost twice it's size. "Oh my god!" She sank onto the edge of the bed as tears rolled down.
"I'm alright." He limped over, tears on his own face. He tugged her to her feet and wrapped his arms around in a fierce hug.
"I don't even know where to touch you," she wept.
"Anywhere."
So she wrapped her arms around his neck, weeping as much as him.
She finally pulled the handkerchief out from across her dress and dabbed at his eyes. "What happened?"
He looked away.
"You're not hoarse from being ill, are you?"
His body visibly tensed. "I don't want to talk about it."
Biting her lip, she set a single finger on his cheek, careful of the bruises on his jaw that had been masked by the beard. "Do you need me to fetch a physician?"
Those blue eyes shifted to her. "Will you? No questions."
He needed to feel safe with her, so she nodded. "Sit. I'll get your bag." She tugged his hand for him to rest on the bed.
Shame touched his eyes. He averted his gaze and shook his head.
Laying her fingers on his arm for a brief moment in comfort, she went to get his bag. Something happened taht made him not want to sit...perhaps the unspeakable. He didn't want to talk, so she would do everything to make him feel safe. She washed and then stood before him and eyed the bruises, likely cracked ribs, abrasions, sutures left in too long, swollen knee, fever...so many places to start. After giving him something for the pain, she looked up at him. "What do you want me to start with first?"
He gave a small shrug and shake of his head, so unlike his usually opinionated self.
"We'll start with the sutures and work our way down." His poor flesh bled from removing ingrown sutures, but he remained quiet and still. "Are you hungry?"
Another shake of his head.
Cleaning the fresh wounds from the sutures, she glanced up at his face. "I missed you. Do you want to sleep when we're done?"
He nodded.
Touching his smooth, freshly shaven cheek, she held his eyes. "Whatever they did doesn't matter to me. You were brave and ended up in there because you did the honorable thing treating her. I love you."
Tears welled in his eyes but he still didn't say anything.
She swallowed hard. He didn't need her to fall apart right now but be the strong one. "I've heard that the guards do things to the prisoners. It doesn't mean you're less of a man."
His chest rose and fell faster.
"I hope that one day I make you feel safe enough to tell me." Raising onto her toes, she brushed a kiss over his lips and then continued washing the other abrasions on his chest and back. "Would it help to wrap your ribs for support? You're terribly bruised like one may be cracked." After he nodded, she wrapped a bandage around his middle as he breathed through the pain. That brought her to the towel around his waist. His hand clutched to keep the towel closed. She looked up at him. "May I check underneath?"
His eyes searched her for a moment, his brow furrowed with worry. His forehead wrinkled as he seemed to debate. Then his hand slowly unfisted.
Bracing for anything so as not to react and make him ashamed, she eased open the towel. Bruises darkened delicate flesh and he was swollen to almost twice his size everywhere. An infection of some sort or some kind of sick beating did this - either way, they'd humiliated him in a way no human being should be. And she understood all too well how afraid he must be to be vulnerable to her. Keeping her voice level, she kept her eyes focused on checking for cuts so he wouldn't see the worry, and asked, "Do you need medicine, or is this just swelling?"
"Swelling," he said quietly.
She got up and checked his backside. The moment she touched the rag to a small cut on his backside, he startled and darted away a few steps. "I'm sorry," she said and didn't move, looking up at his frightened eyes. "There's a small cut that's red like it may be getting infected. I won't touch anywhere else without asking." Her heart pounded, afraid to know.
He didn't move for nearly a full minute. His heart thuded so hard it moved his chest. Then he stepped closer and turned to offer his side.
That simple gesture of profound trust twisted her heart. She stood and wrapped the towel around his waist. "I'll just lift it where I need to reach the cut." Kneeling behind him again, she swallowed hard. It had to be something terrible to make a man like him so afraid, so beaten down. Once she finished with the cut, she knelt in front of him again and looked up. "I'm just going to feel how high the swelling goes from you knee." No protest or sign of disagreement came, so she wrapped her hands as much as she could around his thigh, her hands disappearing under the towel before muscle instead of swelling became apparent. "Do you want to lie down and I can rub your leg to help with the swelling?"
"Eat your food."
So she washed her hands. He eased into bed a bit awkwardly, getting in on his hip as if to avoid sitting. The man propped up on his side, grimacing in pain until finally seeming to get comfortable enough. She slipped under the covers on the other side of the bed and held a piece of chicken to his lips. "Will you eat a bit?"
He ate the piece and laid a hand on her belly, not offering any words.
Perhaps focusing on something else would make him come out of his shell. "We missed you. He didn't let me sleep much - I think we're used to your hand there when we sleep."
"It feels like it's been years," he whispered, staring at her belly. "You're more beautiful than I remembered."
"You mean larger?" Keeping the conversation light would help coax him out of his shell. She smiled and balanced the plate on her bump.
"Has the babe been sound?"
She fed him another piece of chicken and then ate one. "He has. Do you want some biscuit?" Then she held it out.
He shook his head. "The babe wants it."
She laughed and had to grab the plate before it fell. "And what else does the babe want?" She finished off the plate and set it on the nightstand.
He slid up the nightgown to bare her belly and ran his hand over the mound. Then he leaned up on his elbow with a soft grunt of pain for his ribs and kissed the baby.
Tears welled, and she ran a hand through his hair as he rested his cheek on her belly. "You're home, Mark. You're safe."
His head lifted and a tear ran down his cheek. "Lie with me," he whispered and eased up her nightgown.
Sitting up, she let him pull the nightgown over her head and then laid down facing him, tucking her hands under her cheek.
He laid down and took her hand, coaxing her to turn away. Then his arm slipped around to cup her belly and his poor leg draped over hers, spooning the closest he ever had. "I didn't think I'd have this again," he whispered.
The tears couldn't be held back any longer. Her face crumpled and she laced her fingers with his. "I was scared that..." The sobs took over. When he rolled her over, his arms slipped around and he held her close against his chest...like he'd never let go.
She woke up in the middle of the night again. Mark got back in bed for the second time. "Are you alright?" With a yawn, she rolled toward him. His stomach rumbled when she laid a hand across his belly. "Are you ill?" She felt his warm brow.
"Fine," he grunted and moved her hand up to his chest.
The fever, upset stomach, loss of appetite, the filth of the prison...it made sense. "Oh, Mark, do you have dysentery?" She sat up, her heart beating fast. Few survived dysentery.
He shivered from the fever. "Get my bag." After she pulled up the blankets on him higher and then pulled on her nightgown before fetching his bag, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up. "Ask the innkeeper for salt and egg white."
She frowned but didn't question him as he dug out a vial labeled saline. When she returned with the items, he dumped them into the vial and mixed them up. "What are you doing?"
"This was the only treatment that Dr. William O'Shaughnessy found to help during the London epidemic forty years ago." He pulled out a syringe and filled it with the disgusting mixture. Then he sank back against the pillows, his face so pale as he held out the syringe, his hand shaking. "I can't." Then he grabbed the basin and got ill.
Setting aside the basin when he finished, she swallowed down her nerves. "Walk me through this." Following his directions, she cleaned his arm and injected the large volume of fluid over several minutes. Then she pressed a bandage to his arm. "I should send for the doctor."
He shook his head. "I think it's from parasites. It peaks about a week after being infected. You shouldn't catch it, but wash your hands."
"Your ribs are showing." Tanya frowned and sat on the edge of the bed, running her hands down his sides.
He sat up against the pillows, having energy to talk for the first time in a week. "I haven't eaten much of anything for two weeks," he grunted. "Hurry up." He'd been looking forward to a bath all week - a real bath - now that the fever had broken. His ribs protested the movement, however.
When she handed him the cane, he pushed himself to his feet and blinked as the room swayed for a moment. Her arm wrapped around his middle. Dear god, it was good to feel her little body against him again and be well enough to enjoy it. He draped an arm over her shoulders, mindful to not lean too heavily. Then he started the laborious journey to the steaming tub that the innkeeper had set up near the fireplace.
The woman stepped in front of him and pulled down his pants. He growled in frustration as his body became very aware of her stripping him.
She glanced up from where she knelt and helped balance him to step out of the pants. "I'm glad you're well enough to growl again." Then she smiled in that way that made his heart stumble.
"It was nice being too ill to be irritated," he grumbled. "Hurry up, woman." If he didn't get in the tub soon, she'd run screaming at how much he throbbed for her. That only made her giggle in that soft twinkling way, making all the goddamn blood rush between his legs.
The chit glanced on her way standing up and smiled. "I see you're healing." She took his hand to help him in the tub.
"If it's so amusing, you can get in the damn tub too," he snapped.
"Do you think we'd fit? It'd be nice to have a real bath." She reached down and felt the water temperature.
His jaw dropped. His goddamn ribs could go to Hell if she was going to strip - nothing would keep him from sinking into her beautiful body.
Those brown eyes turned to him with a gleam. "I'm teasing. I love it when you're speechless."
Snapping his mouth shut, he glared. "It was far more quiet in prison," he barked.
Her smile faded.
"And I hated every goddamn minute of it," he growled, caught her hand and pulled her closer. His mouth crushed down on her soft, warm lips. Then he let go and stepped into the tub. "Well, are you going to wash me?" By god, the steamy water seeped into his aching muscles and bruises. He reclined back, quite curious if she'd take the bait.
The chit stood there with wide eyes. "Wash you?" she squeaked.
The woman had seen him as sick as a dog and at Death's door but hadn't cried foul all week. This, ironically, offended her sensibilities. Holding in a smile, he met her with a level gaze and firm tone. "You wash yourself, do you not?"
"Well, yes."
"Then stop acting like it's hard," he snapped.
"I was just wondering if you expect me to wash..." Her eyes darted down between his legs and flew back up, her cheeks pinks.
That would be the best part. And also give her time to learn about a man without being afraid of sex. He cocked an eyebrow. "Or I can wash you instead." She wouldn't take that bait, of course.
The woman snatched a rag in a hurry. "You are a terrible rake," she scolded and rolled up her sleeves. Then she soaped the cloth and ran it down his neck and chest, avoiding eye contact.
Perhaps he'd been a bit too blunt. "I have a week of being gone to make up for," he grunted.
But she just frowned in confusion and met his eyes. "Of barking at me?" She ran the rag over his shoulders.
He cleared his throat, his heart pounding in self-consciousness at having to explain. The chit had damn pudding for brains at the moment, apparently. "Of looking at you," he snapped.
Her eyebrows knit. "And that puts you in a bad mood?"
With a deep growl of frustration, he sighed. "Did I ever say I don't like looking at you?" He gripped the edge of the tub and pulled himself forward for her to wash his back, hissing in pain at the protest from his ribs.
She frowned and did his back quick. "So you do? You didn't want me around before."
"I said you're beautiful the night I got back, did I not?" he barked and sat back.
"But you were feverish and overtired. I didn't think you meant it." She smiled.
"Well, I did, goddammit!" The damn woman had a way of making him spill compliments.
The chit sat back. And tears shimmered in her eyes. "Truly? You think I'm pretty?"
Had no one ever told her? Female tears made his stomach churn. Her tears, in particular, made something in his chest ache. "That's not what I said," he huffed. "'Beautiful' is not 'pretty.' I could tell a hundred women they're pretty." He threw her a look.
She searched his eyes. "How many would you tell them that they're beautiful?"
His brow knit so fierce that it caused a headache. "I wouldn't!" Then he blinked. The brat had just gotten him to admit that he found her exceptionally attractive. Dammit, he wasn't some sentimental fool!
A tear rolled down her cheek and her face glowed with the most precious smile.
Tears pricked behind his eyes at how much she cherished the compliment. No one made him cry! The damn chit made him entirely too soft. He cleared his throat. It had to be the illness messing with his head yet. "Finish before the water gets cold," he grunted, rested his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes so she could explore without being embarrassed.
She ran the rag over every part except where he could damn well use a woman. The moment a light, small stroke touched the delicate flesh, he tensed as blood rushed. Oh dear god, this might be worst torture than in prison. Holding still, he concentrated on not panting like a damn dog and keeping his eyes closed so as not to frighten her.
Another stroke, a bit bolder. The rag, thank the stars - her direct touch would've been too much. The rag swept over and round and then disappeared. Goddammit, the chit was done. That'd gone too fast.
"Mark? How will that not hurt? You're so big." Her voice quivered.
God bless it, he'd scared her. Keeping his eyes closed, he said, "You will be able to comfortably fit me if you're pleasured, and I won't just ram."
"Oh." Silence for a moment. "Am I allowed to tell you to stop if it hurts?"
His eyes snapped open and he scowled. "You'll damn well tell me to stop if you so much as get frightened."
Her eyebrows furrowed. "You're an odd man, Mark. I've heard stories of husbands demanding their wedding night, yet you seem in no rush." When he opened his mouth in protest, she smiled and seemed so happy. "I like that you're odd. It makes me love you more."
That warm fuzzy glow bloomed in his chest, just like every time she mentioned the L-word. It wouldn't do at all. He cleared his throat and delivered a stern look. "You're the slowest bather in history, woman."
"Yes, Mark," she purred, not seeming to care one bit. Then she leaned forward, set a hand in the water on his sound thigh and pressed a kiss to his lips.
That goddamn made him cup her delicate face in his hands so she wouldn't break the kiss too soon.
