Cecy had thought she’d known everything that a wife needed to know about sexual congress, but clearly she hadn’t. It had never occurred to her that a woman could mount a man, but, now that she considered it, it was physically possible.

To ride St. George. To sit astride a man and ride his organ.

She could quite see that it would be easier for Gareth if they did it that way, on account of his arm, but that didn’t stop embarrassment sweeping through her. And with the embarrassment was a twinge of anxiety, because Gareth was expecting her to ride him and she didn’t know how to.

What if she did it wrong?

Cecy remembered her journal. It is natural to feel shy and nervous, she had written, and then: The act will likely embarrass you at first, but you will soon come to regard it as commonplace.

She repeated those words in her head, and said resolutely, “You must teach me how to do it.”

“Yes,” Gareth said. He was still smiling at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes and he didn’t look relaxed. Nor had he moved closer to her on the bed. In fact, he looked as if he’d rather climb back out of the bed.

Cecy had a moment of insight. He’s as uncomfortable as I am. That realization made her own embarrassment fade slightly. She reached out and touched Gareth’s hand where it lay on the sheet, and felt the tension there. “It’s not that difficult, is it?”

“No. A matter of rhythm, that’s all.”

“Then let’s do it now,” Cecy said, in as cheerful a tone as she could muster.

Gareth seemed to become even tenser. She felt it in his hand—muscle and tendon tightening, almost a flinch—and thought she understood why. “It will be a little embarrassing at first, won’t it?” she said.

Gareth grunted a laugh, and some of the tension in his hand eased. “Yes.”

“So we may as well get it out of the way, don’t you think?”

Her choice of words seemed to amuse him. He grunted another laugh, and then looked away from her and sighed. “This isn’t how I wanted it to be.” His voice was apologetic, and when he glanced back at her his smile was wry and rueful.

“I think wedding nights must always be a little awkward,” Cecy said. “It’s hard to imagine that they wouldn’t be.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Gareth turned his hand over and clasped her fingers lightly. After a moment, he said, “We don’t have to do this tonight, you know.”

“I think we should,” Cecy said, because if they didn’t do it tonight they’d have to go through all this awkwardness and embarrassment tomorrow night.

“Of course,” Gareth said, and released her hand.

“Tell me what to do,” Cecy said, and perhaps it sounded a little businesslike, but businesslike was better than embarrassed, because the more businesslike they were now, the more quickly the act would become commonplace and ordinary.

“Uh . . .” Gareth cheeks flushed faintly and he looked away from her again. “We should start by you, um, sitting on me.”

“Sitting on you,” Cecy repeated, feeling her own cheeks flush.

“Yes.”

Gareth sat with his back to the pillows, his legs outstretched, his feet tucked beneath the folded-back covers. His nightshirt covered him from throat to ankle, but she could clearly see the shape of his thighs beneath that thin layer of fabric. For such a lean man, his thighs were surprisingly muscular. The thighs of a man used to spending hours every day in the saddle.

Thighs that he wanted her to straddle.

Cecy’s embarrassment surged. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Ah . . . your nightshirt?” Was he going to pull it up before she sat on him?

Gareth’s flush deepened. “Let’s leave it as it is, for now.”

Cecy nodded and rose on her knees.

Gareth glanced at her for a brief half-second, and then away. “You don’t have to face me if you don’t want to. You may face away if you’d prefer.”

“Oh, no!” Cecy said. She wasn’t certain why that suggestion was so horrifying. Because he’d be able to watch her, but she wouldn’t be able to watch him? Or because it implied that she might not want to look at his face? “I’d like to be able to see you.”

Gareth glanced back at her. Their eyes caught and held.

One of the things Cecy liked most about her husband was his face. He wasn’t handsome—his jaw was a little too long for that, his cheekbones a little too prominent—but he had one of the most attractive faces she’d ever seen. One glance at it told you that he was honorable, that he was kind, that he liked to laugh.

How could he doubt that she wanted to look at him? It made her heart squeeze painfully to think that he might believe that.

Cecy reached out and touched Gareth’s cheek lightly. He’d shaved again before they’d dined. His skin was smooth beneath her fingertips. Smooth and warm.

She trailed her fingertips down his cheek, along his jaw to the faint cleft in his chin, then retraced her path. She gazed into his eyes. Hazel eyes, with laughter lines at the corners. “I like your face very much,” she whispered.

Gareth blushed.

Cecy leaned closer and kissed him.

Their lips clung together for a moment. “I like your face, too,” Gareth whispered.

Cecy drew back and smiled at him, and felt in her heart how much she loved him. That was what was important tonight—how much they loved each other—not whether learning to ride St. George would be awkward and embarrassing. Get it over with, she told herself, and then she climbed determinedly onto his lap.

Gareth stiffened. Every muscle in his body went taut, and then—with apparent effort—he relaxed. Not completely, though. She could feel the tension in his thighs, could see it in those braced shoulders.

Cecy was tense herself. She felt as ungainly as a marionette, all stiff limbs and wooden joints.

She tried to relax, tried to smile at him. She wished she was more experienced. What if I do this wrong? And then she reminded herself that if even she did this wrong, it didn’t matter. Because this was merely the first night of their marriage. There would be dozens more opportunities to get it right.

She saw Gareth’s throat move as he swallowed. His hand lifted and came to rest lightly on her hip, warm through her nightgown. “Let’s kiss for a while,” he suggested.

“All right.”

Cecy leaned closer and touched her lips to his.

They kissed for several minutes, slowly at first, gently and tenderly, then more deeply, their tongues delving into each other’s mouths. Cecy slid her arms around Gareth’s neck and pressed closer. His chest was warm through the thin layers of linen, broad and firm.

They broke for air, both breathing raggedly. Cecy no longer felt like a marionette. She felt alive, blood rushing in her veins. It was surprisingly exhilarating to sit on Gareth. His lap felt very warm, hot even, and much fuller than it had been five minutes ago.

Cecy stole a glance at Gareth’s lap.

Yes. His organ was tenting his nightshirt.

Cecy’s pulse gave an odd, eager little leap, as if impatient for whatever came next. She rather thought she might enjoy riding St. George.

She glanced at Gareth’s face. He looked as if he felt as alive as she did; his skin was flushed, his eyes bright in the candlelight. “Is it time to pull up your nightshirt?”

“Yes.”

Cecy unwound her arms from around his neck and sat upright. One of the pillows tumbled sideways. They both reached for it, Cecy with two hands, Gareth with his amputated arm.

Cecy captured the pillow. “They’re determined to get away from us tonight.” She said it lightly, cheerfully, but that futile left-handed grab of his had been painful to see—and even more painful had been what had come afterwards: the fleeting expression on his face, vivid for a split second and then gone, shock and loss and grief combined together, as if he’d forgotten he had only one arm and then been suddenly reminded of it.

Gareth smiled at her comment, but it was perfunctory, not reaching his eyes, and the emotion that leaked off him was . . .

Shame?

Is he ashamed of having only one arm?

It was such a horrible thought that for a moment Cecy lost the power of speech. She looked at Gareth, that tight smile, that amputated arm, and she literally couldn’t speak.

She swallowed, and offered him the pillow, and found her tongue: “Would you like it back? Or shall we consign it to the floor?”

Gareth took it with his right hand and tucked it behind his shoulders, and another pillow tumbled down, jostling his truncated left arm.

This time he didn’t try to catch the pillow; he flinched with his whole body.

Cecy caught the pillow instinctively, and clutched it to her chest, aware that something was very wrong. Gareth was tense, every muscle in his body tightly clenched, and he appeared to have stopped breathing.

“Gareth? Are you all right?”

He exhaled a shallow breath, and stretched his lips in another smile. “Yes, of course,” he said, but Cecy knew he was lying. The lines at his mouth and eyes weren’t laughter right now; they were pain.

Cecy tossed the pillow on the floor and reached for his right hand. It was tense. “That hurt your arm, didn’t it?”

“Of course not,” he said. “It was just a pillow.”

She held his hand, held his gaze. “Gareth . . .” she said softly.

He sighed, and some of the tension in his hand eased. “It hurt a little.”

Cecy squeezed his fingers gently. “Does your arm often hurt?”

Gareth sighed again and looked away from her, towards the fire. “Sometimes it does.”

“What makes it hurt? Tell me, Gareth. Please.”

He sighed a third time, and met her eyes. There was a long moment of silence, and then he said, “It hurts if I knock it, or if I put pressure on it—I can’t lie on it at night—and sometimes . . . sometimes it just hurts for no reason at all.”

Cecy bit her lip, and nodded. “It’s hurting now?”

Gareth looked away from her again. “A little.”

Cecy substituted the words “a lot” for “a little.” She sighed, too, and released his hand and put her arms around his neck again, stroking his nape soothingly, stroking his hair, and leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “My poor Gareth.”

He stiffened.

Cecy drew back, so that she could see his face. “Gareth? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

It was another lie. A lot of things told her that. His smile, for one—too tight, too thin. His tension for another—the rigidity of his shoulders, the rigidity of his jaw. The way he looked at her without quite meeting her eyes.

His thighs were tense beneath her. She stole a glance down.

Gareth’s organ was no longer tenting his nightshirt.

“Shall we kiss again?” Cecy said, aware that things had gone wrong between them and uncertain how to fix it.

Gareth hesitated, and she thought he was going to say no, but instead he said, “If you wish.”

Cecy leaned closer and kissed him, but their mouths didn’t fit together this time. The kiss was wooden and awkward, and instead of feeling alive and eager, she felt anxious. She tried harder, desperately trying to recapture what they’d had only a few minutes ago, the heat, the pleasure, the deep sense of connection . . . but it didn’t work.

After a moment, Gareth drew back. His hand on her hip didn’t pull her towards him; it pushed her away from him. “I’m sorry, Cecy, this isn’t going to work.”

She glanced down at his lap. His nightshirt still wasn’t tenting.

Gareth caught her glance. He’d been tense before; now he became tenser. Color rose in his face, and there was more than embarrassment in that flush; there was shame.

“It’s all right,” Cecy told him. “I don’t mind. Honestly.”

Gareth’s mouth tightened and his gaze turned away from hers and he patently didn’t believe her. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and he sounded bitter and defeated. “I wanted it to be good for you.”

“It was good,” Cecy assured him hastily. “I like kissing you.”

“Not the kissing. The rest.”

“The rest?”

“You know.” He gestured to his groin. “I wanted you to enjoy it.” The note of bitterness was stronger in his voice and the shame even more evident on his face: that tight mouth, that averted gaze.

“But women don’t enjoy physical congress.”

His gaze jerked to her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Women don’t enjoy physical congress,” Cecy repeated, surprised that he didn’t know this truth. “Only men do.”