Sometimes you get frustrated with trying to figure out how to get them together and just wanna skip straight to the good stuff! Forgive historical inaccuracies - I just wanted to have fun and somehow it took on a life of its own and has grown into this sprawling piece.

Enjoy and please leave me a review if you feel so inclined.

They were married at the start of summer, two days prior to the family heading to London for the season. It would be different this year though, the first in forever it seemed, for Charles would remain in Yorkshire. He and Elsie would take two weeks to themselves. Thomas would get his chance in London, with Mrs. Patmore, Bates and Anna, keeping an eye on him, and Downton would have to survive without either of them for fourteen whole days. Charles wasn't sure if he was more nervous that they'd fail or succeed. Everybody wants to be needed.

As expected it was a simple, antiquated affair. The village church, Beryl and Daisy, to Charles' utter joy (and Elsie's utter surprise) Lady Mary found her way there too, seated at the front with George toddling about by her legs.

After there was food at the house, Lord Grantham toasting the pair 'finally' finding their way together. Tipsy from champagne and far too much rich food they headed for bed, leaving behind the noise of the downstairs staff enjoying themselves a little too much. But for one night only it didn't occur to either of them to mind.

It wasn't until alone, in one of the vast guest rooms Lady Grantham insisted they take for their wedding night, that they had a moment to dwell on the fact that now – finally – they were man and wife.

They stood by the grand door staring at the lavishly decorated bed; it was three times as big as the tiny singles they had slept in for most of their lives. And they'd be together. It was nonsensical to imagine that neither of them had thought of that fact, but it was quite another to be faced with it.

"I had to admit," she said gently, her ankles aching from heels slightly higher than she was used to. "I'm rather nervous."

He smiled, turning his head to look at her, "As am I."

Now she smiled, reaching to hold his outstretched hand, "And a little tipsy too, I believe that Champagne was rather strong."

"I'm exhausted." He admitted.

"Quite a day."

"Yes." He squeezed her hand, "quite a day."

"We should have brought tea up."

"I can fetch some." He said. "Whilst you…" it was odd to him how ill-prepared he felt for all this. "…perhaps take a bath."

If she was surprised by his suggestion she didn't show it, only nodded, "I suppose we should make the most of the facilities, for one night only."

"Yes."

She let go of his hand, moved further into the room, took off her coat and laid it on the bed, slipped her tired feet from her shoes. Behind he watched, suffused with joy and comfort, the nerves were settling.

"I think I'll save this blouse for Sundays, it seems a shame to simply box it away."

Ever practical. "Yes, it would be a shame; you look so lovely in it."

She turned to him as she chuckled, "It may take me a while to get used to you being sentimental."

He frowned, "Not sentimental, merely truthful, and I hope I am always that."

"Oh yes, though at times you need a little prodding in the right direction."

He frowned, shaking his head, only she could needle him in such an enticing way, "I'll go get the tea, would you like anything else?"

"I'm fine thank you; I don't think I could eat another thing."

When he returned to the room, tray in hand, the lamp by the bed was on but otherwise the room was in darkness. There was a faint light from the bathroom and he closed his eyes and swallowed, glad of the Port he'd slipped onto the tray; he drank his down in one.

"Charles?" She asked, her voice shaky, he doubted he'd ever heard it that way before.

"Yes, it's me." He stepped towards the door, stopping when he heard the splash of water. Retreating again he busied himself with pouring the tea.

"Would you like the bath after me?"

"Erm, yes," he spluttered, "please."

How did one handle being a newlywed? Married to your best friend. There wasn't a handbook on that.

He slumped into a chair, removed his shoes and socks and placed them neatly beneath the chair. Then his jacket was hung up, along with his shirt, until he stood in his trousers and a vest, listening as she got out of the bath. With red face and blood pumping to every nerve ending he imagined her naked a few feet away, pink and flushed from the warmth of the bath. He pictured her dressing. Tidying her hair. Then she was there, in the bedroom. Soft and incredibly pretty.

"That feels much better." She said as she passed him, moving to where her bag had been left (supposedly by Anna) and taking out a pot of cream which she set about applying to her face. "You'd better go, before the water cools."

The thought of lying where she had just been was almost his undoing. Coming up behind her he placed his hands on her upper arms and kissed the back of her head. Then, without saying a word, went to take his bath.

After, he found her dozing lightly in the bed, tucked up on the left side. Tiptoeing he moved around the room, hanging his trousers, trying not to even breathe for fear of waking her, she looked so at peace.

Standing beside the bed he contemplated what to do. It was foolish of course to consider sleeping in the chair, or moving a blanket to the floor, they were married. It would be highly irregular to do so on one's wedding night. Besides that, he feared hurting her, and he'd never want to do that.

Removing his robe he drew back the corner of the duvet, watching as she turned over, her back to him now, settling into her pillow. He watched her back, the slope of her shoulder, the way her nightgown disappeared beneath the duvet. Finally he climbed in beside her. Extinguishing the lamp he lay on his back and listened to her breathing. The very air smelled of her and the bed was warm with her beside him.

Sleep was easing in, his eyes heavy, he turned onto his side, facing her back and was rewarded with her moving back against him, he snatched his arm up as she leant back on it, only to find instead she leant against his chest. Warm and heavy against him – real. His arm came to rest over her hip on top of the duvet; he closed his eyes, allowed the goodness of the day to sweep over him and his brain to drift into slumber.

The following morning she woke first, the morning sun was faint through the heavy drapes, which she was glad of. She breathed deeply, her body settled, warm and comfortable. It took a few moments for her to realise she was snuggled against Charles… snuggled, the word had been alien to her the day before. But that was indeed her situation now, his breathing deep and even on the back of her neck, his arm heavy over her waist as he held her tight against him.

She wiggled forward a little, easing onto her back so she could look at him. Her husband. She'd waited a lifetime for it.

With little thought she leant upward and kissed the corner of his mouth. At the touch he seemed to wake instantly, his grip tightening, his breathing changing. She kissed him again, her eyes closed, and waited as he responded, soft and delicate upon her lips.

"Good morning," she finally said.

"Good morning… Mrs. Carson."

"Hmm, I rather like the sound of that. Though it may take some getting used to."

"For us both, it makes me think of my mother."

She wasn't sure how to take the comparison; still, she pressed ahead, "I'm sorry I fell to sleep last night."

"Don't be, it was a tiresome day."

"Yes, and to think of them all up now, rushing and packing."

"Should we help?"

"No." she admonished, her face stern, "it's the first day of our honeymoon."

He coughed at that, suddenly aware of the implications of them sleeping in late and missing breakfast. What would the staff think?

"We should have breakfast though, at least."

She smiled knowingly, "Yes, we should. Tomorrow you'll only have me to rely on for it, and I'm certainly no Mrs. Patmore in the kitchen."

"We'll manage."

The thought of being in their own little cottage, their own kitchen, filled her with joy and, she had to admit, excitement.

He rolled over to his side of the bed, stretching as he got out and put on his robe. "Heaven knows what I'll find to do with the day."

"Do? We have an entire cottage to clean, tidy and make our own. There's going to be plenty for you to do."

He laughed, "Oh, so this is married life?"

"It would seem so."

The family had gone by eleven. The house seemed almost empty as they took their cases and the few boxes of belongings they had between them and loaded them into the car. It was only a short trip to their estate cottage, less than a five minute walk, but easier with transportation.

Alone now, in the hallway of their home, they stood in companionable silence and surveyed it. It had been empty for a while and was in need of love and care. But neither had been afraid of hard work and besides, there was something special about starting afresh there.

"Do you think we'll get used to it?" She asked as she removed her hat.

"The cottage?"

"The quiet. No bustle in the hallways, no knocking on our doors."

"We'll be back soon enough to that, I have to admit it will be rather nice to sit by the fire in the evening and know our nightcap won't be disturbed."

"Very nice," she turned and kissed him quickly, "shall we get to work?"

"Where do you want to start?"

"Kitchen? The floor needs scrubbing, I can do that, but I'd really like the fire cleaned out – properly, so I know we're set for the winter."

"Then that's where I'll start." He took off his coat, hard work would help him forget about Downton and servants who would probably be dragging their heels for the next fourteen days.

It was whilst watching her on hands and knees finishing off the kitchen floor, her hair falling loose from the exertion, that he took a moment to remind himself how lucky he was. For love to come at their time of life was one thing, for love to come to him – well, it seemed nigh on impossible.

"I love you," he said suddenly, surprised by his own boldness.

She sat back on her heels, looking back over her shoulder at him. "You tell me that now?"

He laughed at her incredulous expression, she was right, he could have said it last night, or whispered it at the altar. She knew. He didn't need to say it. Only… maybe he did, every now and then.

"Well, I love you too."

She returned to her scrubbing and he chuckled, "I'll make a start on the windows." He said, his nails still tarnished with soot. It didn't matter. It was a new world he'd ventured into and it welcomed him.

"We can't possibly get it done in one day," she said rubbing his shoulders as he sat in front of her. "But I think we've done well, the kitchen is clean and useable, we have a table to sit at, at least. And our bedroom, I think it's important we feel comfortable in there as we're sleeping here tonight… don't you?" She said uncertainly.

He covered her embarrassment, "the windows are clean in there, we can hang the drapes you made," he thought of her hard toil over the past two months, endless hours in her sitting room sewing curtains and bed linen. "…make the bed…"

"How's your back feeling?" She said quickly, her hands now tapping lightly on his shoulders.

"Much better, thank you." He drained the last of his tea and slapped his legs. "Best get back to work."

He stood behind her, ready, waiting, as she perched precariously on a chair hanging the curtains. When she wobbled his hands caught her hips holding her still, he forgot about the curtains then. Forgot about feeling nervous in their shared bedroom, standing only inches from their shared bed. The nerves were dissipating, desire creeping in their place.

It was only when she spoke that he realised he'd closed his eyes, enraptured with their feel of her body beneath his fingers, the warmth of her.

"Charles?" She said again.

"Sorry, I must have…"

"Do you think they look straight?" She asked again, weary and hungry.

"Yes." He said without thinking and she shook her head with slight annoyance. Must try harder, he told himself and stepped back to look properly. "Yes, definitely straight."

"Good," she shuffled on the chair, turning to get down. "It's turning dark, I wouldn't want anyone to walk by and see me in my particulars."

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or strip her naked. Lord above what had he become!

"Don't get down like that, I'll help." He held her hand, the other arm on hers supporting her as she stepped.

"We can do the nets tomorrow," she added, leaning on his shoulder as she climbed down, "I'm too tired now. I think we've done enough. My back feels tighter than a coiled spring."

"Mine too, shall we clean up and have some supper?"

"Good idea. I'm covered in dust. And you," she tapped his nose, "still have soot on your face."

He was rather caught off guard by the intimacy of the act, nevertheless he found he enjoyed it, her being so close, her care. He brushed the hair back that had fallen from her carefully constructed grips, "And you have a fine sheen of dust over your face."

Elsie wasn't sure what she'd expected from this side of their marriage. Of course she loved him; had for as long as she could recall, and to finally have that affection returned – when it had seemed so very implausible at times – had brought a fulfilment to her life she'd never dreamt of. They weren't retiring yet but when they did she knew they'd do so together. To a home and permanent companionship.

But beyond that, the physical side of a marriage… She wasn't adverse to the idea, in fact she longed for him to hold her, kiss her, touch her. It had been so very long since a man had, and then she'd been young and foolish, she didn't know love, not really, not until Charles. But he was often so detached, so removed from that side of things, she wondered if he wanted to even share a bed.

Yet they were, the room was made up and he hadn't objected. The spare room next door, once empty, was now crammed with the furniture that would soon fill their little home once they had it cleaned and painted.

Smiling she leant forward and kissed him delicately.

"I'm so glad Mrs. Patmore sent us a hamper," she said softly, "I'm not much of a cook at the best of times and I certainly wouldn't want you to starve on our first real night together."

"You can manage toast," he teased as he watched her tidy away her sewing box.

"That I can Mr. Carson, that I can. Nevertheless, I'm glad we'll still be eating at Downton, I wouldn't want to be a disappointing wife."

"That you never could be."

Her slip with his name didn't bother him, it was rather sweet really, he wondered if he'd be able to get past 'Mrs. Hughes' and call her Elsie without it irking him, or better still 'Mrs. Carson', the very thought of that made him smile.

She sat by the fire drying her hair, to Charles' relief there was no billowing of black smoke when he'd lit it and now she looked contented and relaxed. He watched as she brushed out her hair and began to braid it over her shoulder. As well as they'd known each other at Downton there were still things he would learn. Still moments of intimacy he had to get used to.

She'd done her best with the table. Candles and glasses set for the wine.

"So, what has Mrs Patmore put into the hamper?" She asked breaking his reverie.

He continued emptying it out, "Pate, salad, fruit," he smiled triumphantly holding up a white package, "cake."

"Your sweet tooth." She chuckled shaking her head, "Bread?"

"Oh yes, here it is."

"So toast it is." She twisted round to look at him.

"So it is, and pate."

"And wine?"

"Well, it is a celebration."

She joined him at the table, "Didn't we celebrate yesterday?" She set to slicing the bread as he poured the wine.

"That was for our wedding. This," he handed her a glass, "is to celebrate the first day of our marriage."

"Thank you," her voice was soft, "that was a lovely thing to say."

"Well," he glanced away.

She rested her hand on his arm, "You can be sentimental every now and then, just with me."

He nodded, "Shall we sit?"

"I was waiting for you to sit first." She teased.

"We can sit together, in fact…" he pulled out her chair, "after you."

"Such gentlemanly behaviour."

They ate in a much more tranquil atmosphere than they had the previous night. Talking over their plans for the cottage, how he'd shape the garden, how she'd furnish the parlour.

Too soon night had closed in; food had been eaten, wine drunk. Truth be told she felt a little tipsy as she yawned.

"Time you were in bed," he said soothingly.

She looked up sharply catching his eye.

"I didn't mean… oh…" She chuckled at his discomfort. "Don't tease me Mrs Hughes. Mrs Carson." He corrected.

"That will definitely take some getting used to." She got up from her chair, her back protesting, "I suppose we should do the dishes but –,"

"Who will know if we don't?"

"Yes, well then, shall we?"

"Would you like me to give you time to, erm, to change?"

She shook her head, "Oh for goodness sake," she said as frustrated with herself as she was with him. "This is silly, we're married now. We need to relax."

He marvelled at her practicality, as always, in times of uncertainty.

"Is that a no then?" He held her gaze long enough before he smiled. "Would you like something to drink?"

She didn't care to admit the wine had already gone to head, in fact the alcohol was rather dulling the edges a little, "That would be nice. I'll go up."

Despite it being mid-summer the room was fairly cool, she was glad of that, she didn't really want to sleep with the window open.

She could hear Charles rinsing the dishes downstairs (she knew he couldn't leave them) and took the time to change into her nightgown quickly and get beneath the covers before he came up. She'd done the same last night and fallen right to sleep, tonight she intended to be awake when he came up. She lay back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, watching the shapes and shadows as the candlelight played across it.

He debated, it seemed for an eternity, over what to take up, sherry seemed too familiar, they'd had port yesterday. Realisation dawning on him he remembered the wonderful bottle of single malt his Lordship had given them as a wedding gift, of course, how fitting for his Scottish wife.

Opting for two glasses and the bottle (who knew how things would go!) he checked the doors, turned off the lights and headed up to bed.

Her eyes were closed when he got to the room, the faint light available shone on her pale face, by the open door he stood uncertainly watching her chest rise and fall. He wondered if she was asleep, torn between relief and disappointment at the thought.

"Elsie," he whispered as he moved toward the bed.

"Mmm?"

"Just checking." He put the glasses on the side table and opened the malt, "This should be wonderful," he said, almost to himself.

She glanced over to where he stood, "I will be asleep if I drink that." She smiled, turning in the bed. "Are you all right Charles?"

He took a sip of the liquor, "Feeling a little…"

"Nervous?"

"Apprehensive perhaps."

"Oh dear, I must be terrifying."

"Not at all, that's not what I meant."

"I'm teasing. Relax and get into bed."

He ought to change into his pyjamas, but then wouldn't that seem odd when they intended to… indecision always seemed a constant element of his character. She was always so at ease and together.

She watched as he hung his shirt and trousers, "they need washing tomorrow," she said noting the soot on the knees.

He acknowledged it and hung them away from his shirt, oddly he didn't feel in the slightest uncomfortable about walking around in front of her in his underwear. In fact he felt rather liberated. He took his pyjamas into the bathroom across the hall though and changed into them in there.

"It's rather mild tonight isn't it, should I open the window?" He asked when he returned, closing the bedroom door firmly behind him.

"No, if you don't mind, I'd rather you didn't."

He nodded and slid into the bed beside her, sitting up and downing the rest of his whisky. "You're sure you don't want any?"

"I'm fine."

He lay back, flat on his back, feeling like a school boy caught doing wrong.

"Charles," she whispered, "are you going to put out the light?"

"Oh, of course."

For several moments they lay in silence surrounded by darkness. Elsie on her side facing him. Charles on his back wondering how best to proceed. It wasn't that this was new to him; it was just that it had been a hell of a long time (a lifetime) and the last time he'd been with a woman he was young and impatient. He wanted this to count. For her to want him.

To love her as she deserved to be loved.

As always she took the lead, her hand snaking out across his chest. If he didn't want more that was fine, she was content to be held and sleep together. But as soon as she touched him, her fingers catching where his lay on his stomach, he turned his head, dipping down until he found her mouth with his.

Clumsy at first, she thought as they tried to find a comfortable position, their height difference evident, he had to shuffle down the bed; her arm got trapped between them as they moved together. But soon they were settled into an embrace, she revelled in the joy of having her body pressed against his, the way his hand was firm against the base of her spine holding her to him, the other playing with the end of her braid as they kissed.

When she opened her mouth he moaned and the sound did something to her insides, her stomach flipping at the sensation. I want this, she thought as his hand shifted, moving up her spine, gently she rolled onto her back and he was above her, tenderly kissing his way down her neck, whispering words she couldn't decipher.

She closed her eyes, let him touch where he wanted, his kisses were focussed at the base of her neck. It tickled, deliciously, she had no idea his eyes has focussed on that particular spot a hundred times over the years. Across her collarbone, the delicate, translucent skin there, the life beneath it.

Parting her legs she ran her hands over his back, then up and under his pyjama top until she touched his skin, so many feelings colliding at once she felt heady and intoxicated and it had nothing to do with the wine. When he moved between her thighs she found herself moaning and that seemed to spur him on.

Part of her forgot that this was the great butler Mr Carson as he lifted himself up and removed his top, his chest bare to her now. She'd never seen him so relaxed. She wondered if she ever would again.

If he was shocked by her not wearing underwear he didn't show it, too hungry for her body to be naked to him. It had been a risk, but she was wife now, she was free to finally explore this side of her – a chance that had never been open to her before – so she'd conveniently forgotten it beneath her cotton nightgown. It was too oppressive in the summer heat anyhow.

She pushed herself up to him, her breasts irresistible as his hands wandered, claimed, worshipped. Her nightgown gathered between them and he was almost impatient as his fingers found the hem and pushed it higher up her body; she lifted herself up and allowed him to draw it over her head. It was quickly discarded.

Her name fell from his lips, repeatedly, reverently, and there was nothing more in the world he wanted than to be with her for eternity. Locked in her embrace. Safe and warm.

She cried that first time, as eager as she was for it to happen. It wasn't rushed, it wasn't earth shattering, it just was. The first time. And she cried as his head rested on her chest, exhausted and spent, both in shock at the contact after so very many years of making do with late night conversations and the occasional brushed hand.

Gulping in the musky air she shifted beneath him and he moved to the side – reluctantly – for fear he was hurting her, she turned with him though, their bodies aligned now. Damp with summer sweat and unwilling to part for a second. He brushed her hair, cradled her to him, her face pressed against his chest. A current of fear crawled over his skin as her tears danced upon him, had he hurt her, disappointed her, rushed her?

"Elsie…" he breathed, afraid of his own voice.

She snuffled, holding him tight suddenly, she didn't want him to think this was wrong.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. She pulled her head back, drew in a raw breath and pushed her palms into the mattress as she sat up, twisting away from him in the darkness and reaching for the shot of whisky he'd left on the bedside table for her. She downed it in one, feeling it burn into the pit of her stomach.

She drew her knees up, resting her chin on them as she rolled the glass between her thumb and forefinger. "I'm sorry," she said again. "Just," she breathed deeply again, "just overwhelmed. So many new feelings all at once, it rather overtook me."

"Did I… I'm sorry if I…"

"No Charles," she turned her head back, searching for his face in the dim light, "it was wonderful. Unexpectedly wonderful."

He smiled, the brightest smile that had ever graced his features. "Never unexpected. I always knew we'd be quite wonderful together."

"Did you? You shock me."

She shuffled round, keenly aware of her naked body, her breasts bare so close to his face, "Do you think I might have some more of this."

He lifted himself up, capturing her mouth in a sweetly deep kiss, "I've never been happier."

"Me neither."

He reached clumsily for the bottle, "I should have left the lamp on; should I relight the candle?"

"If you can."

"I think I put matches in the drawer."

He found them, lit the candle, refilled both of their glasses and they sat side-by-side, the blanket loosely pulled over their laps as they drank, pillows crushed behind them.

"So many firsts," she said lowly, "this must be one of those memories you speak of, the things that life is about."

He nodded silently at her reflection, how she remembered each and every thing about him. His love for her seemed endless, unceasing.

There was a piano playing a slow tune in his head.

"This is good," she handed him back her empty glass, leaning her chin against his shoulder as her body twisted against his.

"Do you ever want to go back? Do you miss it?"

"Scotland," she said kissing his shoulder, his arm, until he tilted her face and found her mouth again.

They lay back again, ceaseless soft kisses, feather-light, as their bodies curved around the other, her knee between his thighs, her graceful fingers dancing over his strong arms that held her so tight against him.

"Yes…" he mumbled between kisses, smiling as they bumped noses, "do you miss Scotland?"

"Maybe," she breathed slowly, languidly, tangling the fingers of her right hand into his hair, her other hand tracing invisible patterns across his upper arm, his shoulders, his neck and jawline. "I dream of it sometimes, the smell of it, the breeze, the sound of my father's voice as he called me in for breakfast."

"We should go back, I'd take you, I'd like to see your home."

"This is my home, I'm afraid my voice may still bear traces of it but inside – that girl is gone, I feel English now… a traitor probably. But I've lived my life here. I found you here."

"And I thank the Lord each and every day for that blessing. But we should still go, maybe when we retire."

"Mmm," she hummed against his skin, impossible dreams of a time when they'd no longer be called upon each and every day. "We can walk amongst the heather, the cold in our bones; sing into the wide open spaces."

He laughed, folding his fingers with hers; she lifted her face to his once more and instinctively they kissed now, as easy as breathing, as fluid and free as swimming in a river on a summer's day.

His hand found her thigh, brought her leg up and over his, easy smooth movements as they joined again. And this time she didn't cry, she moaned and gasped and rejoiced in the fact that they had this. After so much loneliness. So much isolation. They had this.

He felt like he couldn't stop kissing her, wanting her; twice already and he wasn't in the least tired – sleep could wait, he wanted to live this night with her. This delicate, worshipping night where everything had shrunk and centred in their room, in their bodies. All that mattered.

Her leg was still over his, her heel in the back of his calf, but she was twisted over, half on her back, and the night shadows crawled over her skin, sliding beneath the curve of her breasts where his searching fingers followed. He wanted to know every inch of her.

She wondered if it was considered improper for husband and wife to lie naked the whole night through, naked and full of abandonment. She thought of racy novels she'd sequestered over the years from naïve maids, and then secretly peeked at when alone in her room.

"What was your mother like?" She asked, turning her face to his on the pillow. Side-by-side again, the dying candle providing a low light, enough for what they needed.

"Strict," his face softened, "kind. Hard worker, different, to this – I mean this life we have now, she wouldn't recognise it. She wanted more for me."

"As did mine. Did she mind, when you went on the stage?"

He frowned; it was a time he'd rather not be reminded of, even now. "She accepted it, after a great many choice words. My father didn't say a thing."

She recognised the regret in his voice, painful still after all these years.

"I'm glad you did it," she said gently, "its part of you, made you who you are."

He smiled, stretching his arm out above them along the pillow. "What made you so bold?"

"Bold?" she chuckled.

"So wise, you know it all; you know the answer before I even think of the question."

She liked the sentiment, "I think it's called being a woman."

"I think it's called being Elsie."

"I like this side of you," she whispered, closing her eyes to kiss him again, "And I rather think I'm going to enjoy being married."

"Oddly enough so am I."

He leant over her and she watched as his mouth traced the outline of her breasts, cupping them as he took her nipple in his mouth, testing, pushing the boundaries. She trailed her hand over his neck, more than content to simply enjoy his adoration.

Slowly and easily he moved above her again, delicate, tender, they made love as each had often dreamt of it. As if there were nothing in the world but the two of them and this marital bed. Nothing but love.

"I love you," he whispered by her ear, curled up against her back, holding her tight against him. "I always will."

She smiled, already half asleep, "I always have." She squeezed his hands, content to sleep in his embrace.