“Ridiculous,” she breathed, bemused.
“Not at all. This is very serious.” He pushed himself off the bedpost stiffly. “There must be reparations, Sarah.” He moved toward her, and she let out an anxious chuckle at the absurdity of the situation.
“I have nothing for you to take, save this valise and what has been loaded into the carriage.”
“I require something far more than fabric and fripperies.” He was stepping closer, too close.
Half a second before his legs reached her skirts, she stumbled backward and lost her balance. In the next instant, she was against the wall, his body pressed against hers, his mouth a hairsbreadth away.
He surrounded her. His touch, his scent, his warmth.
“Let me go, or I shall—”
“You shall what, Sarah?” he asked, cutting her off with a soft whisper in her ear. “Will you shoot me?”
“If only I had,” she muttered, wiping away tears that were pooling on her lashes. “What do you want from me?”
“You,” he murmured. “In penance for breaking our contract by becoming attached to me, I demand your heart.”
“My…” Her eyes snapped to his in disbelief. Her heart? “No, I-I can’t.”
He paused, his sharp gaze narrowing, assessing. “Why? Who is it you are saving it for?”
“No one,” she answered.
“No one?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Yet you cannot give it to me?”
“It isn’t something I can simply hand over,” she shot back. Even if it was, she couldn’t give it to him. He already possessed it.
He grimaced. “A kiss, then, instead of your heart. One kiss, and the rest of the contract will stand. The travel, the servants, the settlement. Surely you can grant me that.”
Drake held his breath as he waited for an answer, silently calling himself every degree of imbecile. She was attached, she had admitted as much, but her being attached meant very little. One could become attached to a dog, a horse, a stationery.
Meanwhile, he had fallen desperately in love with her, and for a moment, he had stupidly believed her to have fallen in love with him, as well. At least a little. The way she looked at him, the way she had kissed him while they lay tangled in sheets.
He had to taste her once more, if only to convince himself he was mistaken… or to convince her she loved him.
To woo her.
It was worth a try. She was worth everything, even making a cake of himself.
Her lips pursed, swallowing hard before shaking her head. Good God, she was refusing him.
“No, Sarah.” He bracketed her face with his hands, forcing her to look at him. “You cannot deny me this. I shan’t let you. I may very well spend the rest of my life miserable and heartbroken, but heaven help me, I cannot let you walk out that door with my heart in your pocket. Not without a proper goodbye.”
Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, allowing him an opportunity he couldn’t resist.
He swooped in, trapping her against the wall as he covered her mouth with his. With his tongue, he traced along her bottom lip before taking it into his mouth. He felt her sigh deep in his bones, and when she opened for him, he invaded, winding his tongue with hers.
Her mouth was heaven, sweet and warm, a taste he would savor into eternity. Her hands began sliding up his chest, and instantly he was lost, a slave to her touch, her softness. Her body fit perfectly with his, striking familiar licks of heat that rushed through his core.
“I was such a fool to think I could resist you,” he muttered against her lips. “That I could keep myself from falling madly, deeply in love with you.”
“You’re in love with me?” she breathed.
“Hopelessly.” He kissed a trail down her chin and across her jaw. “Please don’t leave me, Sarah. If you want to travel the world, let me take you. I would go anywhere if it meant I could have you in my arms in an instant.”
With a sigh, she stretched her neck to allow him better access. He gratefully took advantage.
“You said you didn’t want love,” she softly reminded him how much of an idiot he had been. “What made you change your mind?”
“You. It could only ever be you,” he murmured against her skin, breathing in her sweet, delicate scent. “You smell like apples. I never before loved apples so thoroughly.”
She smiled, a small show of satisfaction she tried to fight, but the blush was impossible to hide. “I don’t understand. How did I do it?”
“Smell like apples?” he teased. Gad, he was teasing and enjoying it. She did that to him, made him… happy. More so than he could have ever imagined himself.
“How did I change your mind?” she enunciated firmly, but he could still recognize the softness in her voice that told him she liked what he was doing to her.
He swirled his tongue over the beating pulse at her neck, smiling against her skin when she gasped. He loved her little intakes of breath, the quickening of her pulse, the way her skin flushed and electrified him with the slightest touch. However, she had asked him a question, and while he hated to admit his faults, she deserved an explanation, and she deserved to have it without distraction.
He dragged his lips from her warmth and straightened.
“You said you wanted love,” he answered reluctantly. “I thought I couldn’t give that to you without making myself vulnerable, but then, when I thought I had lost you…” He shook his head, overwhelmed by the power of darkness that overtook him in that moment. The fear that crawled up his throat and blackened his vision. “I was utterly devastated,” he confessed, his muscles even now bunching with the effort to keep himself from crushing her against him, to keep her safe in his arms. “I realized it had already happened. The mere thought of losing you was the most unbearable pain I have ever experienced, and I have no doubt I would feel that pain regardless of whether I lost you now or in fifty years.”
A small, fragile smile pulled at one side of her mouth. “Fifty years is a long time.”
“Exactly,” he returned, cradling her face with his hands. “Which is why, in fifty years, I shall have five decades worth of memories of you to keep with me should you leave this world before I do. I shall not waste a single day.”
“Ah, well…” she drawled wryly, her lips trembling as she spoke. “The joke is on you. I plan on living a lot longer than a measly fifty years.” A tear skittered down her cheek, which he quickly dried with his thumb.
“I am counting on it.” He smiled, realizing that, for the first time in a very long time, his future looked rather bright. “I love you,” he murmured. “Marry me.”
She laughed, the sound bubbling up from within. “Again?”
“Yes, but I want you as my wife in truth this time. No contracts, no separation, no holding back anything—even children. Especially children. I want…” His voice broke. “I want you to know, without hesitation, I shall adore you forever. I shall love you with all my heart forever. I shall care for you with tenderness and devotion forever.”
He swallowed past the thickness in his throat. “This time, we promise to love and cherish until death, and we mean it. Can you do that, Sarah? Can you swear to love and cherish me, as I so earnestly and unremittingly love and cherish you until death dares tear you from my arms?”
“You want children?” she sputtered softly. “With me?”
He nodded, more sure of that than anything else in this world. “Will you marry me, Sarah? Will you say your vows in front of God, friends, family…?”
Family! Gad, he had forgotten about her parents!
He blinked, astonished that he had forgotten such a monumental piece of information.
“Sarah, what a muttonhead I am. I forgot that I sent for your parents.”
Her brows knit. “You did what?”
He nodded. “I imagine it will be another two months before they arrive, but we can wait until they are here. They can attend the ceremony, if that’s what you want—”
A sob escaped her li
ps, stopping him midsentence as her hand flew to cover her mouth. She stood, sobbing almost silently as a barrage of tears spilled over and onto her cheeks.
He didn’t know what he had done wrong, what she needed him to say, so he simply wrapped his arms around her until the sobs subsided and she pulled away.
“I shall,” she said thickly, sniffling as she accepted his handkerchief when he proffered it. “I shall marry you. Of course I shall. I loved you even before you did this wonderful, wonderful thing. I think I even loved you when you were a starchy, grumpy tyrant.”
He recoiled. “I am not grumpy.”
She laughed, and he smiled.
In that moment, he knew what real joy was. There was no fear, or dread, or anxiety. It was loving now, living now, not in despair of the future, but in anticipation of the wonders it would bring.
It was Sarah, and the life they would live together.
He took her once again into his arms and drank deep. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, her body moving against him. He wanted her in his bed, in his arms. He wanted to make love to her until the end of time, but pain had him easing back.
“This bloody wound,” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes, you really ought to be in bed,” she said, a suggestive smile playing at her lips. “I can be gentle.”
He grinned wickedly. “I place myself entirely in your hands, my dear.”
Within minutes he was flat on his back, his beautiful wife above him, straddling him. When they joined, he felt it in every corner of his soul. Every touch of her hand, the taste of her lips, the feel of being inside her, filling her with his seed. Each shock of awe confirmed he was finally where he belonged, with whom he belonged.
He was home.
Chapter 22
The sky was clear, and the sun was hot on their backs as Fowlerton and Pritchard strolled along the harbor, passing five or six of Pritchard’s merchant ships filled with ore. This was the largest shipment yet, and Pritchard wanted to see it off personally. Fowlerton tagged along because, as aggravating as the man could be at times, Pritchard was the closest friend Fowlerton had. And most of the time they got along rather well.
“We’re nearing the passenger vessels now, Pritch,” he pointed out.
“Which means we can stop holding our breath.” Pritchard smiled crookedly. “The smell may improve a smidgen.”
“As well as the view.” Fowlerton whistled as a flurry of skirts descended a barouche farther ahead of them. These skirts had very nicely turned ankles, a figure with all the right curves in all the right places, and a pretty face to go along with them. “By gad, and what a view,” he muttered, shamelessly taking it all in.
“Isn’t that…?” Pritchard squinted at the couple, then gasped. “No!”
“What?” Fowlerton turned from his friend’s astonished expression to study the deliriously happy couple, who were now walking toward one of the ships.
“It’s Saint Brides!” Pritchard picked up his pace, presumably to catch the man before he boarded.
“Pritch!” Fowlerton rushed to catch up to his friend. “That’s impossible. This man is smiling… and laughing.”
Pritchard stopped dead in his tracks, nearly causing Fowlerton to stumble over him. “Does Saint Brides have a brother?”
Fowlerton thought a moment. “No, I do not think so. Not a living one, at any rate.”
“A cousin?” Pritchard asked doubtfully.
He raised a brow, glancing back toward the barouche. “I do not think a cousin…” His voice faded when he recognized Saint Brides’ crest. “Hell and damnation. He’s gone demented.”
“Fowlerton, that girl,” Pritchard said worriedly, still staring at Saint Brides and his bit of muslin. “Once I realized who she was… I thought Steel Breeches had her because he knew who she was. What she was.”
“Forget about the girl, Pritch. How the devil are we to commit the Home Secretary to Bedlam?” Fowlerton shook his head dismally. “And he was so good at it. The reports, the filing, the browbeating—”
“No, Fowlerton,” Pritchard insisted. “I have seen her before.”
“We both have. She’s the same woman he had with him at Barrington Park. The one you were drooling over, causing everyone to lose his appetite. Even Pembridge left a plate piled with food.”
“No… Well yes, but there’s more.” Pritchard began fishing through his coat pockets, then his waistcoat pockets, until he finally pulled out a small square of paper, which he promptly unfolded and shoved into Fowlerton’s face. “Look!”
Fowlerton recoiled and snatched the paper irritably, putting it at a reasonable distance to read it. “Yes, thank you.”
It was a wanted poster. Heavens, the woman was a criminal wanted for murdering her husband!
“Does he know?”
“I thought so, but…” Pritchard shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”
Fowlerton followed Pritchard to where the couple was standing near the boarding plank.
Saint Brides turned his bright—bright?—smile on them as soon as they approached. “Pritchard, Fowlerton, what the blazes are you two doing here?”
“Pritchard’s ore shipment is heading out today.” Fowlerton pointed over his shoulder toward the merchant ships. “We came to see them off.”
“We noticed you and simply had to say hello,” Pritchard added, though his smile was rather weak. “Going somewhere?”
“As a matter of fact”—Saint Brides passed a smoldering side-glance to the murderess—“I am on holiday.”
Pritchard laughed. That is, until he noticed Fowlerton’s astonished expression and realized it was true.
Fowlerton was having trouble believing his own ears, too, but after interrogating hundreds during the war, he knew a lie when he heard one, and this was no lie. Even so, it was like being told unicorns roamed Scotland—very difficult to believe.
“By gad,” Pritchard muttered. “Well, perhaps you may have a look at this before you run off anywhere… with anyone.” Pritchard glanced at the murderess hesitantly. “Anyone you may not know all that well.”
Saint Brides took the poster. His smile faded, and his familiarly austere countenance returned with a slightly raised brow.
Pritchard and Fowlerton both silently let out a sigh of relief.
He was not completely unhinged, then.
“These are some very serious charges, gentlemen.” Narrowed green eyes pinned each of them where they stood.
“Indeed, they are,” Fowlerton said soberly.
Saint Brides turned to the woman beside him, raising his brow just a bit more and lifting his chin in that intimidating way of his.
To her credit, the woman almost looked amused. Fowlerton wasn’t sure if she was brave, mad, or stupid.
“You stand accused of setting your husband aflame,” Saint Brides said, though the severity in his eyes was changing into a very different sort of intensity. “A crime of passion, it seems. The man will never be the same.”
Fowlerton and Pritchard exchanged confused glances.
“The man is dead,” Pritchard pointed out.
“Yes, it seems the old man is dead,” Saint Brides muttered, not taking his eyes off the woman. “Well, what have you to say to these charges, madam?”
“I’m guilty,” she answered easily.
“Being my wife will not save you,” Saint Brides said with a small curl of a smile. “In fact, you may find your punishment harsh, Lady Saint Brides.”
“I hope so.” She smiled, and a handsome blush crept over her cheeks.
His wife? Fowlerton and Pritchard looked on with twin expressions of utter incredulity.
“Indeed,” Saint Brides murmured. “The punishment for this crime is quite harsh.” Saint Brides looked as though he was about to gobble the girl up, not lock her away to be hanged for murder. Without taking his eyes off her, he added, “I shall handle this, gentlemen. You may go.” Then he smiled, and he did so wolfishly.
Pritchard lifte
d a finger and opened his mouth to speak, but that was as far as he got before Saint Brides was kissing the girl.
Fowlerton felt his eyes nearly pop out of his head.
Saint Brides merely kissed his wife, but for anyone within scorching distance, they would say he practically made love to her right there at the boarding plank… in full view.
When the earl came up for air, the two of them then boarded the ship like two love-struck pigeons. Apparently, the happy newlyweds were off on their honeymoon. Indefinitely. That meant, as Saint Brides clarified in a letter some weeks later, six months. At which time, he intended to return to his office and straighten out whatever mess had been made of things.
By the time the letter had arrived, Pritchard had already written one of his own, requesting Bedlam to consider admitting a high-ranking member of government, absolutely convinced the Home Secretary had lost his wits.
In case Pritchard couldn’t figure it out on his own, Saint Brides’ letter had explained why no one had told him the truth about the actual murderers who were safely tucked away in Newgate prison when everyone else already knew. Even Fowlerton had found out shortly after that display at the docks by Pembridge, who had made him promise not to tell Pritchard, saying it was Saint Brides’ request.
It all had something to do with a Mr. Shaw, and Pritchard pretending to be more powerful than the prime minister, and an exception Saint Brides had taken when Pritchard had flirted that morning at Barrington Park. And of course, it ended with the admission that Saint Brides had simply wanted to let Pritchard suffer.
The brilliant sod.
However, even Pritchard had to admit it was good fun, and some good had come from it all. For example, Saint Brides swore he would never again sleep at the Office, nor work himself into a frenzy. Not so long as his wife was waiting for him at home. And his children, God willing.
Which, He was, within the year. And the five years after that. Five times. Soon, the Saint Brides family boasted three boys and three girls, much to the delight and joy of Lord and Lady Saint Brides.
Epilogue
Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 28
