THE THIN APRIL sun came through the casemented windows and made patches of brightness on the bare floor. It struck light from the spurs on a pair of man’s boots that lay there, touched the pale-blue ostrich feathers piled on the brim of a hat, glittered on the worked gold-and-silver hilt of a sheathed sword —all heaped beside the canopied bed. Within, sunk deep into a feather mattress, Amber lay half drowsing, just on the verge of coming fully awake. Slowly her arm slid over the empty bed, an expression of puzzlement and vague worry crossing her face. She opened her eyes, found herself alone and sat up with a sudden frightened cry.
“Bruce! ”
He jerked back the curtains and stood there, grinning down at her. He wore his breeches but no shirt or periwig and was apparently just done shaving, for he was still wiping his face.
“What’s the matter, darling?”
“Oh! Thank God! I was afraid you’d gone—or that I’d only been dreaming and you were never here at all. But you are here, aren’t you? You’re really here. Oh, Bruce, it’s
She held out her arms to him, smiling broadly, her eyes filled with brilliance. “Come here, darling. I want to touch you—” He sat down beside her and her finger-tips moved over his face, wonderingly, as though she could not believe even now that he actually was there. “How fine you’re looking,” she whispered. “Handsomer than ever—” Her hands moved down over his broad muscular shoulders and chest, pressing hard against the warm brown flesh. Then all at once her eyes returned to his and she found him staring at her.
“Amber—”
“Yes?”
Their mouths came together with sudden devouring violence. Unexpectedly she began to cry and her fists beat against him, passionate, demanding. Swiftly he pushed her back upon the bed and her arms strained him to her. When the storm was spent, he lay with his head on her breast, relaxed against her. Now their faces were still and peaceful, content. Tenderly her fingers stroked through his coarse black hair.
At last he began to move away and stood up. Amber opened her eyes and smiled drowsily.
“Come back, darling, and lie here beside me.”
He bent and kissed her lips. “I can’t—Almsbury’s waiting.”
“What if he is? Let him wait.”
He shook his head. “We’re going to Whitehall—his Majesty expects me. Perhaps I’ll see you there later—” He paused and stood looking down at her. There was a lazy half-amused smile on his face. “I understand that you’re a countess now. And married again, too,” he added.
Amber’s head turned suddenly and her eyes looked at him almost in astonishment. Married again! Good Lord, she thought. I am! When Gerald was not around she totally forgot his existence.
He grinned. “What’s the matter, darling? Forget which one it is? Almsbury says his name is Stanhope—I think that was it—and the one before was—”
“Oh, Bruce! Don’t make fun of me! I’d never have married him in a thousand years if I’d known that you were coming back! I hate him—he’s a stupid addle-pated booby! I only married him because—” She stopped at that and hastily corrected herself. “I don’t know why I married him! I don’t know why I ever married anyone! I’ve never wanted to be married to anyone but you, Bruce! Oh, darling, we could have had such a happy life together if only you—”
Her eyes saw the changing expression on his face—a look that at once seemed to warn her and to shut her out. She stared at him, the old dread stealing up again, and then at last, very softly, she said: “You’re married—” She shook her head slowly even as she spoke.
He drew a deep breath. “Yes. I’m married.”
There it was. She had heard it at last—what she had expected and dreaded for seven years. Now it seemed to her that it had been there between them always, inevitable as death. Sick and weak, she could do nothing but look at him. He sat down on a chair and tied the laces of his shoes. For a moment he continued to sit there, elbows resting on his knees and his hands hanging between his legs, but at last he turned to face her.
“I’m sorry, Amber,” he said softly.
“Sorry you’re married?”
“Sorry that I’ve hurt you.”
“When were you married? I thought—”
“I was married a year ago last February, just after I got back to Jamaica.”
“Then you knew you were going to get married when you left me! You—”
“No, I didn’t,” he interrupted. “I met her the day I arrived in Jamaica. We were married a month later.”
“A month later!” she whispered, and then suddenly all her muscles and bones seemed to collapse. “Oh, my God!”
“Amber, darling—please—I’ve never lied to you. I told you from the first I’d get married someday—”
“Oh, but so soon!” she protested irrationally, her voice a plaintive wail. And then suddenly she lifted her head and looked at him; there was a glitter of malice in her eyes. “Who is she! Some black wench you—”
Bruce’s face turned hard. “She’s English. Her father is an earl and went to Jamaica after the Wars—he has a sugar plantation there.” He got up to continue his dressing.
“She’s rich, I suppose.”
“Rich enough.”
