by Tracy Sumner
Stopping briefly to toss his coat over her shoulders, he led her to a staircase in the back corner of the loft. It was crooked but surprisingly sturdy, iron like the window frames, and extending to a roof that had one of the best views in the city.
Even if the view originated in the slums.
The stench of the river and burning coal hit hard when they reached the tarred surface, the wind tearing at their clothing and hair. Nevertheless, his heart lifted. The sight of London waking was gorgeous.
His one wish at that moment: to share the view, to share his life, with the woman he loved.
“Oh,” she sighed and got so near the edge and the insubstantial wall reaching her knee that he shuddered and looped an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.
“Not too close. You want to scare me to death, woman?”
“Simon, this is magnificent. I can see Tower Hamlets. See that spire? My little street is right next to it.” She stretched her slender arm and pointed into the distance.
He grinned, pleased to the tips of his toes, gazing over her shoulder at his community. “It is, isn’t it? But once you get down there, among the people, traveling the alleys and lanes, it’s different. Better. Life shows itself, like a roll of the die at the hazard table. A neighborhood reveals itself when you walk the streets. That’s why…” He swallowed, nervous, now that he’d come to it. “I’d like to live here.” He nodded toward the stairs they’d just climbed. “In this loft, once I get her ready. I’ve done most of the repairs myself. But for the rest of what I’m planning, I need help. There are craftsmen all over this township who need work. We’ll put in a proper kitchen and sitting rooms and parlors or whatever we require on the floor below. Another bedroom or two. We have more space than we need. Although it won’t ever look like a Mayfair townhouse. Won’t look like anything this town has ever seen. Of course, my office is at the Blue Moon, and I’ll work there. But I…” He sighed, letting out the breath and the admission. “I want to live here. In St Giles. With you. Unconventional, to utilize an abandoned warehouse like this…”
She tilted her head down with a shy laugh, her stomach quivering beneath his hand.
He made her turn into his arms, even if they were both embarrassed to acknowledge the future blossoming between them. Proposals had to be presented face-to-face. “I want to save this community. Or try. My pack of haunts will help me. You’ll help me. I’ve finally found a way to use my gift. And maybe you have, too. We can travel together safely, reach those in circumstances before the circumstances break them. But we have to live here, not at the Alexander family home or above the Blue Moon, to gain their trust, to make any association work. Besides”—he shrugged and glanced at the sunrise setting fire to the sky, wishing he had a coin in his hand to settle his racing heart—“I want to be here. I pray you do, too.”
She settled her hand on his jaw, tilting his gaze to hers. “Is this a proposal, Simon Alexander?”
He felt the blush light his cheeks. She laughed and pulled him into a kiss, lingering until they were breathless. Until the air crackled with passion. Intent. Promises. Desire. Love.
Emma did a delighted spin on slippers that had seen the worst of eighty years, the ends of his coat slapping her hip. His nerves stretched taut, waiting for her response.
Her smile grew, plumping her cheeks. “Paint. In the loft. On the floors. Was it once a factory?”
“Previously, yes,” he whispered, his heart hammering. “Now, whatever we want it to be. A reinvention, as it were. Of lots of things.”
“Such an unconventional garret. A spot that suits you so well. I can tell from the glow in your beautiful brown eyes that you love it. As to us living here together, I want you to know, marriage, that’s not necessary because—”
“Oh, no.” His hand went to her wrist to halt her nervous swaying. “We’re getting married, Emma. Don’t reject me because you think I don’t need it. Need you. I long for you to be my wife more than I long for my next breath. I’ve talked to my solicitor about securing a license if that’s the route we go. Or we’ll have banns read and do this properly. We’ll have an intimate ceremony or one tasteless enough to make society’s teeth ache. A duke and duchess in attendance, among others. Your parish is St Anne’s, isn’t it? Years after you left, but it’s still there.”
She pressed her lips together, smothering her amusement. His mood lifted to see she was pleased with this cheerless production. He was no romantic, though he wished he were. “There’s a fee for banns to be read, you know, darling man.”
Laughing, he trailed his thumb down her throat in a prolonged caress that made her purr. “Fifteen shillings and sixpence. I checked. Costly, but you’re worth it. Even if I’m not.”
Her eyes were shining when she lifted them to his. “If this is because of what happened in the conservatory and the other times, I promise you, no babe resulted from our…interludes. I’m without a child; you’re safe.”
His heart stuttered, a deafening thump in his chest. “I don’t want to be safe, Emma. I want to have children with you. Our children. I adore you. You and only you. I adore your strength, your wit, your intelligence. Your kindness. I want you because you and I understand each other in a way no one else can. I never thought to utter words of love to anyone outside my family. I never thought to have my own family, that I would be given the chance.” Leaning, he kissed her cheek, her jaw, the delicate arch between neck and shoulder, taking her frayed groan and letting it enliven his soul. “I love you. Do you hear me? So much is held on the shoulders of those eight letters. Letters that don’t seem appropriate to their weight. To express them should require volumes, a library of emotion. Not the world, to be left to eight simple letters.” Capturing her lips, he kissed her quickly, passionately, then let her go. Took a step back to allow a slice of London’s dense but welcome air to settle between them, clear his mind. “But that’s the flawlessness of the sentiment; perfection in the simplicity.”
“The weight of eight letters,” she murmured and gazed out over his city. Their city.
“Eight letters you could return if you’d like.”
She glanced back, her expression trapped between exasperation and fondness. She looked wonderful in his coat, he decided. “I love you, you daft man. MacDermot and Alexander. I love both equally. I always have.” A flash of fire lit her gaze. “To quote the duchess: we were waiting on the gentleman.”
“You’re going to make a go of it, then? With me? And accept my humble apology for making you wait? This time—and before.”
“Oh, yes, the countess. And her bloody tiara. I may never get over that.” Emma’s shoulders lifted in vexation, relaxed with her decision. When she stepped into his arms, Simon had no choice but to wrap them around her and hold on tightly. “I’m going to make the very best go of it. No matter that you botched it the first time. I’ll even strive to become acquainted with this Josie person since she’s your friend. If I’m going to help you, I have to accept her.”
“You’re not only going to accept her, you’re going to like her.”
“We’ll see,” she whispered against his shirtfront. “I’m somewhat possessive of you, I’ve found.”
“Stubborn chit.”
“Arrogant cur.”
Over her head, he watched the sun soar above the red and gold speckled horizon, the wash of color bringing out the amber in her hair, the pinkish flush darkening her skin. He wanted to preserve this moment, place it on canvas to gaze at throughout life.
After a moment, she gave a wiggle in his arms. “Your bed was very comfortable. Quite.”
With a smile, he pressed his chin into the crown of her head and tightened his arms around her. “Do tell.”
“There’s a loose spring in one spot I’d hate for you to hit.” She made a huffing sound and looked up, her eyes as bright as the sapphire in the ring he’d ordered from Julian’s jeweler last week. The one he was picking up tomorrow and hoped she’d like. Because with this wom
an, he was never entirely sure of anything. Part of, he realized, the attraction. “Unless you’ve shown someone else how comfortable it is already.” She struggled to back away, teeth bared. “I reckon you have. What am I thinking? The Times has written about it, I bet! In that case, I kindly rescind my offer. How’s that for fancy talk?”
Simon bowed forward and laughed until he gasped, clutching his belly and coughing, all the while, her ineffectual fists cuffing his side.
“I haven’t, Em. Stop it. No one. I’ve brought no one here.” He glanced up, barely missing a final swing she’d unleashed. “My bloody family didn’t even know, until Henry dropped us on the corner outside, that I owned a paint factory in a rather troubled neighborhood they wish I could leave behind.”
She poked her finger against her chest, her lips forming a delighted O. “Just me.”
He kissed her brow, drawing the lapels of his coat together at her throat. “Just you. Only you.”
“Well, then.” Taking his hand, she dragged him across the roof, a splash of unspoiled sunlight warming their backs. “What are you waiting for?”
He took the stairs behind her two at a time. “Not a thing, Emma, darling.”
He wasn’t waiting on one bloody thing with his girl ever again.
Epilogue
Three Years Later
Where a Warehouse Has Become a Home
St Giles, London
Emma watched from the window as Simon stepped gingerly down from Finn’s carriage to the cobbled lane, her heart beating faster as it did each time she saw him.
As it would until the day she died.
Love was fierce and, at times overwhelming, seizing her breath and her soul.
But she would never run from love again.
Frowning, she rubbed her thumb across a streak on the windowpane. Simon was still limping; an injury sustained three weeks ago during travel to 1875 to rescue one of Josie’s charges. Emma laughed with a puff that fogged the glass when her husband waved Finn off, scowling as he climbed the front steps, entering the warehouse with a door slam that reverberated through the residence. Their majordomo, Dimitri—hired because a majordomo was required even if one lived on the edge of what society considered civilization—rarely got to the warehouse’s main entrance before Simon muscled his way gracelessly through it.
He was irritated of late, perhaps justly. His brothers had been overprotective since Emma had returned with Simon to the Blue Moon following their rescue mission, where he’d proceeded to leave a trail of blood from the alley to his study, then decided, as chaos erupted around him, to elegantly pass out on a vacant settee. Even Henry, who was still around after all these years, had been distraught—or so Simon later told her.
Today was his first trip into the city since the accident, returning to his position as a vestryman for the St Giles District Board of Works. Of course, Finn had decided to swing by the Palace of Westminster to escort him home, where Simon had had an afternoon meeting with an MP he was courting who’d accepted the invitation because of Simon’s last name but would help him because of his ideas and his passion.
Simon Alexander was making a name for himself, one all his own.
Finn had likely asked after his little brother’s health four times before they hit Tavistock Square, making Emma smile as she gave the windowpane a light tap. His family loved him and treated him as a boy even as Simon approached the wizened age of thirty. That might not change, a fact she’d accepted, but he hadn’t. The brothers' Alexander also thought it marvelously amusing that Simon had chosen to cycle between such disparate lives. Elected official; gaming hell owner.
Julian was elated, Finn appalled.
Little did they realize, but her husband was determined to change the world.
Starting with his tiny, downtrodden piece of it.
After she and Simon had promised to do so on the night of their wedding, lying in a naked tangle in the bed upstairs, they’d immediately set out to fulfill that promise.
To each other—and themselves.
Supernatural gifts were of little use if the gift wasn’t shared. Their work had given life meaning.
“If you’re standing by the window, he’ll know you were waiting for him. The nurturing is starting to drive him mad, dear.”
Emma turned, having forgotten for a moment that Josie was sitting by the hearth in the corner of the warehouse fashioned as an office. “Oh, you’re right,” she whispered and hurriedly crossed the room to settle behind a gilded bronze writing table Simon had gifted her last Christmas, as the ink-spattered one she’d been using had rocked with each movement on its wholly uneven legs.
They heard Simon before they saw him. Heard them, Emma thought, her heart near to bursting as Simon strolled through the arched brick doorway with his hands full of boy.
Arthur looked just like him, a replica right down to the dent in his cheek. Except for her son’s startlingly blue eyes, her contribution. Aside from birthing him, of course. Her joy at seeing them together was enormous. Simon was a wonderful father, striving to be the man his birth father hadn’t been—and everything that Julian and Finn were. He couldn’t stand to be away from Arthur for even an afternoon. He’d carry him to his quarters at the Blue Moon every day if she’d allow it.
Simon tossed Arthur over his shoulder, the boy squealing and kicking his legs in delight. “Josie,” he said with a salute of his hand. Then straightway, her husband was before her, wrapping his hand around the nape of her neck and drawing her up and into his body, issuing a brief, blistering kiss that left her breathless. “Later,” he whispered in her ear.
The heat of his promise sank through layers of fine wool and muslin to warm her in places only he knew how to appease.
Pulling back with a wicked gleam in his chestnut eyes, Simon winked.
“Papa, present,” Arthur beseeched in his sing-song voice, yanking on his father’s coat and leaving a chocolate smudge on the sleeve. Just two years of age, he expected a present any time an adult entered his vicinity.
Laughing, Simon shifted Arthur in his arms, tunneled his hand in his trouser pocket, coming up with a piece of peppermint and a silver matchbook case. He handed the candy to his son and, with a swift glance at his wife, worked the case beneath the edge of his sleeve with a magician’s ease.
Emma sighed and held out her hand, tapping her slipper on the polished planks.
Shifting from one foot to the other, Simon muttered beneath his breath but, in the end, relinquished the case. “Lyons, the MP I met with, won’t miss it. Interesting thistle pattern etched on the front that I couldn’t resist. Good hinge, too. Doesn’t stick like mine.”
“I thought we’d agreed about the larceny.” She slipped the case in her skirt pocket, embellishments to her gowns Madame Hebert had created for instances like these. “Elected officials don’t go around stealing things.”
“Hungry,” Arthur mumbled around a mouthful of peppermint.
Josie rose to her feet, her arms outstretched. “Let me. I know just what he likes for a snack. Apple slices and buttered bread.” She swiveled so only Emma could see her and mouthed tell him.
Simon placed his son on the floor and gave his bottom a swat. “I’ll be in for a story, Artie, after your snack.”
“The tiger one,” Artie said, his hand tucked in Josie’s as they strolled from the room.
“Indeed, the tiger one,” Simon murmured, his gaze fixed lovingly on his son. When they were alone, without a word, he pressed Emma back two steps into the wall, slanting his mouth over hers. “It’s been too long since we’ve made love. I’m frantic for you.”
Emma grinned, breaking the kiss. “Simon Alexander, it’s been two days.”
He nibbled on her jaw, then moved to a sensitive spot below her ear, eliciting a frayed groan from her. “Frantic.”
“I have something to tell you.” Her head dropped back as he rolled her earlobe between his teeth and sucked lightly. “I can’t think when you do this.”
&nbs
p; Her tone must have alarmed him because he froze, his hands falling to his sides. “Hargrave?” he asked in a feral voice.
Emma bracketed his jaw between her palms and kissed him softly, calming him. “Not once since you let him know the League would never let him go if he didn’t let me go. This is good news. Incredible news. Only the second time I’ve been so blessed news.”
Simon blinked, cheeks flushing. Then, stumbling back, he slumped on the edge of her desk as his breath scattered, rushing from his lips in a gush. “A baby.” His throat clicked as he swallowed, his eyes going fever-bright. “A baby.”
“A summer baby. Only fair, since Artie’s our winter treasure.” She watched her husband run through the possibilities, some of them dire, and stepped in until he had no choice but to wrap her in his arms and drag her close. “It will be fine. We’ll be fine. I barely had a complaint last time. Honestly, I enjoyed it.”
“You’re the toughest woman I know, Em. But I still worry.” Pressing his cheek to her bosom, he drew a choking breath, his voice frayed. “Don’t let me ruin this moment. I’m overcome. I love him so much, you so much…” His words crumbled like a sandcastle consumed by a rogue wave. “I want to give you everything. Protect you from every danger.”
Emma tilted his head until she could look into his misty eyes. “You’ve given me more than everything, darling. My life, my meaning. Our efforts with Josie, the League, exploring my gift, improving life for those in St Giles and Tower Hamlets, my son, my family. What more could you give me? What more could I want?”
“Beats me,” he whispered, his hot breath skimming her collarbone, “I only know I want to give you more. Give our children more.”
“Well, there is one teeny item,” she replied, realizing this was the perfect time to introduce the topic. Of course, he would say yes to anything in this mood. “Lucien needs a job. Supervision. Guidance.”
