No Fury

Now: Thirty Five

I do not see Harry for another week, do not even see Douglas wandering the grounds.

In this time I have created a million stories.

He has fallen in love with her.
He thinks I have fallen in love with Liam.
She is sick, she is dying, he will be free again soon.
He is sick, he is dying, he can't find the strength to tell me.

So by the time I do escape early on Saturday morning, I am a mess of nerves and anxiety, sprinting to the field and pacing as I wait for him to appear.

It is nearly silent out here, silent but for the wind whipping the tall grass, knocking branches together and sending leaves fluttering to the ground. I pace in front of our tree, listening for his footfalls for what feels like an eternity.

The sun rises warm over the hills, illuminates the field that seems to stretch on forever.

Finally, in the distance, I see a dark head of curls, see his long, loping stride. He falls into the shadow of the field, as if stepping through an invisible curtain into our own, private world, and I seem to exhale for the first time in years.

I meet him halfway on the trail, throwing my arms around his shoulder, pulling him down, down down.

His long arms wrap around me endlessly.

"I cannot bear it," he says, lips pressed to my neck. "I think of nothing but you."

Everything inside me aches. I know now that I can survive: I can breathe, I can eat, I can sleep. I can even smile and laugh. But this, here, feels like stepping off a stage and back into my true life. Here, we take off our masks.

We lie down in the tall grass. His hands come up to my face, cupping my jaw as he gazes at me, remembering.

"Are you all right?" he asks quietly.

"I am well."

I can't make sense of all of his features at once. The smooth skin, the brilliant eyes, the crooked smile. I sprinkle his face with kisses: his lips, his cheeks, his chin, his closed eyes.

Running my finger along his brow, I ask, "And you, my love. Are you all right?"

"I am better knowing you are cared for. I am assured that Liam is quite good to you."

I wonder briefly how he knows this, but let the thought slide away. I want to tell him that Liam knows about us, but I don't want to ruin this moment that is only ours.

"He is. He is quite good to me. But tell me: how is your wife?"

With a shrug, Harry admits, "We live quite separate lives. It is not so bad. We will fall into a routine of easy strangers, I suspect."

He guides me around the tree, pulling me down into the tall grass with him. I expect him to ask why I've not been to see him, but he doesn't. He simply lays me down, shadows me from the sun as he leans over me, and takes stock.

"Eyes: still mischievous. Lips: intact," he says, kissing me once. "Neck: remains unblemished and perfect. Breasts: heavier. Lord." He bends, kissing at the swells. "My babe: growing." His hands push my skirts down, warm lips press to my navel. "And lower . . . what do we have?"

I giggle, offering an innocent shrug as he removes my skirts entirely, exposing my skin to the warm sun. His long fingers drift between my legs.

With a wicked smile, he tells me, "I'd like to kiss you here."

I gasp when he shifts his body lower, and his tongue circles my hipbone. "I'd like it, too."

His fingers find where I am softest. "Perhaps I'd like to do with my tongue what I've done with the tips of my fingers. Those little circles you seem to love."