Before sleep left her, she could sense something was off. With a start, she realized that she was completely naked, lying in a tangled pile of sheets. Daylight shone through the window and she saw that she was alone in their bedroom. She let out a relieved sigh and leaned back into her pillows. She wasn't at all sure that she was ready for her husband to see the whole of her naked body in the stark light of day. What she didn't know was that her husband had already spent quite some time seeing just that.

He'd woken before she did. He always had; back at Downton, he was always down first. One arm was flung above her head. Her hand was buried in the plait that had long ago given up its fight to hold in her magnificent hair. With a flutter in his stomach, he looked forward to the day when he would be able to see it loose. Mesmerized, he watched her perfect porcelain breasts rise and fall with each breath. Feeling silly, he nonetheless tossed off a small prayer of thanks for fair-skinned Scottish maidens. He gave a disgruntled look to the tangled sheet that kept his gaze from her legs. He didn't know how she could have been comfortable, but she was twisted sideways at her waist, giving him a fantastic view of her backside. He was tempted by visions of waking her with his hands on her bottom, then working forward to feel her sex.

But he was terrified of seeing her wake with regret in her eyes. He didn't know much, but he knew he should have treated her more gently their first time. He was ashamed of his lack of control. He knew she loved him and the thought calmed him somewhat. She would forgive him and he would do better. Remembering her eager response made him instantly and achingly hard. He longed to hear her cries again. He thought sadly that he should leave her be. What if he'd hurt her somehow? Perhaps she needed time to recover? With a misguided thought to make their breakfast by way of an apology, he quietly left the room, taking his day clothes with him.

Clangs and small crashes drifted to her ears. Rising gingerly, she had to sheepishly search for her nightgown. Slipping it over her head, she padded to the bathroom. And saw a mess in the mirror. Her hair was sticking out of her braid every which way. Sighing, she cleaned herself up and undid the plait to let her hair fall loose. She gave it a perfunctory brush and slipped a hair comb on either side of her head. A part of her wanted to get fully dressed and ready before she saw him this morning, but she simply couldn't wait. She desperately needed to see the expression in his eyes. Would be condemn her for her wanton actions the night before? Was he full of remorse for the decision he'd made? Few people these days had stronger feelings about propriety than Charles Carson. She suspected that ladies didn't respond to men the way she had. Her blush was fierce as she made her way to the kitchen.

His back was to her as he stood at the counter. Under his breath, he swore violently. The knife had slipped. Just as he noticed the blood start to well from the cut, he also noticed his wife behind him. He turned to apologize for his language and the words died in his throat.

She looked like something out of a fairy tale. Her bare feet poked out from the bottom of her white gown. The voluminous fabric seemed to float around her. It wasn't molded to her as it had been last night. But with the sun shining behind her, he could just make out her shape beneath it. Her high, full breasts widened the pleats at her chest. And her hair. Sweet Jesus, her hair. It was down, pulled slightly back on the sides. It fell nearly to her waist in soft, unearthly waves. His hands tingled with the desire to bury themselves in it.

"Oh, you're dressed," she said, uncertainty in her voice. She made a move to go back the way she'd come.

He shook his head with a jerk and he started toward her.

"You're hurt!" she exclaimed, rushing to him.

She thrust his hand under the running water and held it there for a few moments. With her concentration on his hand, he could gaze at her as he wished. Her hair was almost touching his nose. He tried to lean his head back casually to look at her backside, remembering how tempted he had been just a short while ago.

When she wrapped his finger in a cloth and held it there to stop the bleeding, he stared down at her bent head. Why can't we be easy with one another? he lamented internally. If only she'd give me some sign. Something to show she isn't sorry. Isn't angry. Isn't hurt. I've no idea what to do with a wife. How can I possibly make this woman happy? She deserves so much better than I can give.

Her thoughts were much the same. What is it about the light of day that makes everything we've done seem so shameful? Why won't he just hold me? Am I supposed to do something? He loves me. I love him. What the hell are we supposed to do now?

When she took the cloth off and blew gently on his finger to relieve some of the pain, he had to do something. If only to stop from taking her right there on the kitchen floor. He bent his head to kiss the crown of hers. He'd fully intended to leave it at that, but the smell of her hair invaded his senses. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head and, with his uninjured hand, used her hip to gently pull her close.

Almost weeping with relief, she lifted herself up to wind her arms around his neck. Forgetting her resolve to be more reserved, she pressed herself hard against him. She found that her neck seemed to have some direct connection to her knees. When he kissed the smooth, white skin below her ear, she couldn't seem to hold herself up. Only vaguely noticing the change of weight in his arms, he pressed her up against the wall with his knee between her legs. She gasped and a tear did escape then.

Berating himself for forgetting his resolutions so quickly, he brushed away her tear and held her cheek in his palm. He tried to ignore how her hair fanned out gloriously against the wall behind her.

"Are you alright?" he inquired anxiously. "Is everything - are you - did I hurt you?" Burning shame at his actions travelled a fiery trail in his veins. To ask her these personal questions caused him great embarrassment, which truly confused him, considering how intimate they'd been only a few hours earlier.

"Oh, Charles. My poor man. Were you worried? I'm made of stronger stuff than that. You mustn't worry. Promise me. Promise me you won't worry about hurting me."

She'd been kissing his neck, jaw, face and lips throughout her entire speech, so he'd not really been able to concentrate on her words. He wasn't certain what he was promising, but he agreed wholeheartedly.

"I promise," he asserted strongly as his hands caressed her backside.

And he kissed her then. Trying to go slowly, he wanted to learn the shape of her lips. What better way than to map them with his tongue? He wanted to know what made her tremble, what made her legs weak. Could he possibly make her beg for him? At the thought, his hips jerked involuntarily into hers.

On a moan, she said, "Charles. Charles, turn off the stove."

Unthinking, he reached behind him to turn off the burners. She's so wise. So wonderful, he thought, unaware that he was among many husbands to disproportionately, but quite charmingly, extoll the virtues of their wives. Gratefully, he thought how fortunate he was to have stolen her away from the rest of the world. To have her all to himself.

The parts of her that ached for his touch were overly warm. She thought that she might go insane if he didn't make love to her right then. Not knowing how to get him to do what she wanted without shaming herself, she stammered,

"Charles?"

"Hmm?" he responded distractedly while he lifted the hem of her gown to feel her thigh.

"Will you - do you think it would be alright -" she cut off abruptly when he latched onto her breast through her gown. He'd caressed her breasts the night before, but there was nothing in the world that could compare to feeling of his wet, hot mouth on her. She could feel his tongue moving rapidly against her achingly hard nipple through the cloth and she began to slide down the wall, having completely lost the ability to control her legs.

He hauled her up and looked at her with darkened eyes.

"What, Elsie? What do you want?" he asked, his voice torn at the edges.

She whimpered helplessly and looked to the window.

"Daytime," she muttered. All her worries for what he might think of her throwing herself at him now, in the light of day, were there in that one little word.

"Silly woman," he smiled and pulled her by the hand to their bedroom.