by Jo Beverley
They’d traveled north as part of an astonishing cavalcade of Mallorens—ten coaches with outriders—for the whole clan, except for Lord Cynric and his wife, currently in Canada, had decided to attend her wedding. Since this included six children—including her own Jenny—a number of dogs, and even two pet rabbits, she wondered if some of the inns were glad to see the back of them.
Probably not. The marquess paid magnificently for good service. Servants rode ahead so every halt, every night’s accommodation, awaited them in perfect preparation, complete to their own bedding and pillows.
She’d broken into giggles at one point thinking of her captive lover, whom she’d thought an ordinary sort of man. The giggles were also partly nerves. What would the Wensleydale people think of all this? It made the marquess’s previous appearance seem positively casual.
Wensleydale, of course, took it all in stride and there’d been nothing but smiles at Wensley Church this morning, nor during their triumphant ride back up the dale, scattering pennies to the children along the way, nor at the merry gathering they’d just left.
And now, they were on the last step of a long journey. The short ride to Wenscote. Tears fell when she found how little it had changed. The garden had grown a little wild, and the honeysuckle was in danger of overgrowing the front door, but it was Wenscote. It was home.
She glanced once at Brand, wondering still if this was what he really wanted. His smile convinced her.
Everything they desired, here in their hands.
Or almost.
Tonight.
They went immediately to the nursery where Jenny lay, fascinated by her toes and a beam of sunlight shooting through the window. At the sound of their voices, she smiled and stretched out. Brand picked her up, making her crow a little, then passed her to Rosamunde to feed, while Edie slipped away.
Brand watched, as he often did, giving the baby his finger to clutch as she sucked. Familiar contentment, but today, amid the music of Wenscote. it was heaven.
They were home, at last.
“This is a lovely nursery,” Rosamunde said, sparing a glance for the first time at whitewashed walls and bright curtains with yellow flowers.
“For you and Jenny.”
“Your work?”
“My orders, at least. Who else?”
She’d already glimpsed subtle changes in the house. He was the most amazing man.
When the baby was fed, they took her with them to introduce her to her new home. Soon, they wandered out to inspect their domain, finding two new foals in the stables, and crops growing tall. Familiar by now with their shared enthusiasm for things that many others found boring, they analyzed and inspected, making plans for future improvements and preservations.
Often, by fence or hedge, they stopped to kiss, but lightly because of the baby. Perhaps they’d brought her deliberately, to restrain their appetite. It was almost as if they wanted to tease out this perfect anticipation to the finest possible thread.
Unless it was nerves.
With her, a little of it was nerves. They’d had so little true time together, and it had been so long ago. And her body was still a bit thickened and flabby from the pregnancy. Her breasts sometimes leaked…
Eventually, as the sun began to set and Jenny fell asleep, they wandered back, Brand carrying the baby soft against his shoulder. This was in a way, she thought, perfect happiness—Wenscote in the evening and Brand, their tiny baby safe in his care.
They gave Jenny into Edie’s care, and found the bedroom at last. She’d worried about this—that it would remind her too much of the past. The bed was new, however, and a rich Chinese rug lay upon the floor, its jewel colors catching the evening sun.
It was enough.
“Well, my lord,” she said, grasping her courage, but almost wishing for a mask, “you have me in your power at last. What do you command?”
He took her hand, and kissed it by the wedding ring he had placed there not many hours ago. “Everything, of course.” He traced her scars, then kissed them. “Thank you.”
He’d asked her to marry him without paint. “Without a mask,” as he’d put it. In the end, it hadn’t been difficult. The paint had served to bridge a gap in her courage, to enable her to face the world, but she was beyond that now.
He kissed her lips. They sank onto a chaise and kissed as they’d kissed in recent times, as if kissing was all and must be given its full due.
All fears and doubts fell away.
He was skilled at extracting a lady from her clothes, and proved it. She had little practice with men’s clothing, but she was enthusiastic, hindered only by her joy in his emerging, beautiful body. Soon they were laughingly naked, facing one another hand in hand in the hot shades of the setting sun.
She was breathless with desire, which shimmered in the room like a heat haze.
“Did I ever mention,” he said unsteadily, “how very grateful I am to you for saving my life?” Before she could reply, he added, “I’m sure I have not even begun to pay my debt. No, no”—he swung her into his arms and kissed both breasts—“don’t demur, dear lady. I insist. I insist.”
He laid her on cool, blossom-scented sheets and placed a hand possessively between her thighs. “I insist on paying my debts to the full. It might take a lifetime, but I insist.”
“Am I arguing?” At an increase of pressure, she sucked in a breath and reached for him. “This is everything. Come to me.”
His lips swooped down her cheek from eye to lips, and sealed them as he spread her legs and moved over her. Slowly, he slid into her. Resting there, he raised his head and smiled into her eyes.
“Everything,” he said. But then, with a wicked twinkle, he added, “And more?”
