The Reclusive Aristocrat – Part Twenty-Three

Chapter Eleven

Ketteridge House, Leicestershire, England, New Year’s Day, 1816

 

A roar, fierce like that of a wounded beast, brutally dragged Rowena out of her deep, blissful sleep. She sat up, noticed her nakedness with a start, and shot out of bed to grab her wrapper. The horrible sound came from beyond the dressing room door which connected her bed chamber to her husband’s. Where was Alex? Why was he not with her? She hurried into Alex’ room. In the large, broad bed, a figure was trashing wildly, uttering cries of agony. It was Alex, she realized with sudden panic.

She hurried toward him and climbed onto the mattress. He was lying on his side now, shuddering under the nightmare’s violence. Rowena spooned herself against him, her back to his front, and took his hands to place them around her body. Pressing herself closely to him, she shushed him with sweet, nonsensical words, while she caressed his hands and arms. It took her a few minutes to calm him, yet he continued trembling. Rowena pulled the covers over them both, hoping that the warmth would calm him further.

It did. Alex relaxed in her arms, and soon his regular breathing indicated that he had fallen asleep. Rowena enjoyed his warm breath tickling the sensitive skin of her neck. His warm, hard body closing around her made her recall all the lovely, wicked things he had done just a few hours ago. In her belly, soft stirrings came to life again as she thought about their complete union. She was truly Alex’ wife now, and his considerate and gentle handlings reassured Rowena that he could become a sweet companion. She hoped so. She begged the Lord above that it would be so. She was beginning to be very fond of Alex.

Rowena sighed. She was still so very tired, languidly so. Would it be acceptable for her to fall asleep here, in Alex’ bed? She could not leave it, since he would then wake, or maybe have nightmares again. She had no inkling what time it was, but it must still be the dead of night, because everything in the house was till quiet. Lulled by her husband’s warmth, she closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into his arms.

 

He was having a dream. For once, it was not one of the violent nightmares which had plagued him for months now, since Waterloo. No, this was the best dream ever.

He was cocooned in a bed, on a soft mattress, and in his arms, there was a woman. He revelled in the soft, round curves that sent the best of fragrances up his nose. The scent of lily-of-the-valley – and warm woman. Heaven …

Alex found himself stroking the dream-woman to provoke a reaction, and it worked. She turned in his arms with a soft moan and spread her legs in eager invitation. He slipped easily between them guiding his engorged cock into her depts. Lord above, this was the best dream he had had in years!

Her sheath fitted him like a glove, and squeezed at his cock with every thrust he made. The tension inexorably built, and he welcomed it. His hands found her breasts, his touch making the nipples peak and harden. It urged him on even more. He pounded into her, hard and demanding. His blood beat a hard drum, making him deaf for any other sound. He came, suddenly and violently, while shards of light scorched his brain. Lord, what bliss! He felt even sweaty, much as it would have been, should he have been awake. Then the dream softly slid into sleep, a sleep as empty as death.

Next to her husband Rowena lay dazed and sated, with him still inside her. Oh, she knew what had transpired, but she could not understand the rest of it. The fact that Alex did not seem to have awakened, that he had all but ravished her, brought her to a glorious completion, and then, instantly had gone back to sleep. She was confused, felt lost, but had no strength left to resist sleep when it claimed her.

 

As was his habit, gained over a decade of military discipline, Alex woke when the first greyish light of dawn  lit the wintry sky.

He instantly stilled, bewildered when he realized he was holding someone. His wife … naked, delectable and warm, snuggled into his arms when he finally stirred. To his stunning realization, he was still inside her, limp now but deliciously snug. Her sheath had kept him close by fitting his erection as it had dwindled after his release. Amazing …

A storm of thoughts assaulted him. She must have crept into his bed sometime during the night, and he had not been aware of it. That had never, ever occurred in his lifetime. He must have made love to her without even feeling it, and – another first – he had returned to sleep with his cock still engaged. It was mind-blowing.

Porter soon entered to perform his duties, and the look of utter disbelief on his man’s face was priceless. Alex grinned at him, then laid a finger on his lips.

“Come back in a few hours,” he whispered. “After all, this is my wedding night.”

Porter did not seem to like it. “Well, a bloody Happy New Year to you too, major,” he hissed before striding out. Alex suppressed a chuckle, then returned his attention to the matter at hand.

Why the devil was she in his bed, and more importantly, did he want her there in the foreseeable future? How would she react when he would have one of his nightmares? Because, he knew they would come; they always came. Hugging his sleeping wife closer, Alex reflected on his demons.

The nightmares had begun after he regained consciousness, and that had been weeks after he got injured. During the first fever-free days, he had not even dared falling asleep, if he could have prevented it, but of course, that had not happened. The nightmares were viciously horrible, making him re-live the terrors and cruelties of the battle.

He was again thundering down the Waterloo hill on Titan, together with the rest of his regiment. Their commanding officer, Lord Somerset had received the suggestion from Lord Uxbridge, supreme cavalry commander, that he could lead the attack following his own instincts. Somerset let his men gallop straight into the French infantry, without checking their numbers first. Despite the enormous strength in numbers of the French, the cavalry managed to annihilate the largest part. If they had only been permitted to finish the job instead of charging ahead, they might have created a breech in the French forces, big enough for Wellington to take up position with his infantry. Now, instead, they faced the relatively unscathed French artillery. The Household Brigade was massacred on that 18th of June, 1815.

Alex’ own ordeal had been merciful compared to that of his fellow officers, even though he had been severely wounded . A French grapeshot cannonball drilled a massive hole in the first ranks of men who managed the breakthrough. Thirty yards away from the impact zone, Titan went down under the force of the blow. Simultaneously, Alex was hit in the head  by a piece of grapeshot. The horse’s massive body covered him yet did not cause any ribs to break. While Alex was still reeling under the impact, ears deafened and vision blurred, a French sword came down on him, slicing across his torso. His ribs caught the blow but fortunately, the wound was not too deep. Even so, it was a miracle that no organs had been damaged. What happened next was a large black hole. He had awakened much, much later on the ship to England, to find himself weakened by weeks of unconsciousness and fever.

A whispered moan from Rowena drew Alex back to the present. She was shifting in his arms, her breasts rubbing against his chest. The instant, predictable reaction of his body was to have her again, even though she was still asleep, her breathing going to regular again. No, he would not wake her. She would not have recovered from last night, he knew. Moreover, she was in the last trimester of her pregnancy, and he was not sure if they should have carnal relations at all. What went through his mind, though, was the sweet, innocent way she had reacted to his seduction, the previous night in her room. She must have known how to respond to a man’s touch, her present condition testimony to that, yet she had given him total control over the reins. She had followed, and with a lack of experience that matched a virgin’s. That could only mean her lover had been a selfish brute, only interested in dousing his own fire, without consideration for Rowena’s own needs.

But Alex already knew that, too. The bastard had gotten her with child, knowing full well he would have to go to battle and leave her. Alex would not mind giving Peter Johnston a thorough beating, if the man should still be alive.

There was, he reckoned, another little something he needed to tackle. Had they not made love in her bed, last night? So why had she come to his, sometime during the night? It puzzled him, even though he was happy that she had done so. Until … he realized he must have had one of his nightmares.

Lord … that was … awkward. If indeed he had cried out, and she had come to him, then … no, he needed to know more. But did he? What if she simply had come because she had been cold? Yes, that must be it. It was the dead of winter, after all. She would be terribly embarrassed when she woke up in his bed, he mused. He had to get her back into hers.

Alex rose, and as carefully as he could, scooped Rowena up. She nestled against him with a sigh, and something inside him shifted. He ignored it and carried her to her bed. Laying her down with infinite care, he was glad that he had not wakened her. He neatly tucked the blankets around her, then paused, while he looked at her sleeping form. On an impulse, he bent over her and kissed her brow. She sighed in her sleep, and smiled. His heart made a weird kind of rotation, which caused his chest to constrict. No, he forbade himself to reflect on it, and strode out of Rowena’s room. When he returned to his bed to enjoy a few extra hours of sleep, he noticed the tell-tale stains of lovemaking. Bloody, damned bloody hell …