He gave another of those expressive grimaces. “Nearly.”
“I waited, and waited …” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m so sorry.” His lips were on her forehead, on her cheeks, before hesitating above her own. There was a moment when their breath mingled, their gazes intertwined, the longing she knew she could see echoed in his, then their lips met in a kiss at once familiar and yet new.
Something like a deep internal sigh released.
He wrapped his arms around her, a cocoon of affection and assurance. Her senses tingled at remembered nearness, her earlier anxious exhaustion now replaced with wild elation. Heart singing, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and gave herself up to that kiss, returning his fervency with passion of her own. In this moment, she had no need for explanations; it was enough that he was alive, he was here, and he still loved her.
“Darling Julia, we should not stay here,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with ardor. “Your mother—”
“Is not here,” she whispered against his cheek.
“But the servants …”
Could come in at any moment, would see the daughter of the house engaged in most unladylike conduct, thus confirming their worst suspicions. She drew in a sharp breath, pushed him away, pushed herself into an upright position. “Come upstairs.”
“What? I cannot—your mother … the servants—”
She laughed softly. “My mother and the servants believe me to be resting.”
“But the footman—”
“Will say nothing. He didn’t see you come inside, did he?”
“I don’t believe so.”
She pushed to her feet, saw how his gaze trailed her attire, his look of surprise melding into renewed desire. She gathered his face in her hands, pressed her lips to his, and murmured, “I’ve missed you.”
His pupils dilated, he finally nodded, and she tugged him from the room, across the room, up the stairs, to her bedchamber, and closed the door, heart exultant such a journey was accomplished without witness.
She leaned against the oak door, saw him glance around the dim room, notice the rumpled state of her bed, the way his attention returned to her, how he eyed her like a thirsty man might eye a long glass of fresh water. Yet still he hesitated, like he dared not move without her say so. So she smiled, and locked the door, and moved toward him.
His eyes darkened further, yet he remained unmoving. “What do you want from me?”
Just this.
And she arched up and pressed her lips against his.
She felt the moment of surprise, then the surrender, as his arms encircled her, and crushed her to himself, like he never wanted to let go. His kiss grew deeper, drugging her with its intensity, as his body against hers rekindled fire deep within.
She dragged her lips away, desperate for breath, only to hear him whisper, “I love you.”
The past months’ mysteries did not matter; he was here, with her, in this moment made for love. The rest did not signify. Not Charles. Not her mother. Not Jon. Nothing.
“I love you, too.”
Then his lips found hers again, his arms—so strong, bunching with muscle—gathered her close, his kiss holding her, assuring her, adoring her, promising his future with her, until her freshly awoken senses reminded her whirling thoughts that the best thing they could do was to relax, and not worry about a thing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THOMAS BLINKED, HIS eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimness, the unfamiliarity of the room. The scent of something sweet teased his senses, begging him to inhale more. Gradually the corners of his mind sharpened, his senses roused, his thinking cleared, his reason for being where he was filling his chest with exultation and something deeper, something like profound relief.
The bed dipped as he shifted to his side, Julia’s bare back before him, the fragile, slender curve of her spine bringing a smile to his face. He traced a finger down her perfect skin, marveling at the texture, glad she did not stir. Her skin had always fascinated him, so fair, so smooth, so unblemished, so unlike his own. The differences in their skin seemed almost representative of something deeper: she was soft and pure and lovely; he was hardened, darkened by an Indian sun, scored by life experiences he only wanted to forget. His heart panged; he strove to ignore it. There’d be time enough for explanations, on both their sides. He leaned close and breathed in her scent, that fragrance that reminded him of perfume, like the vanilla-scented orchids huddling in the garden his mother used to grow back in Norfolk.
Memories rose; he pushed them away. Moved instead to brush the lightest of kisses on her shoulder, to savor once more that sweet aroma. “I love you,” he whispered.
Her cheeks rounded, as though she smiled in her sleep. Was he a fool to think his words brought happiness to his wife? Perhaps. But he cared not. His body, relaxed for the first time in what felt like years, begged him to sleep, too, but watching his wife sleep had always been one of his favorite things. He liked to see the look of contentment on her face, knowing he was responsible.
He peered closer through the dawn light seeping past the curtains, saw her lips were indeed curved as he’d hoped, so eased back against the pillows, satisfaction filling his chest. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he stared up at the intricate plasterwork gracing the ceiling. How wonderful, how astounding, that things should have worked out so smoothly. He had scarcely expected such a thing, when, after finally arriving earlier than expected in London, and stealing a few moments at a cheap inn to bathe and assume an appearance more respectable, he had arrived late morning at Carmichael’s London town house only to find it closed up and absent of servants. His spirits had dropped; he’d need to see Jon, somehow explain his absence in the hope of forgiveness and Julia’s direction. But when he had called there, the servant answering the door had informed him that Lord and Lady Winthrop were out for the day. His hopes plummeting further, he hadn’t left a name, had thought of nothing more than proceeding to Julia’s mother’s house as quickly as he could and throwing himself at her feet in the hopes of finding a smidge of mercy.
Then when the servant had said she, too, was absent, before denying Julia’s presence as well, his heart had felt like it might crack under the weight of despair, only to miraculously be restored by the heaven-sent sight of his wife walking towards him, her eyes wide with the wonder he too felt deep within his soul. For a few moments, she had seemed to waver, but then her earnest response, her deeply satisfying response, had left him in no doubt as to how she might feel.
She loved him. She had forgiven him. He wanted nothing more.
He tugged the covers higher, closed his eyes and floated to sleep.
A SOUND, LIKE that of rattling keys, woke him. His ears pricked, his body tensed, heart hammering. Where—? The soft bed reassured. He exhaled. Julia’s mother’s house. The murmur of voices wafted through the door. It had been a miracle they’d been undisturbed for so long.
“Julia.”
She slumbered on, her need for rest suggesting she’d slept as little as he had in recent times. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sweetheart, wake up.”
“No,” she mumbled. “This has been such a lovely dream. Don’t want to wake …”
He smiled, leaning close to press a kiss against her bare shoulder. “Much as I wish we could stay here forever, I think someone might be outside.”
“What?” Her eyes widened and she sat up, the blanching of her face suggesting she heard the sound of people outside, too. “Oh, no!”
A knock came at the door, followed by a voice, a voice he knew only too well. “Julia? Julia, are you in there?”
Fear slid onto her face. “Mother,” she whispered.
“Julia? Is someone else in there with you? I can hear voices.”
Amusement flashed across Julia’s face before fleeing again, replaced by that look of fear. “What should I say?”
“You could tell her most people who hear voices are sent to Bedlam.”
She made a muffled sound, as if choking back laughter, before worry filled her eyes once more. The gentle knocking quickly intensified in both force and volume.
“Julia? Open this door at once!”
She shot him a glance, and he gestured for her to say something. She sighed, then called out, “Mother?”
“Julia? Oh, my dear girl! We were dreadfully concerned that something had happened.”
He bit back a laugh. Something most definitely had.
She threw him a mock glare and cleared her throat before saying, “I’m sorry you were worried. I seem to have slept rather long.”
“I should think you have. But you must have needed such a thing.”
He couldn’t help it. He laughed.
Julia’s mouth sagged, her blue eyes as wide as saucers.
The dreadful silence outside the door was replaced by louder murmurs, then a renewed knocking. “Julia! Who is in there with you? Open this door at once.”
Thomas slid from the bed, dragging on his clothes with as much speed as possible. He for one was not going to be discovered in the buff by his mother-in-law. “Get dressed,” he hissed at Julia, who seemed frozen by indecision.
“Julia, I demand you open this door.”
His wife turned to him, hands raised in an attitude of helplessness. “What do I do?”
“Do you want your mother to see you dressed like that?” He gestured to the sheet.
“Oh, my goodness!”
She slipped from the bed, forcing him to pause in his attempts to tie his neckcloth to admire her form. She picked up her nightgown from the floor and pulled it on.
“Julia?”
The sound of keys fitting into the lock spurred her to hasten to untwist the lock, and almost tumble out the door. “Yes, Mother, what is it?”
Thomas held his breath, indecision staying his steps. Should he make his presence known, or would it be best for Julia if he stayed where he was, half-hidden by a large wardrobe?
He edged forward half a step then paused. Lady Harkness pushed past Julia into the room. She took a look at the rumpled bed linen, uttered an inarticulate cry, and glanced around the room, until finally, her eyes fixed on him. “No!”
Thomas drew himself up, trying desperately to remember he’d once led hundreds of troops into battle, had once faced a charging elephant. But all of that paled in comparison to the woman bearing down upon him now.
“How dare you?” She lifted a pointing finger. “How dare you come into my house!”
He eyed her advance, working to keep his voice level as he said in a low voice, “How dare you try and keep her from me?”
“Me?” Green eyes blazing, she lifted a hand and struck him across the cheek.
A flash of pain spread across his face. His anger surged, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to show any reaction. That way weakness lay.
“How dare you speak so? Not when you are the”—she spat an obscenity—“who stole my precious daughter away, convincing her with your lies—”
He watched her warily, ready to dodge should she try to strike again, wishing Julia—and the rest of the household staff—could not hear the woman’s diatribe. When it seemed she had finally run out of breath, he simply said, “I am sorry for the manner in which we wed, but cannot be sorry for loving your daughter. She is—”
Smack!
“Mama!”
He blinked, gritting his teeth as fierce fire swept through his other cheek, due only in part from the woman’s hand. Well, he hadn’t seen that one coming. “Would it make you feel better, madam, to treat me like one of Jackson’s boxing bags?”
“Yes, it would!” she snarled, reached up, her hands like talons, ripping into his face.
“Mother, stop!” screamed Julia. “Stop it, both of you!”
He grabbed his mother-in-law’s wrists and held them loosely but securely, glaring at her with the look that had flailed many a subordinate in India. “You must stop such unseemly behavior,” he said in a low voice. “You’re embarrassing yourself in front of your staff and upsetting my wife.”
“Julia is my daughter,” she panted. “My daughter, not your wife.”
“Your daughter and my wife.”
She jerked her wrists from his grip and rushed to Julia’s side, holding her tightly. “I will not let you take her again. You cannot take her. You cannot!”
“Madam, I have no desire to bring further estrangement between you and Julia, but Julia herself must speak about what she desires.”
“You admit then that you brought division between us!”
“A division caused by the separation of miles, but”—he softened his voice—“I believe the estrangement existed long before I was on the scene.”
“How dare you?” she said, her eyes rekindling with resentment. “I hate you! I will never forgive you for what you have done.”
“As I said, madam, I am sorry for having caused you grief, but I cannot apologize for my feelings about Julia. I love her.”
“Love her?” she sneered. “That’s a fine way to speak when you abandoned her for half a year!”
Julia, whose horrified face kept glancing between them, grew even paler. “Mother, that is something between Thomas and me.”
“Oh, no, it is not. His actions have affected us all! He is therefore obliged to explain to us all.”
Julia turned to him, her face white, her expression pleading. “Thomas?”
He drew near, secured her hands in his. “And so I shall, but not like this.” He glanced to the open door, to the servants who suddenly scuttled away, no doubt to pretend to do something while still keeping their ears peeled for further sounds of discord.
His attention returned to Lady Harkness. “I am quite willing to explain my actions over the past months, but my wife is owed the respect of hearing such things first. I would appreciate the opportunity to do so privately.”
“I’ve no doubt you would, and no doubt that you’d twist the truth to suit your own purposes!”
“I would tell her all—”
“You will only manipulate her and lie!”
His eyes narrowed. “I am a man of my word.”
“You are a conniver and a sneak! How else would you convince her to …” Her words faltered, her gesture to the rumpled bed revealing just what she thought he’d done.
He glanced at Julia, his lips tweaking in a half smile he hoped reassured. No, he wouldn’t expose just who had led whom to that.
Smoothing his face to neutrality, he offered Lady Harkness a bow. “I shall return in two hours, when Julia is dressed and ready, and shall speak with her then. Then, if she is willing, I shall endeavor to explain things to you and your son.” He gave a tight smile. “I’m sure you’ll be able to summon him here in that time.”
“What if he’s not in London?”
“Oh, I know he is.” He flicked at his sleeve. “His servants told me just yesterday.”
He offered her another bow before stepping forward to swiftly kiss his wife. Heard the hiss of disapprobation. Endeavored to reassure Julia with a press of his lips to the back of her hand. “I will return, I promise.”
“In two hours?”
“Yes.”
And with a warm smile for his wife and none for her mother, he executed a final bow and made his exit.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“JULIA, YOU HAVE no idea how ashamed I am of your conduct right now!”
Her mother’s usual implacability seemed gone forever, the reddened cheeks and angry glint in her eyes suggesting that sparks might erupt any moment. Oh, she had some idea.
“How you could think of speaking to him—let alone anything else! Oh, I’m so ashamed I barely know where to begin!”
“Mother, he is my husband—”
“Is he? Is he really? How can we be sure of anything that man says? It may be well and good for some to say that such marriages in Scotland are legal but I am not convinced. Such barbaric practices—”
&nbs
p; “Hardly barbaric, Mother,” Julia murmured, her mother heedless, her diatribe persisting.
Perhaps the method of transport to Gretna Green had been a little unorthodox, the flight by carriage from Bath to Bristol, the sailing ship to Liverpool, before the mad dash—“like a greased flash of lightning” the postboy had said—to the border.
But the ceremony itself had been proper enough, albeit not in a church but in a whitewashed sitting room in a country inn, before a clerical-looking gentleman, and a collection of tavern keepers, postboys, and peddlers, who appeared to have more curiosity than wit. Instead of a prayer book there was a simple request if they were willing to marry, to which they agreed, then a plain gold ring was placed on her finger. They were asked to fill in a paper, headed by the Royal Arms of the United Kingdom, with the names of the parties joined together in holy matrimony, and the witnesses thereof. A simple declaration that they were man and wife, a handshake and a kiss, and that was it.
There had been no coercion; she had been willing. Thomas had paid the blacksmith-parson twenty pounds. They had had champagne, then a meal, before being escorted to a perfectly adequate bedchamber, where she had truly become a wife. Heat filled her cheeks.
“Yes, I should think you would look like that!”
Julia lowered her eyes to hide her conflicted amusement.
“For I do not trust him, not for a second!” There was a pause in the tirade, and Julia forced herself to look upwards to encounter her mother’s raised brow. “Well? Nothing else to say for yourself?”
“Nothing that you would wish to hear,” she murmured.
Her mother’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it, as she closed her lips, turned on her heel, and walked past the gaping servants and away.
Julia closed her eyes, her emotions tipping up and down, lurching through her midsection not unlike the nausea incited by her runaway voyage from Bristol to Liverpool. What a mad four-and-twenty hours the last day had proved! And what a wonderful day it had proved also. Who would have thought such a thing might occur? Her eyes opened as a smile crept onto her face. Thomas had been everything she remembered: gentle yet strong, handsome yet humble, his passion tempered by humor. Granted, his hair was a little longer than she remembered, and he seemed thinner and wearier than she recalled. She frowned. From the way they both had slept so long, it seemed his exhaustion matched hers.
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