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then tell me so now. I will leave you.”
    Meriom clasped his face in her hands, her breath rushing from her mouth, her lips wet and swollen. “Stay!”
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    Her words were stronger than his will. By the devil, he’d spent nights beside the campfire in France dreaming about this moment and days on end thereafter, laid low on a cot with just a thread of breath connecting him to life.
    Here she was, his Meriom, living and breathing, and asking him for more.
    He pushed her gown from her shoulders to her waist, baring her breasts, covering her nipples with his mouth. She smelled of lavender and thyme, her warm skin was smooth beneath his tongue. She gasped when he held her tips between his lips and gently sucked.
    â€œBy the saints, I’ve longed for this,” she whispered, her voice raspy.
    His blood coursing through his veins and pounding in his hears, Thomas pressed his damp cheek against hers. With his good arm against the wall above her head, he braced himself, and with his free hand, slipped his fingers into the slippery cleft between her legs.
    â€œLet me,” he whispered, his chest heaving.
    She was warm and wet, and when he rubbed her small mound, she groaned her acquiescence, the throaty sound buried in the fold between his neck and shoulder.
    She writhed against him, riding his hand as he moved in tune with her rhythm.
    Thomas shifted, her weight braced against his good hip, though at the moment, he felt no pain on his bad side, as if the old wound was never there.
    He lifted her legs around his waist, pressed her back against the wall and plunged deep inside her.
    She cried out. He paused to give her time to adjust, then he raised her up to lower her down again. And again, letting her ride him slowly at first, then quickening the pace. He could feel her tighten around him and quivered.
    Blessed saints, ’twas nothing better on earth than this. This was worth living for; worth the pain he’d endured this last year, recovering from his wounds—fighting to stay alive for her.
    The thought of what they must look like together—she against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist, and he pumping hard against her—drove him on, kissing her with passion, thrusting until his body shook, until at last blessed relief spilled forth. “Meri,” he murmured, his body arched against her.
    Meriom shuddered and gripped him down below, clenching around him with one final spasm before she released him. She let her legs fall away from his waist, her skirts dropping down as she came to her feet.
    Breathing hard, she tipped her head back, resting against the wall, her mouth wet and swollen. Her gaze never left his, her eyes, cloudy with passion.
    Thomas struggled to find the words he wanted to say, to tell her he had dreamed about this moment in his darkest hours. The days and nights so black with pain, only dreams of his Meri and their passion had sustained him.
    He kissed the tiny bites on her breasts and on her neck, and rested his forehead against hers. “I am sorry,” he said, quietly, pulling up the bodice of her gown.
    She shook her head, dismissing his concern. Her hands moved beneath his tunic. God in heaven, she was pulling up his braes, adjusting his hose, putting him back together, tending to him.
    Thomas smoothed her damp hair from her flushed face. She was still breathing hard, and the look in her eyes was impossible to read.
    â€œMy lady, I should not have—”
    She took one step and stumbled, her legs giving way. “Help me into my room, good sir.”
    Thomas scooped her up and kicked the door open to her private apartment. He limped, his bad leg straining, his good arm bearing most of her weight.
    He set her down amongst the furs and downy linens on her bed. She lay there still and quiet, staring at the ceiling.
    Thomas stepped away and poured wine from a ewer into her cup. “Drink this. ’Twill restore you.”
    Meriom sat up