I'm really enjoying writing this. There is no antagonism in this chapter, just romanticising- that's probably why I enjoyed it so much. Thank you for all of you reviews so far.
When she woke up, she looked bemused, surprised- he reminded himself quickly that he had expected that- and frowned a little; looking around, trying to work out where on earth she was, and remember what had happened to cause her to end up here. He watched her face carefully for any signs of distress, fear, regret, disgust, or anything like it, but there were none; only sleepy-eyed confusion for a few more moments that seemed very long indeed to him. Then she realised, and paused for a second. Then she let her head relax and fall back down a little, and turned her face to plant a single kiss on his bare shoulder. He felt jubilant relief sore inside of him, and tightened his arms around her instinctively to bring her closer to him. She let out a quiet but contented hum. They needed to talk, they quite seriously needed to talk to each other, but just for the moment he was happy for them to be silent, and to simply bask in the feeling of his body beside hers.
After a while, though, with the light of the slowly dawning sun starting to inch its way down the wall above them, she let out a quiet but clear laugh. Not a mocking laugh, he liked to think that it was a joyful one, but nevertheless he remarked, with a slight acknowledgement of teasing in his voice:
"Most men would take that quite unflatteringly, you know."
She rolled over onto her side to watch him.
"And are you the same as most men?" she asked testily, her eye glinting a little.
It was extraordinary, it was surreal. It was almost like they'd always been lovers. It gave him a slight thrill of happiness to think of it in that way: he was her lover now and she was his. And if what she said now, if the look on her face was anything to go by, it seemed very much as if they might stay that way. It was all he could do not to lean forward and steal another kiss from her lips, parted slightly in absent-mindedness as she concentrated on his face.
"I have no idea," he replied smartly, "It should really be me asking you that."
A flush seemed to creep into her cheek a little bit, but she barely faltered.
"Well, you're like no other man I've ever met," she told him quietly, lifting her arms to wrap them almost shyly around his neck, telling him silently to take it as a compliment, watching his throat intently.
It was only half-awake love-talk, sweet nothings whispered over a pillow in the early morning but it still somehow meant the world to him. She was so beautiful to him in those moments: more than the ravishing, enticing beauty that had broken him down last night, now she appeared utterly transcendent. He suspected that it had been a long time since she'd had a lover before him, and he felt immensely pleased that it was only him who was able to see her like this. He leant forward and planted a soft kiss into her hairline, nuzzling into her forehead for a second before drawing back to say what a half of him dreaded having to say.
"Isobel, we need to talk."
"I know we do," she replied a little ruefully.
He raised his hand to her cheek, tenderly brushing his thumb along the edge of the lines around her eyes that deepened when she smiled. She still looked tired, it was true, but it was a happy tired, a satisfied tired. He got carried away with watching her, and it was her who had to press the conversation on.
"Do you want to talk now?" she asked, "There's a little bit of time before we need to get up."
"If you've no objection."
"What do you want to say to me, Richard?"
So many things, he thought. The problem was where to start.
"Isobel," he murmured almost reverently, brushing his hand slowly over her loose hair- he couldn't at that moment stop touching her- he felt himself staring at her, transfixed, "I don't know how t-..."
She stopped him having to try by leaning in and kissing him soundly on the lips. Groaning, he pressed the back of her hair softly back towards him, pressing his tongue briefly into her mouth to explore her slowly.
"We're supposed to be talking," she remarked with a smug little smile when they finally broke apart.
He sighed heavily.
"Don't distract me like that, then," he pretended to reprimanded her.
She looked suddenly serious, evidently deciding that she was going to have to drive the conversation if they were to get anywhere.
"Did you mean what you said last night?" she asked with such gravity that he could have no doubt about which part she meant.
"No," he answered in a heartbeat, "Not a word of it. How could I possibly?What I said wasn't even true, for a start. I said it in frustration, in anger, and I am truly sorry, Isobel. You have no idea how I felt when I realised."
Her hand rested securely on his shoulder.
"I forgive you, Richard. And I'm sorry I made you so angry in the first place. It was wrong of me, I shouldn't have been so selfish."
You weren't, he thought. Or at least if you were then, you certainly made up for it during the course of the night.
He paused for a second. They had spoken about what they'd said, but not about the perhaps more significant matter of what they'd done. It was ludicrous, really; here he was lying naked beside her and he couldn't bring himself to even mention the fact they'd made love, much less discuss it.
The light of the dawn was creeping further and further down the wall. He needed to say something soon; he couldn't possibly let her leave this bed without making clear to her that his intentions last night had been noble. At least in theory. He had to let her know that she wasn't one of a few, she was the only one; she was all he wanted and all he felt he needed now. He had to let her know that it hadn't just been meaningless intercourse, he had made love to her because he cared for her, and because he loved her. But how on earth was he going to say that? The need he had to tell her was opposed by a fear, a terror he had of her scorning him, or pitying him, or worst of all being completely indifferent. But then again, hadn't she wanted him last night as much as he had wanted her? It had certainly seemed so. It was best not to think of that now, though, if he ever wanted to make it out of this bed. He inhaled deeply.
"Richard, what's wrong?"
He had had his eyes closed too, without realising it, and he opened them to find her eyes full of concern, and her hand resting gently on his forearm, trying to soothe him.
"I love you, Isobel."
She blinked quickly and heavily, her frown lifting a little into an expression of complete surprise for a moment.
"Is there anything wrong in that?" she asked quietly once she'd collected herself a little.
"Nothing at all," he assured her quickly, realising how his answer must have sounded, "Only when you take into account how I've treated you recently... and how I acted last night."
One of her hands remained on his arm, the other rested comfortingly at the base of his neck.
"Richard, I can't think of any gesture more fitting to love than what you gave me last night. You gave me exactly what I needed; a good telling off and... physical release. And the comfort of going to sleep beside another person, being entirely theirs. I had forgotten..."
"I wasn't very... courteous, or gentlemanly," he protested, "You deserve bet-..."
"I promise you, if you'd been any more courteous or gentlemanly you'd have had my serious complaints," she told him with a small smile, "You were gentle with me, Richard, and that's all I can possibly ask of you."
He kissed her again quickly.
"Thank you," he told her sincerely.
"Not at all. Richard?"
"Yes?"
"How long have you loved me for?"
He was quiet for a second.
"I'm only wondering why you didn't tell me sooner."
He considered for a moment.
"Before the war there was so little urgency," he concluded slowly, "Silly at sounds, it seemed that things would always stay exactly as they were. And you were always there, you were always gentle, and you were always kind, and so very beautiful, but I could never find the moment when it seemed right to tell you, and there seemed to be so little rush. And then, well, the war."
"And you fell out of love with me, the irritating wench I became."
"Never. Granted, there were moments when it was harder to love you, I don't deny it. But I never stopped. You're still as kind and still as beautiful."
She blushed a little at the compliment, falling silent for a few moments.
"Thank you for being so truthful, Richard."
"That's quite alright," he replied, "I feel it would be best if there were only ever truths between us from now on. Let's not hide anything from now on, even if it's not especially easy to say. What?" he asked, catching the look on your face, "Isobel, what's the matter?"
"I love you," she blurted out, her eyes a little wide, "There."
It stunned him only for a second, and then he kissed her, wrapping her still more tightly in his arms.
They were both considerably breathless when they broke apart, and both smiling.
"So," he asked, the smile on his face completely irremovable, apparently, "Does that mean you wouldn't be averse to spending a few more nights here, like this?"
She was quiet for a second, and for a horrible, illogical moment he thought she was going to say no.
"I'd rather," she began shyly, "That we went to your bed, in your own house, or to mine, even, if we're careful of Molesley. If it's not too difficult."
"It might mean that we can't be together as often," he warned her, "But to be quite frank I'm wonderfully glad to have you at all, and if that's what you'd rather do then that's what will happen."
She smiled thoroughly, kissing him again.
"Richard, you can have me however and whenever you need me, but as often as possible, if we could make it home."
He clasped her hand in his larger one.
"Then that's what we'll do," he told her.
Please review if you have the time.