And then, in a moment of blinding beauty, she quivered and tightened around him. He buried his face in her neck to muffle his shout, and he thrust forward one last time, spilling himself within her.

They breathed. It was all either of them could do. They breathed, and then they slept.

Hugh awakened first, and once he assured himself that they were still several hours from dawn, he allowed himself the simple luxury of lying on his side and watching Sarah sleep. After several minutes, however, he could no longer ignore the cramping in his leg. It had been quite some time since he’d used his muscles in such a manner, but while the exertions were delightful, the aftermath was not.

Moving slowly so as not to wake Sarah, he slid himself into a sitting position, stretching his injured limb before him. Wincing, he dug his fingers into the muscle, kneading through the stiffness. He’d done this countless times; he knew exactly how to locate a knot and jab his thumb into it—hard—until the muscle quivered and relaxed. It hurt like the devil, but it was an oddly good sort of pain.

When his fingers grew tired, he switched to the heel of his hand, moving it against his leg in a tight, circular motion. This was followed by a firm, sweeping motion, then—

“Hugh?”

He turned at the sleepy sound of Sarah’s voice. “It’s all right,” he said with a smile. “You can go back to sleep.”

“But . . .” She yawned.

“It’s hours yet until morning.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then returned to his slowly relaxing muscle, going back to using his thumbs against the knots.

“What are you doing?” She yawned again, pulling herself into a slightly more upright position.

“It’s nothing.”

“Does your leg hurt?”

“Just a bit,” he lied. “But it’s much improved now.” Which wasn’t a lie. It was feeling almost well enough for him to consider exercising it in exactly the manner that had got him into this situation.

“May I try?” she asked quietly.

He turned in surprise. It had never occurred to him that she might wish to minister to him in such a manner. His leg was not pretty; between the fracture and the bullet (and the doctor’s ungraceful probing to remove the bullet), he’d been left with skin that was puckered and scarred, pulled tight over a muscle that no longer held the long, smooth shape it had been born with.

“I might be able to help you,” she said in a soft voice.

His lips parted, but no words emerged. His hands were covering the worst of his scars, and he could not seem to lift them from his leg. It was dark, and he knew she would not be able to see the angry, pinching welts, at least not well.