Maria walked the next morning, her hands up and her stomach pooched out for balance, her eyes fierce with concentration. Lydia brought her upstairs so Sam could watch, as the little one walked and fell, pulled herself up, and walked again until she was wringing with perspiration.

In another day, she could even turn herself around and go in another direction. To Lydia's enjoyment, Maria would not allow anyone but Sam to hold her hand and walk with her.

"Such a determined little poppet," Mrs. Innis remarked that evening as they sat outside the inn in the cool evening and watched Sam and Maria walk slowly toward them. "She certainly takes after you, Mrs. Reed."

"Thank you," she said. You would not have known me five weeks ago, Lydia thought as she stood up at their slow approach. I could hardly say boo to a goose then.

"She looks like the major, though," Mrs. Innis said, rising, too. "Wouldn't you say so, Major Reed?"

He stopped, and Maria looked up at him, impatience stamped on her face. "I rather think she resembles my wife, Mrs. Innis," he said as he crooked his arm for Lydia to take hold of him. "I never saw two prettier ladies."

Mrs. Innis stood a moment, observing them both. "I would say she is a nice blend of the two of you, and isn't that the pleasant thing about one's children?" She laughed and followed them into the pubic house. "I am only grateful that my children did not inherit their father's ears!"

"Don't you own to just a twinge or two when Mrs. Innis declares that Maria looks like us?" she asked that night in their room as she stopped Maria long enough to whisk her dress over her head.

"You're becoming quite an expert at scooping people from their clothing," he commented as he leaned back against the headboard and watched them from the comfort of his bed. "Hush, now, Maria. Your mama is most efficient with us! I never argue when she helps me from my trousers."

She blushed and would not look at him. "You can probably take care of yourself now," she murmured as she stopped Maria from another circuit around the room, to the baby's intense displeasure. Pinning Maria under protest between her knees, she held her long enough to pull on a sleeping shirt. She put her on the bed for a fresh nappy and soakers, then turned her loose to crawl across the mattress. She laughed as Maria flopped herself against Sam's leg. In a moment she was tugging at her eyelids, and then she was asleep, exhausted from the business of the day.

Sam watched her, his hand on Maria's back. "No, I do not feel any qualms when Mrs. Innis sees Maria's resemblance to us. Not even a twinge. She'll have a much better life with us than she ever would at St. Catherine's. Of course," he pointed out, "I do not have your finely honed conscience, do I?"

She bent over them both to pick up Maria. "I believe you do, Sam." Holding her burden close, she sat down when he moved slightly. "I do not recall any other officers investing themselves so thoroughly for their men in the hospital." She could not help the slight shudder that pa.s.sed through her and caused Maria to stir. "I think your solicitude at the expense of your own health almost killed you. Do not quiz me about being the only one of us who cares, Sam. Maybe I learned from you."

He was silent then. Deftly she transferred Maria to the pallet on the floor that Suzie and Mrs. Innis had devised, when Maria had decided that she would not sleep unless the major was close by. I can appreciate that, she told herself. Already I seem to require his warmth and that pleasant odor of wintergreen to see me to sleep.

With a sigh, she sat in the window seat and combed her hair. The street below was quite empty of traffic, even though it was not yet dark. She could hear the low murmur of voices in the public room below, with the occasional punctuation of laughter. It was August now, and still the welcome warmth of the sun lingered. She would remind Sam to sit outside again tomorrow in the side yard where Mrs. Innis hung her laundry and let the sun work its own healing on his bare back. He will be as well as I can make him, she thought, satisfied with herself.

She stood up to remove her dress, then stopped in modest confusion. Sam was not asleep; far from it. He was observing her with a half smile and a degree of watchfulness that made her pause with her hand on her top b.u.t.ton.

"I thought you were asleep," she said, realizing the moment she spoke that it sounded so stupid. Obviously he was wide awake. Swallowing her own shyness, she sat on the bed beside him, and took a good look. For the first time in their acquaintance, there was nothing in his eyes but admiration. While caring for the wounded at St. Barnabas, she had been struck by the preoccupation in their eyes, no matter how hard she worked to distract them. She doubted whether the wounded were aware of it themselves, that inward turning of expression as though they looked upon pain from the inside out. She did not see that look in the major's eyes now. This was not to say the look would not be there again, but for right now, this evening, his eyes were free of it, and she knew he did not hurt.

He hadn't answered her inane question. It didn't appear to have even registered in his brain. He lay there watching her, and when she continued to unb.u.t.ton her dress, his smile widened. "Mr. Reed, you realize that if anything we do tonight causes you a medical problem, Mr. Wilburn will give you such a scold," she said, hoping that she sounded more serene than she felt.

"I'm all aquiver about Mr. Wilburn," he said.

She removed her dress, and placed it over the chair, making sure that Maria slept. While Sam watched, she slipped out of her petticoat and stood there in her chemise and bare feet, with toes suddenly cold and a brain full of indecision.

Her husband sat up and held out his hand to her. She needed no other encouragement. In another moment she was in his arms. "I'll take my chances with the surgeon's wrath," he whispered, and then he kissed her.

She wanted to put her arms around him, but she was afraid to touch his back. In a moment he pulled her arms around him, settling them just above his waist, and she knew her boundary. He was too thin; she could feel his ribs under his nightshirt. "You need to eat more," she fretted, even as she pulled her chemise over her head and tossed it somewhere.

"Not now, please," he said as he unb.u.t.toned his nightshirt. "I can pull this arm out if you will take it over my head and off my other arm. I can eat later."

She laughed softly and did as he asked, hampered because he explored her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with his free hand and then his mouth, which seemed somehow to affect her breathing in a marvelous way. This is odd indeed, she thought. When both of his hands were free of the nightshirt, she discovered that his breath was just as ragged. She also discovered that she was so busy trying to make sure that she did not hurt him that she forgot to be afraid or nervous for herself.

Whether he was careful of himself, or mindful of her, what she felt was the greatest relief she had ever known. As inexpert as she was, Lydia knew he was trying hard not to be a dead-weight, even as his shoulder still tyrannized him. She pulled him close, and he understood, allowing himself to relax on her. Whatever pain she felt in this first encounter was promptly swallowed up by the enormity of her love for her husband. She knew she could bear him gladly; his pleasure became hers in a rush she had not expected. Lord, I will summon the night watchman, she thought in some embarra.s.sment, then it didn't seem to matter much.

Sam rose up on one elbow so she could take a good breath. "I really don't aim to smother you," he whispered. "My goodness, that would be a dreary end to my future as a constant husband."

"I'll die smiling," she replied, and pulled him close again, wrapping her legs over his in a way that quite soon caused her to worry about alerting the night watchman again, and then dismiss him forever.

"I had no idea," she said finally when he left her but settled close by, his leg draped over her body. "Mama did talk about this sort of thing once to Kitty and me, but she called it a duty."

His hand was warm and heavy on her stomach, then he rested his head on her breast, to her total enjoyment. "I think I can safely say that your mother, in this matter as in others, has all the accuracy of a Congreve rocket," he murmured, his voice quite m.u.f.fled. "Of course, one should not speak ill of the in-laws. If what we just enjoyed was your interpretation of duty, then I can hardly wait until I am well enough to survive your wild abandon."

She laughed, her hands gentle in his hair. She kissed him, familiar with his mouth now, and the homey little sounds he made when he returned her kiss. "I do astonish myself," she said softly, "but, then, I have been astonishing myself for weeks now. Sam, I love you. Sam?"

He was asleep, his mouth still parted, as though for another kiss. She kissed him, then got up to tidy herself and find her chemise. She stood for a moment in front of the mirror. I look the same, she thought, but I am so different. In this, and in other ways, I have changed. She looked back at her husband, stretched out on his back, his hands open in that perfectly relaxed way she had not seen before tonight. How comfortable I have made you, she thought in awe over so much power. She smiled to herself as she pulled on her chemise. And how comfortable you have made me. I think I could purr, if I tried.

They made love again before the sun rose, and she was pleased that her first attempt had not been just a happy chance. Could it be that this will get even better, she asked herself when they both lay spent and sweating, even in the cool of morning. "This could become a habit," Sam said as he drifted back to sleep again.

She washed and dressed and intercepted Maria before she could march over to the bed and demand that Sam pick her up and coddle her. "Let him sleep, dear," she whispered as she dressed Maria and took her downstairs to breakfast. She hesitated at the Innis's door, wondering if they would notice a difference in her. Beyond a cheery h.e.l.lo from Suzie, and a nod from Mr. Innis as he looked up from the columns he was adding, it was just another morning.

She was wiping the last spoonful of porridge from around Maria's mouth when Sam came downstairs to join them. He sat next to her, resting his hand on her shoulder. While he chatted with Mrs. Innis, he ran his thumb just under her ear in a way that was making her restless, even as Maria demanded to be lifted onto his lap. Dear me, husband, you might as well announce that we were not heavily engaged in sleeping last night, she thought, enjoying his hand, but mindful of Mrs. Innis's smile.

"I think we will leave tomorrow morning, Mrs. Innis," Sam said as she pa.s.sed him a bowl of porridge.

"You're feeling fit enough?" Mrs. Innis asked, a smile in her eyes that made Lydia blush and wonder if any carpenter could be found who made bed frames that did not creak.

She marveled that Sam could be so straight-faced about the whole thing. "I am fit, indeed. It is high time I took Lydia home to meet my mother," he said. "We have been these three years in Spain, and she has never met Lydia. Or Maria, of course."

"Then, she is in for such a treat," Mrs. Innis said as she returned to her duties at the dry sink.

"I almost forgot about our Banbury tale," Lydia whispered to her husband, leaning close just to enjoy the fragrance of his skin.

"I haven't forgotten," he replied. "That is the whole reason for all of this, remember?"

He had not removed his hand from her neck, but suddenly the warmth was gone. I suppose you are right, she thought. She shifted in her chair, and he removed his hand. For whatever reason, we each made an impulsive marriage, she told herself, feeling like an idiot. Perhaps beyond the enthusiasm of lovemaking, I am to be reminded of this regularly. She got up to help Mrs. Innis with the dishes, wanting to put distance between herself and the man she had loved so fiercely last night. When she turned around after the last dish was dried, he and Maria had left the room.

The inn was too small for her feelings, and she was relieved to discover that she had left Sam's razor in the barbershop. She mumbled something to Mrs. Innis and left, hurrying to the barbershop. She stopped in the church on the way back, for no other reason than to sit in the dark and the cool, breathing the fragrance of incense and letting her mind go blank. She wanted to pray, but decided it would be best not to trouble the Lord about her marriage, which had originated in motives less than lofty.

She did kneel and rest her forehead against the pew. I wonder how many parishioners have knelt here and pleaded for this or that through the years? she asked no one in particular. I am certain we have all thought that our pet.i.tion was the most important. I know that mine is not. I have made my bed, and now I am lying in it. She rested her cheek against the wood and closed her eyes. I love him. Quite possibly this is the biggest folly of all, if I am just an arrangement.

They left in the morning after the confusion of tears and kisses, and good advice from the Innises. To her embarra.s.sment, Mr. Wilburn insisted on one last look at his patient's back. She hurried downstairs during the surgeon's perusal and hid herself in the kitchen, not wanting to think about the nail tracks on Sam's back, and any raised eyebrows from Mr. Wilburn. They were fresh, too, put there early this morning when she realized she would always be helpless to resist her husband, even if she was only a convenient arrangement. I have made my bed, she thought, even as he was lying on her, satiated and peaceful. I want this man, and I will give him all I have. Perhaps someday he will love me, too. Stranger things have happened.

She could not avoid Mr. Wilburn. Her face red, she paid him the last of her barbering money to settle accounts. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was, but she could not look him in the eyes. She started to leave the room, but he took her hand and held it in a firm grip.

"My dear Lydia Reed," he began, his voice soft, "I am so glad to leave your husband in such capable hands."

"I'm so embarra.s.sed," she whispered, her humiliation complete.

To her surprise, he hugged her, then held her away from him, but close enough that she could not avoid his eyes. "Lydia, I fought in the Americas, and I can tell you that there is only one remedy for war." He smiled, then pulled her close for a last embrace. "It is love. How lucky you two are! Now, write me from Northumberland, and let me know how you, Lydia Reed, get on."

She was so close to tears that it took a moment before she could speak. "Don't you mean, how Sam gets on?"

He shrugged. "Sam will always get on, as long as you are there. I want to know how you are. My dear, if you bloom, so will he. That is why my whole dependence is on you."

"I do not know that I have that much power," she said. She wanted to say more, to tell him that she was only a convenience, a woman of no influence, but he had released her, and was hunting for his handkerchief.

"You have only to believe in yourself, Lydia," he said, after a productive moment with his handkerchief. "No one can do that for you."

"But ...."

"Good day, Mrs. Reed, and bon chance," he said. With a deep bow that turned his face red, the surgeon nodded to Mrs. Innis and left the tavern.

After more tears, and a stiff-armed salute from her protector the constable, they left Merry Glade in a post chaise paid for with part of the reward money. To her relief, Maria was content to sit on the major's lap and watch the countryside change as they traveled the Great North Road. Lydia could think of nothing to say out loud, even though her mind was busy with half a hundred apologies, and doubts, and dredgings from old wounds of her own, less healed, she was discovering, than the visible ones on the major's back. She stared out the other window, wondering how she had ever thought that anyone as wonderful as Major Sam Reed could ever love her. She called herself a fool in all the ways her mother and Kitty had called her, unable to wrench her mind beyond her own unableness.

Maria occupied her sufficiently when she began to fuss, and then fell asleep in Lydia's arms. Lydia closed her eyes in the quiet as the coach swayed. She opened her eyes when Sam began to tell her about life in the regiment in the Peninsula.

"This is information you will need to know, if we are to pull off this deception," he reminded her. He took Maria from her arms and placed the child on a nest of blankets Mrs. Innis had arranged on the chaise floor. He laughed softly. "And I promise most faithfully to call you Della, and not Delightful." He shook his head with the memory. "We were so drunk that night, and there was Percy, weaving this whole imaginary genealogy while the battery listened and offered suggestions! Lydia-I mean Della-you have an adventurous past!"

She listened, hearing little of what he said, in a perfect agony of love. If his mother should ask, I can be utterly convincing of my love for her son, she thought as she watched the animation on her husband's face. But I am an invention only. She stirred restlessly, and focused her attention out the window even as he continued to speak. He stopped finally, when it was obvious that she was not attending. I do not understand any of this, she thought in misery. Less than a week ago, he was cheering me on to find out what I, Lydia Reed, could do. And now I am an invention, a convenience, and an arrangement. If I did not love him so much, I would hate him.

He was quieter the next day, and the silence was great between them. She thought of what Mr. Wilburn had said, how Sam would take his lead from her, but she knew it could not be so. He must be quiet because he was contemplating a long life with Lydia Reed, someone he hardly knew. That must be it, she decided, and the thought only drew her deeper into silence. Luckily there was Maria to distract them both.

Her confusion only deepened with each night, when he turned to her and she refused him nothing. It was beyond her power to deny him anything, or to feel less pleasure herself, even if she knew he meant nothing by it beyond the comfort a body could give and receive. She gave her whole self; she would have turned herself inside out if he had asked.

He was in pain the next morning, and she was grateful all over again that her earnings had enabled them to travel by post chaise. "We will just stay here this morning until you feel well enough to travel," she told him as she applied a hot towel to his back. "Could it be the weather, I wonder?" she asked, after a glance out the window to the rain sliding down the gla.s.s in a steady sheet.

The major lay on his stomach, his chin propped on his hands. "That's a dismal reflection, considering how stormy the weather can be at home," he said, then rested his cheek on his hand to look at her. He watched her in silence for such a long time that her face grew as warm as the towel she pressed to his back. "I think I would feel better if I thought you were more enthusiastic about this final stage of the journey, Lydia."

She could think of nothing to say beyond the truth, but even then, it was only the smallest part of what she wanted to say. "I don't know that I can deceive so many people."

"Of course you can. You fooled a whole village, and with very little help from me." He laughed, then sucked in his breath when she pressed harder on his back. "My G.o.d, Lydia, must you?" he gasped.

"Mr. Wilburn said heat and pressure," she reminded him, even though it smote her soul to cause him pain.

He was silent then. He narrowed his eyes, and she knew how he hurt. I know every clue, she thought, from the way you narrow your eyes to the way you make a fist. I wish you were so perceptive about me. You have been, she amended, remembering the chess pieces residing still in the trunk. Now we are close to your home, and your interest is elsewhere.

The moment pa.s.sed and with a sigh, he relaxed again. She let up on the pressure. He took several deep breaths, then glanced at Maria, who slept on a pallet on the floor. "Sit a minute, Lydia, and I'll tell you about my mother and aunt; things you should know about the neighborhood, too."

She draped Sam's back with another towel from the basket of towels the concerned innkeeper had warmed for her, and sat close to him. "Can't we just tell the truth?"

He shook his head wearily. "Lydia! I told you my aunt will cut off all the money, and probably demand back what she has put into the estate, if she finds out I have been telling such a tale for two years! Making fools of them, I suppose. I wonder why we didn't think of that at the time. I wish you could ...." He stopped, his lips in a tight, thin line.

You wish I could get it through my thick head? she asked herself, finishing the sentence for him. Just play along as we agreed? Remember your share of the bargain. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"I wish you could trust me," he finished. "That's all."

She touched his back, wanting to kiss his head, and then his ears, and other places she had overlooked last night when they had wanted each other so much that it was hard to wait for Maria to get to sleep. Instead, she rested her cheek against his for the briefest moment. "Sam, I hardly trust myself," she whispered, amazed at her own daring.

To her relief, he smiled at her. "I know," he said, his voice just as soft. "You'll change."

Will I? she wondered as they started out in early afternoon. Will I even recognize myself, especially if I am someone named Della with a baby and a husband, and years of experience in the Peninsula, and whatever fiction Percy created through the years and mailed monthly to two unsuspecting ladies? Lord, this is a strange brew. All Sam wants now is someone different than who I am. Who is to say that either of us will recognize me when I get there?

The rain stopped as the afternoon yielded to nightfall. Sam had been quiet all afternoon, with that inward look of pain that she dreaded, and the silence of someone h.o.a.rding his own thoughts, even as she did. They stopped at a crossroads; the coachman leaned down to ask directions, then started the horses in motion again.

Sam took her hand then, but he was squinting out the window at the gathering darkness, looking ahead even as he pressed hard against the floorboards with his feet.

"We'll be there soon enough, Sam," she said. "You can't make the coach go faster."

He looked down at his feet and smiled. "Lydia, I have been waiting for this moment for years. Maybe it won't be much of an estate to you-I don't know what you came from in Devon-but it is my special place. I can't explain it."

She nodded, even though she did not understand; there was nothing in Devon that she missed, except one or two of the servants who were kind.

"Ah ...."

She pulled her attention back to her husband, who was squeezing her hand now. Maria squirmed in his lap, and he set her to one side, his whole energy concentrating on the view outside the travel-muddied window. The exhaustion in his eyes seemed to lift like a window shade as he gazed on what she knew must be his own land, in its own way more bone of his bone than she could ever hope to be, even if he loved her.

She saw a deep valley, like so many they had bowled through in this rugged part of England, a valley cut and measured millennia ago by glaciers and harsh climate. The trees of summer were leafy, but the trunks and branches were bent and braced against the wind. A small river tumbled through the valley, the rush of water so precipitate that she could hear the sound through the gla.s.s. Sheep grazed on a distant hillside, and there were cattle in another field. The grain in another quarter was a particular green that she did not know from Devon; perhaps it was oats.

The house came into view as the post chaise rounded a bend, and Sam Reed sighed again. She looked with interest at the building, noting the weathered stone and the cheerful white trim around the windows. It was no more than two stories tall-the dower house was larger on her father's estate-but looked firmly rooted, enduring, and able to withstand centuries of weather and border politics. She glanced at her husband. Rather like you, my dear, she thought.

As they neared the house, his grip slackened, as though he forgot she was there. They were only at the head of the lane when the front door opened and people hurried down the broad steps, the servants to line the walkway, and the others to come quickly up the lane. She saw two older ladies, but younger people, too. Lydia looked at her husband, a question in her eyes. "Are they all your relatives?"

"What day is it?" he demanded, not taking his eyes off the house or its inmates as the coachman began to slow the horses. "Why, it is Wednesday," she said. "Who ...."

"Of course it is Wednesday," he echoed. "And how many years have the Averys been coming for dinner and cards? Quite possibly some things never change. Oh, Lydia, I am home."

She wanted to help him from the carriage, but there was no need. As soon as his foot touched the ground, he was surrounded. "Oh, do not jostle him," she whispered as she held Maria. Shyness overwhelmed her, but she pushed aside her own qualms in the face of the larger danger to her husband. She gathered Maria close and hurried from the carriage to try to protect his vulnerable back. "Oh, please, he was wounded," she said finally, raising her voice for the first time since that dreadful banquet. "Do stand back a bit."

The crowd around him parted. "My ablest champion," her husband said as his relatives backed away slightly. "May I introduce Lyd-my little Della? And of course Celia. Della, this is my mother, Lady Laren, and my Aunt Chalmers."

She would have recognized Lady Laren anywhere, with the same brown eyes as her son and the freckles so charming on a lady of gathering years. "Oh, my dear," she said as she smiled at Lydia. "You are so welcome. And this is my granddaughter?" She looked at Maria, appraising her, and then at Lydia. "Sam, you've certainly outdone yourself this time. Without question."

That is an odd thing to say, she thought, but then she was gathered into the woman's embrace. And then there was Aunt Chalmers, she of the fortune in question, who wanted a share of her. Funny, but she does not look like a woman with a foot in the grave, even if Sam did a.s.sure me, she thought. And here is ....

Still in the grip of her mother-in-law, Lydia stared over the woman's shoulder. There was Sam, his arm around a young lady even more beautiful than Kitty, ten times more beautiful than Kitty. Lydia didn't mean to stare with her mouth open. It was rude of her beyond belief, but from the placid look of the young woman in Sam's grip, obviously an expression she was used to.

"Della, you'll catch flies!" her husband was saying. "Look who I have here? Anna Avery! Anna, when did you turn into such a beauty?"

Lydia groaned inside. Anna turned impossible crystal blue eyes on the major. "Silly! It was during all those years I waited for you!"

Chapter Nineteen.

There was no difficulty in pleading a headache, and an early retreat upstairs. Her head did pound in earnest. Thank goodness Maria was tired, and she could sit in the quiet of the nursery holding her little one until she slept, knowing that nothing short of the guillotine would stop the throbbing in her temples.