Chapter Sixteen

Fifi’s eyes were a spark of beautiful gold in the darkness of the Ironside Tavern and Pub on King’s Street, one of the less affluent gambling dens. They had traversed the hallway and the wide-open area reserved for gambling and into a room reserved for dancing. It was a place where her class would never enter, and she stared around with her lips parted in awe, her eyes glittering with delight. The crowd was boisterous as they danced to a wild and beautiful Irish reel as several of his fellow countrymen stood on the sidelines, creating enchanting melodies from their violins and flutes. Ladies danced the lively reel with their dresses drawn up to their knees as they kicked and stomped with vigor, their elbows linked with their menfolk’s, who led the charge.

“You want me to do that dancing?”

It was what she needed. Something raw and primal to burn away the emotions he could see still burning in her eyes. Fifi was hurt, confused, and perhaps a little bit frightened by what she had learned, and that edge of vulnerability in her gaze tore at him. It was his duty to care for her and see those torments eased. “Are you up to the challenge, my lady?” he said, dipping into an exaggerated bow. Devlin rose and tapped his feet in quick succession to the beat of the musicians’ fiddles.

She looked suitably impressed. “Who taught you?”

He flashed her a grin. “My da.”

Fifi bit into her lower lip and looked around.

“Scared?” he taunted with a grin. “Are we too bourgeoisie for you, my lady?”

A very unfeminine snort was his answer. With a toss of her head, she removed the pelisse, revealing a dark rose gown that clung alluringly to her figure. It was the perfect contrast to her vibrant blond hair and the subtle golden eye mask on her face. Even if someone here had interacted with Lady Ophelia, no one would be able to tell she and Lady Starlight were the same. There was a slight hesitation in her step when she moved forward, and Fifi looked back at him.

“You are safe,” he said, tapping a finger over his heart.

Her eyes lit up, and with a wide grin, she moved to the edge of the crowd, immersing herself in the music, which seethed as if alive, filling the tightly packed space. The Iron Tavern was not as extravagant as the Asylum, and most of the patrons were honest, hard-working folks from his homeland who had opened up small businesses in London. The women danced lightly but with vigor, and the men tapped their boots hard onto the scuffed floor as they beat out the time of the music. As the dancing got wilder, the musicians played with greater enthusiasm. After hanging up his coat with Fifi’s pelisse, he went up behind her and slipped a hand around her waist.

She tensed and peered up at him with wide eyes. Devlin lowered his head and boldly kissed the corner of her mouth. “Here we are free, my sweet. No cutting eyes upon us marring our enjoyment, hmm?”

She then seemed to note how closely other couples danced, how unrestrained everyone seemed, how bloody happy. His Fifi laughed. “Let’s dance,” she murmured.

He arched a brow. “You’ve figured out the steps so soon?”

“I am a quick learner, my sweet,” she drawled, mimicking his endearment. “I know music. The sensation of it is in my soul. I feel the tapping of their boots beneath mine, I sense the rhythm in my fingertips, and most importantly…” She tapped over her décolletage with those fingers. “My heart is alive with the sounds from the fiddlers, the pipes, the stomping of their feet… Let’s dance.”

She wheeled away from him, impressively performing the rapid footwork of the reel. Fifi held each side of her dress and tugged it upward, revealing delicately stocking-clad ankles.

“Scandalous,” he mouthed.

She winked and tossed herself into the dance with her entire heart. As she jumped, tapped, and laughed, it felt to Devlin as if everything around him went dark, and only Fifi stood in the light of his awareness.

He could see the sheen of sweat on her forehead, feel the bounce of curled tendril as it slapped against her cheek with each slap of her shoes to the hardened floor. Even her laughter slowed, the way she twirled, the way she unabashedly took the man who held out his elbows to her and twirled with the dancers. Every moment, every smile, every tip of her head revealing the beautiful lines of her throat seared itself into his heart. A memory not even death could steal from him. He was certain of it.

His “not yet” shattered, and he fell so impossibly deep in love with her, it hooked into him with violet passion and clawed its way up to his heart and set it to pounding.

His a ghrá geal.

Their gazes collided, and she lifted a hand and crooked a single gloved finger, beckoning him to come to her, her smile a teasing, provocative lure.

He went to her. It was impossible not to.

Devlin cupped her cheek and kissed her deeply, telling her without words that his “not yet” was over and he was waiting for her. He became lost in the rich taste of Fifi’s sensuality as he slanted his mouth over hers. It was the hooting and hollering of the crowd that drew him back. She looked shaken, shocked…aroused. It was more than his kiss that shook her; she had seen something in his expression.

He tried to bring down the shutters, but then his Fifi sweetly sighed, and it spoke of longing. Color flooded her cheeks. “Devlin.”

His name was a whisper that came out on a dark rush of need and want. And he heard it, over the laughter, the music, and the dancing. He closed his arms around her, painfully aware of every inch of her pressed into him. She put her hand over his heart again and looked up, such aching tenderness in her gaze that he felt compelled…owned.

She fucking turns me inside out.

Devlin spun her into the lively reel. They danced endlessly until she stumbled, clinging to him and laughing. Sweat glistened on her skin, and several strands of hair had loosened from the wig and enchantingly framed her face.

Almost two hours after entering the Irish tavern, they spilled outside into the night air.

“That was wonderful. Where to next?” she asked, laughing as he guided her to their waiting carriage.

Once they were inside, he drew her into his lap. He breathed in the scent at the curve of her neck, then kissed it. “Still not worn out, are you?”

She arched a brow in challenge. “Far from it.”

“I know just the thing you need.”

He rapped on the carriage roof three times, a signal to his coachman to return them to Mayfair. The coach lurched into motion, and, with a deft twist, he bore her down onto the large, padded seat of the carriage. The light from the lantern caressed her lovely face.

“Again?” she murmured, wetting her lips, anticipation gleaming in her gaze.

“Yes.” And he would not stop until she dropped into a slumber.

Devlin pushed her gown to her waist, trailing his fingers over the silken stockings. Lifting one leg at a time, he put both over his shoulders—after pressing nibbling kisses along her inner thighs. “I am going to lick this sweet, pretty pussy of yours until you unravel for me, one orgasm after the other.”

He watched the flush deepen in her cheeks, and her eyes gleamed with anticipation and something infinitely tender. “I think I like the sound of that.”

He was thoroughly corrupting Fifi. “The next time I love you will be in a bed,” he murmured. “And I will take hours to worship these sweet, lush curves.”

She made a charming, feminine sound of pleasure. Devlin went straight to the center of what he wanted. He dropped to his knees and splayed her legs wide. He lowered his head until his lips were inches from her feminine heat, the scent of her wrapping around him. The heels of her shoes pressed hard into his back as she arched her hips at his silent urging. He spread her cunny open with his fingers, bent his head to her quim, and sucked her clitoris into his mouth with passionate tenderness.

Fifi shivered, a sob of pleasure escaping her.

“Shh,” he murmured. “We wouldn’t want the coachman and his tiger to ken what is happening in here, do we?”

Her entire body blushed, and she shot him a carnal glare that promised retribution.

Devlin smiled. “I will give you the pleasure to suck my cock into that pretty mouth of yours and tease and torment me. But not tonight.”

Then he licked her. She slapped a hand over her mouth, her body drawing like a bowstring when he did it over and over.

“That’s it, my sweet. Remember, no matter how hot it gets…you must not make a sound, hmm?”

He kissed the inside of her thighs, right above the edges of the garter, adoring the smoothness of her silky flesh. Her skin felt so delicate, so different from his. So precious. Palming her lush arse in his hands, he held her to his mouth and fucked her to the edge of madness and exhaustion with his tongue. Her chest fell up and down in ragged bursts, and she kept her palm pressed over her mouth. Only muffled moans and whimpers sounded in the carriage. She found her release in shuddering waves several times, and Devlin stopped when she went limp with satiation.

He lowered her legs from his shoulders and fixed her dress before sitting on the squabs and taking her into his arms. She yawned, leaning her head into the crook of his shoulder, and within a minute fell into a deep slumber.

The carriage rocked and swayed, lulling her even deeper. Looking down at her in his lap, so trusting and peaceful, he felt that wrench once again in his heart. Devlin picked up the locket from the seat and stared at the date engraved there. Many things she had thought about herself had been upended, and for a lady cosseted from the harsh realities of life, it would have been a painful blow.

Hell, even more, even for a man like him who had endured many hardships to stand where he was today, such a piece of knowledge would have been difficult to swallow. That his mother was not really his mother or that his father could have acted in such a despicable manner. It was time for him to put this matter to rest. He would push his connections further and trade upon a few secrets to get the matter moving.

The carriage rumbled to a stop, and he glanced at his pocket watch. It was only a few minutes after ten p.m.

“You may leave. I will walk home.”

His coachman, quite used to his love of walking, tipped his hat in agreement. The street was dark, and a soft misting rain had begun to fall. He covered her with his coat and, holding her carefully in his embrace, descended the stairs. An observer might think it strange, a man standing in the dark, deliberately in the shadows with a covered bundle in his arms. He did not wake her; moving with clandestine deftness, he went with her around to the side of the townhouse, walking deep into a garden.

There he found a side terrace door that was partially opened. Resting his shoulder against the wall to hold her weight to him, he used a hand to slide it open even farther. Devlin stepped into the dark coolness of the room, listening to the night and the household.

He jostled her slightly, and she murmured irritably. He smiled and whispered, “Where is your chamber?”

“The fourth door on the left of the second landing,” she mumbled, then fell back to sleep.

Most of the servants were abed, if not all. He padded from the room, which revealed itself as a small parlor, and went out into the hallway. Devlin suddenly felt that this might be the only time he entered Fifi’s father’s home. Like a thief in the night, returning his daughter under the banner of secret.

At the landing, he walked down to her room. Once there, he shifted her, preparing to grip the latch when the door opened. Bloody hell.

“Ophelia, I have been waiting—” Her cousin broke off her rebuke and swayed.

“Compose yourself,” he drawled, dark amusement rushing through him. “I’ll not release Fifi to try and catch you if you faint.”

“You are beyond reproach,” she hissed furiously, stepping back and allowing him to enter. “How dare you do this, you cretin! To…to…” she spluttered, clearly overcome with outrage at his gall.

Ignoring the cousin, he walked over to the bed and deposited Fifi into the center, gently removing her shoes. It spoke of her exhaustion that she did not rouse when he shifted her around to remove her pelisse and the wig. He also removed the pins from her hair, fanning the dark tresses about her pillows. With the cousin’s presence, he could do little about the dress. Thankfully, the design was not suffocating.

“Is she well? Why is she wearing a wig?” Lady Effie demanded a few feet away.

Fifi grumbled something and flung one of her feet across the bed. He smiled when she gripped a pillow and sent it sailing in the air to land on the carpet. All without waking. His smile widened. Sleeping with her for a lifetime would be most interesting.

“I swear if you do not answer me—”

He turned around. “She is safe. Only exhausted. Fifi—”

“Lady Ophelia to you!”

Devlin smiled without humor. “She will once again have your discretion in this matter.”

Lady Effie narrowed her eyes. “Or?”

“Should you distress her in any way, I will ensure you know of my displeasure.”

Her lips curled in a sneer, and she demanded scathingly, “And you think that is something for me to fear? From the likes of you?”

“Of course,” he replied mildly.

Devlin was not sure what she saw in his expression, but she blanched and looked away. He left the room and closed the door gently, retracing his steps and leaving the house as he entered. Inhaling the crisp night air into his lungs, he turned up the collar of his coat. Not that it did much in protecting him against the rain. Hands deep inside his pockets, he walked along Mayfair toward his townhome, wishing he had Conan beside him.

Good night, Fifi.

…

How did you return me to my bedchamber? Considering the scandalous nature of my note, I shall be very circumspect in my salutation.

F.

It would have been too much of a risk to sign Fifi. His reply was pithy and infuriating.

Trade secrets.

Yours, Niall.

…

And what trade might that be?

F.

She had choked on her hot drink of chocolate at his reply.

Thievery.

Yours, Niall.

She hurried from the dining table to dash off a note to the dratted man asking for a more detailed explanation. Ophelia had expected another one line, but hours later, she got almost two pages of a letter. She now sat on her windowsill, her feet curled under her, Barbosa snuggled into her lap.

His reply began with…

A ghrá mo chroí,

She traced her finger over that line, wondering what it meant.

A few short months after meeting you, I journeyed to London determined to make my fortune. It did not take long for me to fall in with a gang located in St Giles. They taught me the tricks of the trade, picking pockets with a mere sleight of hand. Eventually, I was taken on a few missions, as they called it, to enter into our betters’ grand townhouses and pilfer baubles, silvers, and candlesticks. At times we took food and blankets. But I learned there was always a window or a door left open in the bigger houses.

Ophelia sniffed, for she was guilty of sneaking out many nights into the gardens and perhaps on her return did not ensure the door or window behind her was properly latched. Curling her hand under her baby goat’s belly, she lifted him against her chest. “Our Niall once stole from people.”

Bloody hell.

It felt good to curse, even if silently. Lowering her gaze, she continued reading aloud to include Barbosa.

Alas, I was not a good thief, and I believe I lasted for three weeks. In watching another house to determine when to break in, I overheard servants talking about a watch stolen from a particular earl. It had belonged to his son, who had died in the war. I stole it back from my gang and decided to return it. I was caught in the act. That earl did not turn me over to the watch/police but instead taught me to play chess.

“Chess—who is this earl?”

Her little goat bleated, and she laughed.

I returned daily to his home, sneaking inside through different means. I believed he was amused by my antics and perhaps a little bit lonely. I played chess with him for months. It made me think. And I decided I would be anything but a criminal.

That night as she slept, a sharp ping on Ophelia’s bedroom windows had her jerking up in the bed. Another sharp ping sounded, and, shoving the warm comforter from her body, she pushed to the edge of the bed, parted the curtained canopy, and stood. Cautiously, she padded over to the window and nudged it open.

Someone stood below her windows, face lifted up, with a large dog sat at his side.

“Devlin?”

“You have many men doing this, Fifi?”

His face still held that faint, knowing hint of a smile.

“What are you doing down there? Anyone could see, and then we would be embroiled in a scandal!”

“Then you must be very discreet when you meet me outside. Wear your mask.”

“Frivolous wretch!” Ophelia choked on the air when he moved with stealth and disappeared. I will not go. Yet the desire to see him and just speak with him burned inside her chest like an unrelenting flame. She drew back from the window and simply stood in the center of her bedroom. A quick glance at the mantle showed the time to be eleven thirty p.m.

Her mama and papa had retired over two hours ago, and the household should be asleep, perhaps save for the housekeeper. Taking a deep breath, she hurried to her armoire and pulled out a simple day dress. Excruciatingly aware she wore no stays, Ophelia tugged the dark green dress over her chemisette. She rolled on some stockings and slipped her feet into a dark pair of shoes. There was nothing she could do about her hair, and it would be unconscionable to rouse her maid from her slumber. Ophelia undid the loose plait she’d worn to bed, allowing her hair to tumble down to her hips. Slipping on the gold filigree mask, she stared at herself in the mirror by the armoire.

She looked wild…and rebellious.

Whirling around, she moved with silent grace from her chamber, then down the long hallway and winding staircase. The hallways were empty, and nothing creaked or shifted in the dark. Using the servant’s staircase, she made her way to the kitchens and slipped outdoors.

He was waiting there with his loyal hound. “Come with me.”

“Where do we go?”

“Afraid?”

Ophelia stared at him. “You know I am never afraid when I am with you.” Though perhaps she should be. The pull she felt toward him seemed irrevocable. Being in his presence held real and dangerous temptations.

He thrust out his hand, and she took it, allowing him to pull her into the night and out into the street. An unmarked yet very elegant carriage waited. “This is not your regular town carriage.”

“This I reserved for when I am doing dangerous, clandestine missions.”

She sent him a scowl, and he merely smiled. He helped her inside, then hauled himself up, Conan bounding inside as well. The lantern’s wick was turned low, and she could barely discern his expression. Ophelia did not understand the reckless madness of going with Devlin while not knowing where they headed. It was impetuous, outrageous, and scandalous. If they were caught, they could find no explanation that would save her reputation. She would be assuredly ruined, yet she did not voice these doubts.

In truth, the heavy weight that had sat on her stomach for the day had vanished. She felt…free. And safe. The awareness blossomed through her entire body, and she gripped the edges of the carriage seat. It was then she realized she had rushed out without donning gloves, and the night was chilled.

She wanted to talk about so many things with him, but there was something about the silence of simply existing together that felt peaceful. With a sigh, the last remnant of tension eased from her shoulders, and she leaned against the squabs. The large dog shuffled over to her, and Ophelia gently ran her fingers over his head. A soft growl came from him, and she paused. The great brute nudged her hand, and she supposed he liked it.

Devlin exited the carriage and helped her down. Conan jumped out in one great leap and trotted over to his master’s side. They were at Somerset House at the river entrance. He led her through the arched opening. Ophelia looked around, noting the exquisitely crafted shallop, which seemed to wait on them manned by a crew of six. The boat was at least a seventy-foot beauty, with rich golden panels, and at the front, there was a white tent with a padded seat comfortably situated beneath.

Her father did not own one, but she was aware of many lords in the ton who traveled the river in their boats manned by their own liveried crew. A wind blew over the water, whipping her mass of hair about her. “Are we to go on the barge?”

“Yes.”

A thrill of excitement went through her. “I did not bring a coat.”

“I will keep you warm.”

She looked at him from beneath her lashes, aware of the fluttering low in her belly. “Why did you bring me here, Devlin?”

“Why did you come?” He sounded genuinely curious and a bit fascinated.

“You know I trust you.”

Holding her hand, he carefully escorted her down the steps and onto the barge. The men who waited to row their vessel were not in livery, but they bowed respectfully before taking their seats and gathering their oars. Devlin led her and Conan around to the front of the large vessel, toward the tent. Their vessel started to move, and Ophelia found that she did not mind the icy nip in the air. Then, she noted in the distance several more boats, smaller ones moving ahead through the inky darkness of the night. They barely made any discernable ripples, but as her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she noted there were at least a dozen smaller barges on the water before them.

“Happy birthday, Fifi.”

She made a little sound of anguish. Somewhere inside of her shattered, but she did everything to not crumble. “I…I do not know what to say.” My birthday. One that she might never be able to celebrate again.

“Say nothing. Look skyward and simply enjoy it.”

“Skyward?”

“Yes.”

She lifted her face to the night, noting the stars were barely out. Fireworks began to erupt and shoot to the sky in a dizzying and beautiful array. Ophelia gasped, her hand fluttering to her throat as she beheld the beautiful spectacle. Yellow, red, green, purple, and blue illuminations crackled and popped in the vast darkness, streaking left, then right, forming a fountain of light in the sky. The fireworks that speared to the heavens took her breath away. She had seen fireworks before at Vauxhall Gardens and during Guy Fawkes Night, but nothing like this.

The white lights intermixed with red and blue burst higher and higher in a dazzling display. Some burst straight up before exploding, others whirled in a spiral, and some shattered into thousands of sparks cascading in a glittering rainbow waterfall. Beneath that beauty, only white lights sparkled like a silver rainfall. The night became a shimmering enchantment.

She wondered if at this moment Sally Martin thought of her. Ophelia stood there, her hand in Devlin’s as their barge floated behind the dozens of boats ahead of them. People walking on the streets stood and pointed, rushing toward the banks where they could see. Carriages stopped, and curtains were parted as people looked out in wonder.

Ophelia drank in the beauty of the night sky, and how the fireworks lit on buildings that had seemed so ordinary and grubby in the day, yet now appeared magical. They cruised past Lambeth Palace, Westminster, St Paul’s, and even the Tower of London. And not once did the blazing display of fireworks pause.

Ophelia did not want to speak but just watched the beauty of the night, with Devlin by her side. Emotions twisted and churned inside as she inhaled the beauty he created for her.

I am falling in love with you…aren’t I, Devlin?

…

Almost an hour later, they strolled toward the parked carriage in the distance. The street appeared empty despite the early hours, with only a few lamps to soften the darkness. A light fog had crept in, and she snuggled down closer into his coat. A quick peek at him did not show a man affected by the chill in the air. His steps slowed until they stopped.

Ophelia frowned, noting his countenance. “What is it?”

It was the stillness in how he held himself that alerted her to the danger. Her heartbeat staggered as only a few feet ahead, three men pulled from the shadows of the building and approached them. Ruffians with clubs or batons held in their grip. They might be bent on robbery or worse.

“Grab the bird; she’s coming with us. Club the bastard,” the apparent leader said to the stocky man to his left.

Devlin shifted, the movement smooth, dangerous. “Gentlemen, whatever you are after, we cannot help you this night.”

The stocky man grinned, revealing missing teeth from the top row of his mouth. “It’s three o’ us and one o’ ye.”

Devlin arched a brow. “Nonsense; there are two of us. My companion’s skills in fending off cutthroat are incomparable. I am certain should the need arise, she will acquit herself creditably.”

She made a choking sound, and he glanced at her, his stare amused.

“Are you helpless without that walking stick of yours, my sweet?”

How did he know about that?

“My repertoire is limited to fencing rapiers, I’m afraid,” she said shakily.

He tsked, the sound light and at odds with the promise of violence in his stare. His movements were a mere whisper, startling with their graceful swiftness when he positioned himself before her. “I am Devlin Byrne. How might I be of service?”

The soft words were etched in such menace her heart jolted. To Ophelia’s utter astonishment, the men froze, then looked uncertainly at one another. No…they were scared. Of Devlin? They muttered vague apologies, turned, and ran away.

Devlin held out his hand to her. She took it, aware of the fine trembling in her limbs. She was with a man who had the power and influence to stop criminals with just his name. It shook her.

A quick peek at Devlin showed an inscrutable expression.

“Are you afraid?” he clipped. “I would not have allowed them to lay a single hand on you.”

“No…I…no. I knew you would have protected me, and though I am without my rapier, you should know I also plant a mean facer.”

He made no reply, but his strides lengthened, and she hurried her steps to keep pace with him. “You are angry,” she said softly.

“No.”

She tugged her hand from his. “Do not lie to me. Ever. Even if you think you are protecting my sensibilities. What I enjoy the most about you…us…is how untarnished we are by the pretentiousness that I am overwhelmed with in the ton.”

He stopped and faced her. His cheekbones were starkly drawn, and his eyes glittered with indefinable emotions. “I put you at risk by taking you here. You are a damn lady, and I am dragging you from your bed in the middle of the night like a damnable fool. You belong at fine balls, garden parties, and riding sidesaddle in Hyde Park with a gentleman of quality. They could have attacked. If you had been hurt…”

The thing that moved in his eyes then scared her, and she instinctively took a step back from him. “You would have defended my honor by killing them,” she said shakily.

“Of course,” he said so mildly she could only stare at him.

“I hardly know this side of you, Devlin. I…” She thrust a flying tendril behind her ears only to sigh in frustration when the wind whipped it back into her face.

“You know enough of me.”

“Do I?” she said with an incredulous laugh.

“Yes. And what you do not know now, there is a lifetime to learn.”

A lifetime. Her mouth dried. Ophelia made no reply but slipped her hand in his when he held it out, almost shocked at her easy acceptance of every part of him that was slowly revealed to her.

A boy who had run from home, turned into a thief, was imprisoned, and reshaped himself into the man who silently walked beside her. This was a man who touched her with reverent awe but could use those same hands to ruthlessly protect. A man who could kill without regrets but also owned great kindness, for she knew of his philanthropic efforts.

“What are you thinking, Fifi? I can feel your thoughts whirling.”

“I was wondering how long we might remain lovers,” she said softly, knowing the day would come when it had to end and they would go back to their respective worlds.

“Do you want to end it now?” he asked mildly, as if her decision would have little impact on him.

Her belly tightened, and she told him the truth. “I do not want us to end.” Not yet.

His shoulders relaxed, and he lifted their clasped hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. She pursed her lips when they walked past his parked carriage.

“I enjoy walking,” he said abruptly. “After leaving Newgate, I discovered I do not like closed spaces.”

“Was it difficult there?”

His fingers tightened on hers, but she bore the discomfort. “It was,” he said starkly. “But I was a fighter. I survived until Rhys got me out. Every day was a battle. A battle for food, for the right to sleep unmolested, to protect my life and the little I still had. It was dark, cold, and overcrowded, and many of the others were sick and without hope.”

Rhys Tremayne, Viscount Montrose. Ophelia did not socialize with the man, but at that moment, she claimed him as a friend in her heart.

“I’ve read your guest article on prison reform,” she confessed softly, recalling how her father and his cronies had mocked it, thinking it ridiculous that criminals were to be treated with dignity. “Several of those imprisoned are…”

“Children,” he bit out, “whose crimes are hunger and trying to feed their families.”

“Thank you for not hiding your past from me,” she said. It was her turn to lift their clasped hands to her lips so she could brush a kiss against his knuckles.

“I have always thought about traveling. I wonder about other countries and sailing on the wide-open sea for weeks.”

“That sounds lovely. Where would we go?”

“We?” he asked with a slight smile.

“Yes.” A fantasy but one she was content to live within.

“We would go everywhere Fifi, anywhere our hearts want. We have the money to do it.” He gently squeezed her fingers. “Have I told you I like walking because of the openness of the space around me?”

Ophelia wanted to hug and kiss him and away chase the memories of when he had been hurt and alone in his imprisonment. “And how far are we walking now?” she murmured.

“To your home.”

“That, my sweet, is miles away.”

“I ken. When you’re tired, I’ll drag you along.”

Ophelia laughed. “I’ll not get tired,” she promised, shifting so they walked even closer together.

Walking…so simple but perfectly wonderful.