She was too distraught to hear him. "Please, Alex," she said. "Please. Don't take Catherine. Oh, I shall die. I shall die." She put her arms up around his neck and clung to him.
"Hush," he said, rocking her in his arms. "Hush, love. I would not hurt you for worlds. Hush now."
Anne still did not hear his words. But some instinctive part of herself knew that there was comfort somewhere within reach. She turned a tearstained face up to him without even knowing she did so, without even seeing him. And he kissed her.
They were both shaken, Anne by the terrible shock of knowing that he meant to take her daughter away from her, he by the realization that he would not even have the child with whom to comfort himself when he left the following day. Grief on both sides quickly ignited into passion. They set each other on fire with eager, searching hands, hot, demanding mouths and tongues, and bodies that arched into each other. They reached blindly for the ultimate comfort, the ultimate release from feelings that were too intense to be borne.
Merrick tore at her nightgown, too impatient to open the buttons down the front, and lifted her naked body onto the bed. He followed her there in but a few moments, his own clothes having suffered just as rough a fate. He came between her thighs and pushed urgently into her so that she cried out and twined her arms and legs around him. And together they found a rhythm intense in its need to be completed. He thrust deeper and deeper into her, and she opened and lifted herself more intimately against him, each straining for the unity that their love craved, both believing in their hearts that it was in reality but a one-sided experience. Yet they reached their climax together and murmured their release against each other's lips.
When rational thought returned, Anne found herself lying in the crook of her husband's arm, both of them still warm and damp from the exertions of their passion, covered by a disordered tumble of blankets, which Alexander must have pulled over them. She felt sore. It was almost a year since he had last used her, and she supposed that recent childbirth had left her tender. It would pass. It was almost a pleasant discomfort, caused as it was by the body of her husband, whom she loved. She turned further into the warmth of the naked man beside her.
Childbirth! Her eyes opened wide and she jerked away from him so that she might look into his face. He was looking back at her, a strange, almost bitter twist to his mouth.
"You are going to take Catherine from me," she accused. "You cannot do it, Alexander. I shall fight you. I promise I shall fight you. She is my daughter. I carried her for more then eight months and I suffered to bring her into the world. She needs me. I still have the milk that feeds her. And I shall not allow you to take her from me. You have always been a taker, have you not? You have taken from me all I have to give except my daughter. I will not allow you to take her. I won't allow it, Alexander. Please, oh, please, don't take her from me."
Her head still rested against his arm; her hand was still splayed across his warm chest. His mouth tightened into a parody of a smile.
"Don't distress yourself, ma'am," he said quietly. "I have done all the taking from you that I intend to do. I shall complete the process tomorrow by taking myself permanently from your presence. My apologies for tonight. I did not intend for this to happen. And you can set your mind at rest about our daughter. She will remain with you here. I will not take her from you. She is more yours than mine. I merely begot her in a moment of pleasure. You have suffered for her."
He eased his arm from beneath her head and swung himself out of the bed. He dressed quickly and left the room.
The morning was almost over. He should have been on his way before now. Even if he left within the next quarter of an hour, he would have to ride hard to arrive home before dark. He would not, of course, take the carriage now. There was little point when he would be traveling alone. His belongings could be sent on after him, as they had when he came. There was no purpose in his delaying any longer. He had told Dodd at breakfast that he would not be at home for luncheon.
Merrick wandered on, leaving Anne's formal garden and strolling to the line of trees that bordered it on the west. The sun was shining from a cloudless sky. The air was almost warm. It was easy now to believe that spring was coming. Soon the garden behind him would be a blaze of color. And he would not see it. Anne would wander there, picking daffodils. The baby would see it. Probably by summer she would be crawling over the lawns, and Anne and the gardener would be constantly running after her to prevent her from plucking the heads off the flowers. But he would not see her.
Something caught his eye in the greening grass among the trees. It looked like a frail relic of the winter that had passed. He stooped down and looked with delight at the first flower of spring. He touched it gently with one finger.
Anne had walked out into the garden. She shivered slightly, but it was not really cold, she thought, raising her face to the sun. There was warmth today, and it was pleasant to be out of doors, despite the fact that she had neither cloak nor bonnet. She did not intend to be outside for long. She did not wish to miss Alexander when he left. She had been in the nursery all morning, playing with Catherine. She meant to bring her outside following her afternoon sleep, but this morning she had stayed indoors, expecting every moment that he would come to bid them farewell. She knew he had not left yet. His greatcoat and hat were still in the hall.
It would have been better really if he had slipped away during the morning without a word to anyone. This waiting was killing her. She would see him one more time, probably for a few brief moments only. She would have to pack a lifetime of looking and listening into those moments.
"Anne."
She looked back to the house, though the voice had not come from that direction.
"Anne," he said again, and she saw that he was among the trees, stooping down in the long grass.
She walked toward him consciously drinking in the sight of him, his thick dark hair blown rather untidily around his face, his handsome features turned toward her, his broad shoulders filling out the fine blue broadcloth of his coat. She wanted to smile, but her face felt stiff with the tension she was feeling.
"Come and look at this," he said, and he turned back to look into the grass.
Anne stepped closer and then she sank to her knees on the grass beside him, her face suddenly and unconsciously smiling. "Oh, it is a snowdrop," she said. "The first one, Alex. Spring is here." She reached out and cupped the tiny bloom in her hands. "Look. It has all the beauty of nature in it."
Merrick watched her as she gazed, rapt, at the tiny flower. He ached to touch her, to tell her that he loved her, to beg her to take him back, give him another chance. But he had renounced selfishness where she was concerned. He had told her the night before that he was done with taking from her. And he had spent a sleepless night castigating himself for what he had done to her earlier. To have forced her yet again to accept his attentions, to have put her yet again in danger of having to bear a child of his was unpardonable. Why was it that he always had behaved at his worst with Anne, with the woman whom he loved more dearly than he could ever have imagined loving anyone? He stood up.
"I shall be going, Anne," he said.
She gazed up at him blankly, her hands still cupping the snowdrop. "Oh," she said, and she stood up slowly.
They gazed at each other in silence for a few moments. Merrick held out his right hand. "Will you shake my hand, Anne?" he asked quietly. "Can we part on friendly terms? Do you think you will be able to think kindly of me after I have gone?"