"Oh, God, Amy, please forgive me —"
His fingers plunged inside her. Amy gasped and bucked upwards, his name falling from her lips, her fingernails digging into his back. A raw, burning ache radiated out from where his hand was . . . from where his mouth was, gathering in a fierce, smoldering coil at the apex of her legs. She both fought it and strained toward it, not understanding it but knowing only that she must have it. Oh, heaven wasn't up in the sky; heaven was the feel of this man kissing her breast; heaven was his hand stroking her between her open thighs; heaven was the feel of his hot mouth against her nipple; his body against her own, the confession that he needed her —
Heaven was Charles.
And then she gave a muffled cry as his thumb, which had been stroking her so intimately
down there
, hit something she hadn't known existed and her senses began to splinter into a thousand pieces of glass. "Charles!" she half-gasped, half-sobbed, and then, as his fingers kept stroking, stroking,
stroking
, "Charles —
Charles
!"
"God help me," he rasped, and as she convulsed with pleasure, he fumbled with his wet breeches, groaned, and moved to cover her. Something hard stabbed at the inside of her thighs, at the hot and magical place he'd just shown her she had, and now his shoulders were blocking out the sunset, the red and orange clouds behind him, and he was moving into her, moving inside of her, filling her so full and stretching her so wide, that she thought she would faint with the feel of it. Wondrous pleasure. Hot, seething delight! She ought to stop him, she knew that she could, but no, no, oh please God no, this felt too good, this felt too right, and if she could give him no other gift than her love, if she alone could at least make him forget what the army, what Lucien, and most of all, what his heartless fiancée had done to him, then God help her she would, she would, she would, she
would
—
He thrust himself deeply inside her, ripping a cry of surprise and pain from her lips. The world stopped. She clung to him, tears in her eyes, her legs wrapped around his straining loins. And then, slowly, he began to move his hips, to push himself deeper and deeper inside of her, until the pain dulled and became pleasure once more, until his breathing quickened and grew hoarse, until his lips came down on hers, kissing her desperately even as she flung out a hand and he found it and their fingers interlocked of their own accord, gripping, squeezing, knuckles whitening. Now he was thrusting, now he was pulling out, now repeating it, doing it again, each long, slow surge growing more rapid, more powerful, than the one before —
"Oh, Amy —"
"Charles, don't stop,
please
don't stop!"
"I can't — God help me,
I can't
—"
With a cry, he gave one last thrust, and she felt his seed warming and pulsing against the walls of her womb, even as she felt her own muscles contracting and convulsing around him with a force that left her gasping. He pulled back slowly, and thrust ahead once more before he collapsed, still deep inside her, bringing his mouth down upon hers in a final, tender kiss.
A moment later she felt his mighty shoulders shaking with grief for all he had lost — and wordlessly, Amy put her arms around him.
Holding him.
Just holding him.
There was nothing that either of them could say.
Chapter 13
He pushed away from her, finally, and got to his feet. His back was toward her as he buttoned his breeches. The silence, which before had been appropriate, now became awkward. Uncomfortable.
Unpleasant.
They had to walk upriver to retrieve Amy's clothes. She crossed her neckerchief around her neck and shoulders, filling in the bare skin, the swell of her breasts above the shift's neckline. She tied on her underpetticoats. Laced her wet stays over her equally wet shift. Donned her over petticoats, tied on her apron, slipped her arms into her open short-gown, and finally looked at Charles. He was standing a little distance away, staring emptily out over the darkening river. One look at his face convinced her that it wasn't a good time to talk to him. Instead, she picked up his walking stick, pressed it into his hand, and retrieved her nearly-forgotten packages.
He was still standing there, stone-faced, silent.
"Charles?"
He didn't answer.
"Charles, what is the matter?"
"I should be
shot
for what I have just done to you."
"What do you mean?"
He just shook his head, then turned away. Amy, wondering at his change in attitude and wanting only to comfort him, touched his shoulder, but he flinched as if she'd burned him with the end of a poker. It was then that Amy realized the significance of what they had done — a realization that grew all the more sobering when she happened to glance up and see the distant spire of Sylvanus's church rising above the trees and glowing white against the darkening sky.
Would God be angry with her for what she had done? Was she a sinner, no better than her mother and the man who had sired her? But if she had sinned, why had it felt so right? Why hadn't these feelings of apprehension and uneasiness affected her when she'd been about to commit the act, instead of now?
She felt her soaked shift and stays pressing against her body, the sea-salt drying on her skin, and a strange rawness between her legs. Her braid had come unpinned and now hung down her back in a long wet rope. Her lips felt swollen, her nipples still throbbed, and she knew she must look a sight.
Reality closed in, and with it, fear. Would everyone in Newburyport suspect? Would they point and snicker and whisper behind her back that she was no better than her mother? And what would happen when they got back to the house?
"Come, I'd best get you home," Charles ground out.
Side by side, but not daring to touch one another, they walked back toward the road in silence.
"Charles —"
"I do not wish to talk about it, Amy."
"But I just want to ask you a question . . ."
"Go on then."
"Do you think that when we get home, everyone will . . . will know? That it'll be written all over my face? That . . ." she glanced down ". . .they'll be able to tell?"
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"But when a woman gives herself to a man, don't you think people can take one look at her and know what she's done?"
"No."
"But —"
"Amy,
please
."
She paused, staring up at him in mounting confusion. A few moments ago he'd held her as though he'd never let her go. Now, he only wanted to get away from her. What had changed?
"Charles, will you please tell me what is wrong?"
He, too, came to a stop, but didn't turn around. "I am a disgrace," he snarled. "To my family, to my rank, to myself. I cannot forgive myself for what I just allowed to happen between us."
"For what
you
just allowed?" She gave an incredulous little laugh. "I was as much a party to it as you were." She blushed. "Besides, I thought . . . that you enjoyed it."
"Enjoyed it? Not only have I ruined one young woman and got her with child, I have just ruined a second and God knows, maybe got her with child as well! What the hell difference does it make whether or not I enjoyed it? I behaved abominably! I am disgusted and ashamed of myself!"
"You were upset, I offered comfort, you took it. Besides, I
wanted
to do what we did."
"No, Amy, you're too innocent to know what you want. It was a mistake."
"It was not a mistake."
"It
was
," he bit out, through clenched teeth.
Amy lifted her chin, her eyes flashing with anger. "You really do enjoy torturing yourself, don't you?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What happened between us was beautiful. You made me feel loved and special and needed, and that's a feeling I've
never
had. Right now, everything inside of me is still singing with joy and it feels good. It feels wonderful. But you, all you want to do is ruin it. All you want to do is stand there and torture yourself with guilt and hold yourself up to some impossible standard of perfection that no one on God's earth can possibly hope to reach, let alone maintain. Well, Charles, I won't let you take this away from me. I
like
feeling good. I
liked
what we just did. You can regret it all you want, but I'm not going to." She shoved a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "In fact, it will become my most treasured memory."
"You're too young, and too naive, to know what you're saying."
"And
you're
too caught up in your quest for self-perfection to appreciate something good when it comes your way."
"And what if you're pregnant? Is that
something good
? I seem to be quite adept at impregnating virgins. It will be interesting to see if you're so cheerful if, a month or so from now, you find yourself kissing a chamberpot and wondering where your missing menses have gone."
"I'll worry about that when the time comes."
"I think you should worry about it now."
"I have other things to worry about."
"Such as?"
"The reception I'm going to get when I get home."
"Indeed." He gripped her arm and pulled her forward. "So let's stop arguing and get you back before it grows any later."
He was silent all the rest of the way home. With each step they took, Amy's anger faded and her trepidation grew. Would Sylvanus notice her kiss-swollen lips and know immediately what she had done? Would her sisters take one look at her and see the truth in her eyes? And most worrying of all, what of Charles? Would Sylvanus throw him out of the house?
Or worse yet, force him to marry her?
Amy shuddered. She couldn't see that happening. What would Sylvanus do without her? Besides, Sylvanus would not play upon Charles's sense of honor by forcing his hand. He would not compel Charles, the impeccably bred, heir-presumptive to an English dukedom, to marry Amy, a half-breed and daughter of sin, whose physical appeal couldn't hold a candle to the other women of Newburyport, let alone England's aristocratic beauties.
No, Sylvanus would not do that.
Would he?
They found the house in an uproar. Sylvanus was just about to go out searching for them. Will still hadn't returned from Woburn. Ophelia and Mildred, who had peeled a few potatoes but otherwise not lifted a finger to start supper, immediately rounded on Amy, savagely berating her for her tardiness and her failure to start the meal on time.
Charles turned on them. "Leave her alone. I took a walk, fell off the pier, and nearly drowned.
She
was the one who risked her life to rescue me.
She's
the one who nearly drowned herself. Instead of standing there shouting at her, go get her a blanket and stoke up the fire."
"What?"
"
Now!
" he barked, his eyes blazing.
It was the voice of authority. His captain's voice. And heeding it, the two slunk away to do his bidding.
Charles slammed from the room.
"What troubles the captain?" Sylvanus asked when they finally sat down to supper an hour later. He shot a glance toward the parlor, where Charles had retreated and still remained. "He seems most upset."
Amy stirred her chowder without interest. She was trying hard to keep her face downcast in the hopes that no one would notice her kiss-reddened lips, or the guilty truth in her eyes. "He had bad news from both England and Boston," she said quietly. "I doubt he has much appetite."
Her sisters perked up. "Boston?"
"Yes."
"What was the news?"
Amy was reluctant to say anything, but everyone was gazing expectantly at her. "His fiancée has ended their betrothal and wants nothing more to do with him."
"Oh, good!"
Amy glanced up sharply. "Oh,
good
?"
"Well, yes," said Mildred, smugly. "Now
we
have a chance at him!"
Amy's spoon crashed down beside her bowl. "How can you be so cruel?! He's lost everything he owned, everything he loved, and all you can think of is what
you
might gain from his misfortune! You should be showing him sympathy and compassion, not trying to snare him in his weakest moment!"
"
Amy!
" sputtered Sylvanus, nearly choking on a bit of fish at this completely unexpected display of fire from the one member of his family that had never, ever, even raised her voice to him.
Mildred and Ophelia were staring at her in shock.
"Well it's true, Father!" Amy said angrily. "It's true and you know it!"
There was a moment of uneasy silence before Ophelia, looking Amy up and down with a look of raking contempt, finally spoke.
"Well," she said haughtily. "I'm sure Millie and I can think of ways where we can show him
sympathy and compassion
, right, Millie?"
Mildred's eyes narrowed and her smile grew sly. "Oh, absolutely."
Amy had heard enough. Seething, she jumped to her feet, slammed her napkin down on the table, and stormed from the room, leaving three pairs of surprised eyebrows raised in her wake.
"Well," said Sylvanus, stunned.
"Well, indeed! Are you going to let her get away with that, Papa?
Are you?
"
"As a matter of fact, I am," he said, wearily rubbing his brow. "It's obvious she cares for the man and puts his welfare above her own. I see no need to punish her for it."
Mildred's lips thinned. Ophelia's eyes narrowed. Both of them clenched their fists beneath the table.
"Furthermore, I am unhappy with the recent direction of this conversation," Sylvanus continued, in the angry silence. "The last thing Lord Charles needs or wants right now is feminine attention."
"Don't be absurd, father,
all
men need feminine attention," snapped Mildred.