He groaned something unintelligible, shifted them to their sides, cupped her buttocks with one large hand, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. She gave a panting sigh, then a low keening moan of satisfaction as he drove her into a release all the more powerful for having eluded her.
When she lay sated and boneless against him, Andrew resumed moving in her slowly, each thrust and withdrawal lazy and thorough. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead lingeringly, as if memorizing the feel of her features with his lips.
Astrid’s hands trailed languidly along the muscles of his back, then into his long, thick hair. Any pretense that they were merely coupling was shattered by the tenderness of Andrew’s attentions. He was making love with her, making love like a man going off to war, storing up the feel, the scent, and the taste of her the way she’d stored up the same memories of him.
Or perhaps, like a man coming home from war.
Heartened by that possibility, Astrid moved with him, undulated in counterpoint to his thrusts, focused her awareness on his scent, on the feel of his sighs against her skin, the soft, intimate sounds their bodies made in the darkness. He laid his cheek against hers, a gesture of intimate surrender.
“Sweetheart… I can’t…” he rasped.
Whatever he’d been about to say, whatever thought he’d been able to form dissipated as Astrid felt a wet heat deep inside her body. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder and remained still, while she savored the pleasure of stroking her fingers over his nape.
He was hers. For these few moments, he was hers and hers alone. The thought encouraged her, and the way he wrapped her in his arms as she eased into dreams gave her hope.
In the morning, she rose to the news that he was sending her away.
***
“You knew.” Astrid fired the words across the breakfast table. “You knew you were sending me to your brother, and yet you said nothing to me last night.”
Andrew, usually so handsome and attractive, looked haggard in the morning light. She half hoped he’d indulge in some sniping or grouching that would gratify her need for… meanness.
Instead, he regarded her with patient, unhappy eyes. “Would it have made a difference if you’d known my plans?” he asked gently.
He seemed to think she would have withheld her favors, the idiot. “Yes, it would have made a difference. I would have imposed on your generosity until neither one of us could have kept our eyes open.”
When she wanted him to launch into an argument, Andrew covered her hand with his. “I am sending you to Heathgate because you will be safer there, nothing more, nothing less. He is the marquess, he has held Willowdale for more than fifteen years, and our papa held it before that.”
Andrew did not let go of her hand, which was prudent, because many small objects lay within Astrid’s reach. Her husband had considerately allowed her to heal, and considerately ensured the child had not been harmed. Now, he was considerately sending her away.
Husbandly consideration was apparently to plague her in both of her marriages.
“Astrid, do not be wroth. Heathgate’s people are loyal to us, whereas here, I am still viewed as an interloper. Somebody very cleverly weakened the supports to your viewing platform, and the only thing that saved you and the baby was that you landed on a week’s worth of old straw and hay. Any other day of the week, any other time of the day, and the muck pit would have been empty.”
She’d landed on a week’s worth of manure, fortunately; otherwise, she would be dead. He didn’t need to say that, and he didn’t need to admit again that her death would devastate him. His eyes were that haunted.
“Andrew, I do not want to go,” she said, all pride deserting her.
“And I,” he said quietly, “do not want to let you go, despite all, Astrid.”
Despite all. That covered a lot of nameless misery and loneliness caused by a man she thought she’d known, and known she’d loved.
“But you will send me away.”
“I must,” Andrew rejoined. “Besides, Felicity’s confinement draws nigh, and she needs you. Gareth needs you too, as do our little nephews. I’ve sent word to Fairly he might find you at Willowdale as well.”
“That’s lovely.” Astrid pushed cold eggs around on her pretty blue plate and wondered why Gwen had known to dodge breakfast today, of all days. “You have decided I am needed by my sister, my brother, my brother-in-law, and my nephews, so off I go. Was it my imagination, or did you fail to mention I might need my husband, or—just possibly—he might have need of me?”
Andrew shoved tiredly to his feet—had he remained awake while she’d slept in his arms? “He does need you, Astrid, but he needs you safe, whole, and out of harm’s way. Please, I beg of you, do not fight me on this.”