Laughter was better than tears.
A week had seemed a long time when they began their affair. But this was the sixth day. The knowledge weighed upon Samantha as if it were a physical thing. And she could not keep at bay the thought that they would be going to Cartref later. She wished she had not been weak enough to agree. And yet … Her grandfather had written, and Papa had written back to him. She ought to listen to his story, Ben had said.
When they left the water, they went to their usual rock, where they were met by a tail-wagging, bottom-wiggling Tramp, who had been guarding their belongings against seagulls. But instead of spreading her towel on the sand as she usually did, Samantha wrapped it about her shoulders.
“I gave Mrs. Price and Gladys the day off,” she said. “It is Sunday. Besides, I will be out for dinner today.”
He looked back at her. He was leaning against the ledge to take the weight off his legs and rubbing his towel over his chest and up under one arm.
Oh, dear, she was going to miss this—the daily swims, the sight of him, the smell of him, the touch of him. She was going to miss him.
“Come back to the house?” she said.
They always went to the house after their swim and after lying for a while in the sun. But she knew from the look in his eyes that he understood what she meant.
“Yes,” he said.
And, shockingly, they did not stop to dress but walked back as they were, her towel about her shoulders, his draped about his neck. She insisted on carrying his boots.
She had forgotten why he must leave.
But of course he must. He could not stay here in the cottage with her, even if they married. He would have nothing to do here. He would be restless and unhappy in no time at all. And she could not go with him. It was much too soon for her to go with or marry anyone. And though he was not homeless, he had chosen to leave his brother and family in residence in his house but had established no other home for himself. He was probably the most restless, unsettled man she had ever known. It had not always been so, of course, but it was now, and she wondered unhappily if he would ever find himself and his place in life.
Yes, he must leave. Sometimes love was not enough—if it was love between them. It was probably not. She was lamentably naïve about affairs. Perhaps this was not love but mere physical attraction. That was undoubtedly all it was to him. Men did not fall in love as women did, did they?
They went upstairs as soon as they reached the cottage while Tramp padded off to the kitchen in search of his food bowl. Samantha led the way into her bedchamber. She drew the curtains across the window, though they were not heavy and did not block out much light. She peeled off her wet shift, toweled herself off, and rubbed at her hair, even though it was still in its tight knot at her neck.
Ben was sitting with his back to her on the side of the bed. He was pulling off his wet pantaloons, though he had drawn the bedcovers up over himself to mask her view.
“Don’t,” she said, kneeling up on the bed and moving across it toward him.
“Don’t?” He looked over his shoulder at her.
“Don’t hide yourself,” she said.
He held her eyes for a few moments, his own suddenly bleak, and then pushed back the covers, finished removing his clothes, and lay back on the bed, lifting his legs onto it one at a time. He looked at her again, his eyes hard now.
His legs were thinner than they must once have been. The left one was slightly twisted, the right more noticeably so. They were horribly scarred.
“Now tell me,” he said, “that you want me to make love to you.”
His voice matched his eyes.
She moved a little closer and set her hand on his upper right thigh. She stroked it lightly downward, feeling the deep gouges of his old wounds and the hard, raised ridges of the scars where the surgeons had tried to mend them.
And the foolish, brave man had insisted upon walking again.
She returned her hands to her own thighs as she kneeled naked beside him, and raised her eyes to his.
“Ben,” she said, “my dearest, I am so very sorry. I am sorry for the pain you suffered and still suffer. I am sorry that you cannot do what you most want to do in life. I am sorry you feel diminished as a man and inadequate as a lover, that you feel ugly and undesirable. What happened to you was ugly, but you are not. I think you are the toughest, most courageous man I have ever met. I know you are the loveliest. You must believe me. Oh, you must, Ben. And yes, I want you to make love to me.”
He gazed at her, his look still hard, though she had the curious feeling that he was fighting the welling of tears to his eyes.
“You are not repulsed?” His voice was still hard too, though there was a suggestion of a tremor in it.
“Idiot,” she said and smiled. “Do I look repulsed? You are Ben. My lover. For this week anyway. And I have had enormous pleasure with you. Give me more.”
She was remembering that she had called him my dearest, and she did not want him to believe she had fallen in love with him. And so she spoke of the pleasure she had had of him—which was no lie. He must be the most wonderful lover in the world.
He reached for her and she moved to straddle him. His hands moved over her upper thighs, over her hips, in to her waist, up to her br**sts, which he cupped lightly.
“You are perfection itself,” he said.
“I am not slender.”
“Thank God for that,” he said without contradicting her. “Do women really believe that men want them looking like sticks?”
“And I am no English rose,” she said. “I am downright swarthy.”