Embracing Ashberry (46 page)

After that moment, her memory of the
afternoon grayed into a fuzzy dim din of frantic exclamations,
incoherent sobbing she later identified as her mother, and an
insistent rough tone that she struggled to follow out of the pearly
fog.

With a sigh, Ellie opened her eyes and
stared at the canopy above the bed. Ashberry had spent the last
week sleeping on a daybed brought into the room and napping in her
boudoir. The hemorrhage that had followed Rosalie's birth had left
Ellie unconscious for nearly a full day, while Caroline and Sarah
coaxed the babe to swallow sips of sugared water.

Staunching the bleeding had required prayer,
the doctor's ingenuity, and a lot of luck.

The doctor had been reluctant to admit to a
shaken Ashberry that Ellie would not have more babies. Sensitive to
issues of inheritance and heirs, the doctor had been shocked by the
relief on the marquess' face and his profuse gratitude.

At the time, Ellie had been too weak to
grieve. A week later, her heart ached for the loss, though the edge
of pain was tempered by small Rosalie nestling against her swollen
breasts. The joy in her heart when the tiny infant blinked and
gurgled couldn't be completely overshadowed.

And then there was Ashberry. Her dearest
Stephen would willingly spend hours with the babe sleeping against
his chest as he reclined on the bed. He had been unfailingly
patient with Ellie's random tears, and had patiently refrained from
returning to the scold he had read her upon his return from
Finnigan's Folly.

It was time, Ellie knew, to apologize. She
knew the hurt he still carried, whether he bore that burden alone
or not. Still, the words would not be easy.

She waited until the room was dark, and
Rosalie sucked contentedly at her breast. Stephen had decreed he
would spend one last night on the daybed; the next day, Rosalie's
nursemaid would move a cradle into the room that would reside
beside Ellie and the bed, providing a safe but close location for
Rosalie to nap.

The moon was dark that night, and the
candles extinguished. Still, Ellie knew he was awake. "Stephen,"
she murmured quietly in the inky darkness of the room.

"What do you need?" he asked promptly.

Ellie heard him pushing aside the covers and shook
her head, then remembered. "No, no, you don't need to get up," she
hurriedly assured him.

He was quiet, but she knew he hadn't laid back
against the softness yet. "What then?" he finally asked.

“I wanted to say that I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked, sounding puzzled.

Ellie took a deep breath, but the words had to be
said. "For keeping my labor from you," she returned, barely
audible. "I pursued my own agenda, without considering your
needs."

Ashberry was quiet for a very long time. Ellie moved
Rosalie to her other side, nestling the baby's small dark curls
against her shoulder as she positioned her.

Finally, his voice vibrated in the room, the tone
low and intent. "I love you, Ellie. And I'll always love you." She
heard him swallow, then whisper shakily. "I hadn't said so yet, but
thank you."

"Thank you?" Ellie questioned. "Why?"

"Thank you for Rosalie," he stated more firmly.
"Thank you for giving me the chance to be a husband and father,
instead of simply a brother."

The tears formed at Elle's eyes. Emotional, she said
the words Stephen had been waiting for so many months to hear. "I
love you, Stephen."

# # #

Discover other books by Serenity Everton at
Smashwords.com:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/SerenityEverton

Connect with me online as @asparkle2 on Twitter.

# # #

Keep reading for a free excerpt
from
Broken Together
by Serenity Everton.

Excerpt from
Broken Together

Serenity Everton

“
Sometimes, two people have to fall apart
to realize how much they need to fall back together.”
Sylvia
Plath

Published by Serenity Everton.

Smashwords Edition.

Copyright 2012 Serenity Everton (
[email protected]
).

LICENSE NOTES, SMASHWORDS EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a
retrieval system, transmitted by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, etc) without the prior permission of the
author, above.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

This text was previously published online,
with free excerpts still available online at
Out of My Mind
(http://fiction.kinkyfirehouse.com
).

ABOUT BROKEN TOGETHER

Shannon and Harry’s marriage has mysteriously
fallen apart in so many little moments in the months since their
sons have gone away to college, and it will take hard work and a
commitment by them both to rescue it and strengthen it. How do two
individuals find their way forward together, when they’ve spent too
long breaking themselves apart? Experience romance, anger, passion,
pain, and life events with them, witness them reassess all they
know and expect, and watch as they try to save their marriage and
their love for each other.

This novella is approximately 30,000 words in
length, or 58 pages, and is romance. In the romance genre, the
story moves forward as the relationship between the main characters
develops. Sometimes progress in the relationship of the story is
marked by sexual content. In this story, Harry is a dominant man.
Harry & Shannon do explore erotic and disciplinary spanking as
they seek to redefine their understanding of themselves and each
other. If these themes offend you, do not read this book.

THE END AND THE BEGINNING

Shannon was still in the bed. She didn't know what
she had done wrong, again, and she was through asking. She'd thrown
herself at his feet too many times, only to have him dismiss
her.

It might have been simple exhaustion or some
physical malady, but if he wouldn't talk to her, how could she
know? It'd happened too many times in recent months for her to
think nothing of it; they'd laughed and loved and enjoyed each
other's comfort during the day, but when it came time for that
closeness to pass through the bedroom door, he turned off the
light, rolled over and developed a relationship with his
pillow.

There had been a time, even nine months earlier,
when the opportunity of a quiet hour at home together would have
ended in hot, wild sex. Now that the boys were away, the intimacy
that had sustained them for years had fallen away.

The truth, Shannon thought miserably, was that she
wasn't attractive to him anymore. She was too old, her figure not
firm enough. His desire for her, so strong for twenty years, had
finally waned. Perhaps the constant barrage of pretty young things
he was exposed to at work and elsewhere had finally taken its toll.
She knew he saw them, had even watched his eyes follow a pretty
black-haired girl's ass in the restaurant last night. She'd never
look like that, never again, no matter if she did lose that
twenty-five pounds or worked out seven days a week.

Sometime in the middle of the night, she'd awoken.
On her side, facing away from him, she'd tried to identify what
seemed out of place. He'd been facing away from her, too — that
wasn't unusual. But the noise? It had taken her two minutes to work
out what it was. The man who'd spent two decades delighting in her
was masturbating in the dark, in secret, clearly without wishing
her to participate. How many nights now had he told her goodnight
and then waited patiently until her breathing slowed and her body
relaxed into limpness, only to humiliate her like that?

Shannon hadn't slept after that. He'd gotten out of
bed and cleaned himself up, then sighed as he climbed back into the
blankets and settled down, not touching her. Definitely not
touching her. She'd not slept, of course, but laid in the dark
blackness as the foundation of her entire world crumbled like sand
within her clenched fists.

She wouldn't
— she couldn't — try anymore. Her final attempt to reach him
through romance and intimacy were over. Killing her own
expectations and hopes would break her heart, but if she didn't?
Well, her heart was being crushed under the weight of her
disappointment and his rejection anyway.

Silent, so as not to disturb him, she slipped from
the bed and shrugged on her robe. Maybe she hadn't done everything
she could have over the last few years to keep in shape. Maybe age
was exacerbating ––

Shannon stopped herself, the misery welling and the
tears forming behind her eyelids. He mustn't see her cry. Not now.
Not over this. Not ever again.

The door to the bedroom closed silently behind her,
leaving him to himself, snoring.

Shannon locked herself in the downstairs bathroom
and cried, large tears dripping down her cheeks until they ran down
and wet the old t-shirt of his that she'd worn to bed. How could
she go on sharing that bed with him, night after night? She raged
inside, the anger palpable in the bright, cold light of the
impersonal cell.

Of course, she wouldn't leave him, not unless he
asked her to. Such a thing was impossible, for her. But from now
on, she'd be different. There would be no pathetic attempts at
luring him into intimacy. She'd wear start wearing pajama shorts to
bed again; clearly there was no reason for her body to welcome him
without barrier. She'd stop suggesting they spend time
together.

He'd never see her cry over him again.

If she was wrong, he'd eventually notice.

* * * *

What was she to do, anyway?

Shannon stayed on the sofa in the sunroom, staring
blindly out into the backyard. She'd gotten up early and made her
way there. He'd once again come to bed hours later than her. She'd
woken to him in the shower — unusual for that time of night — and
it had taken him an exceptionally long time.

She suspected what he'd been doing, but instead of
confronting him and creating a scene at midnight, she'd rolled over
and pretended to be soundly asleep when he finally slid into the
bed beside her.

He couldn't have taken even a second to look at her,
and he was sleeping as far from her as possible. The covers had
dipped between them, as if sealing the separation.

Shannon burned with resentment, but it was a state
of affairs that seemed to define her nights now, so she had closed
her eyes and tried to ignore it.

Of course she hadn't slept well after that. She
rarely did these days. After curling up on the sofa with the thick
afghan they'd brought back from a magical cruise
in Scandinavia, Shannon had slept an hour. It was a weekend
morning, so the house remained quiet and still. The coffee pot
didn't automatically click on, there was no alarm upstairs. He
wasn't showering. Outside, dark clouds lowered, threatening, and
soon the rain would beat down on glass around her.

Shannon thought she might be happy for the noise.
The silence screamed at her, encouraged her to cry again, reminded
her of loss and emptiness. Had it always been this way — had they
always been half-empty — and the presence of their two teenage boys
just a mask?

She swallowed and pondered, but couldn't believe it.
He'd attended to her too solicitously, loved her too thoroughly,
seen to her pleasure and her fulfillment regularly, even denying
himself at times to bring her to a state of wanton desperation.

Lately, though only in the last months and not in
response to her new policy of not offering anything she didn't want
rejected, it seemed as though he'd been more tired in the evenings.
He'd brought work home three weeknights — not so unusual now that
she'd thought about it — but lately he'd been shutting himself in
the study with it instead of spreading it over the coffee table and
taking his laptop to the recliner, where she could join
him. The tears welled up and she pushed them back.

A defeated sigh left her lips. It was Saturday, and
she'd not asked him what he wanted, but she planned to explore the
farmer's market by the wharf and then maybe dip her feet in the
ocean if it was raining. She loved the beach in the rain and there
was no reason to deny herself, just because he wasn't at her
side.

Shannon folded the afghan and left it on the end of
the couch. No doubt she'd need it again. The sunroom wasn't heated,
though it warmed over the course of the day, even in the winter.
But it was her retreat — her place. He and the twins had always
treated it as her space, and she'd grown used to the idea.

She stepped into the kitchen, then, and her eyes
flew open wide. He was there, leaning against the counter.

Impossibly pale.

"Harry?" she whispered, and
watched his fingers grip the granite
convulsively. 
"Harry!"

His lips were dry, but he opened them and smacked
them shut again. "D-doctor," he whispered. "L-l-love you."

And then he closed his eyes and she screamed as he
slid to the floor.

ONE

Harry blinked, then closed his eyes against the dim
light. There was a strange man's voice — a younger man's voice —
but Shannon's hand clutched his almost compulsively.

He could hardly breathe, and tried to suck in air,
struggled, only to suddenly realize his throat was open ––