Sir Barnaby stiffened. His arms withdrew from around her. “If you feel that I have compromised you, Miss Merryweather, of course I will marry you,” he said woodenly.
Merry scrambled off his lap. “What? Of course I don’t think that! I’m asking you because I want to marry you!”
Sir Barnaby physically flinched. “Miss Merryweather, I’m not a good choice of husband.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” Merry said. “If you don’t wish to marry me, that’s fine, but you can’t use that as a reason.”
Sir Barnaby’s mouth tightened. “I’m an adulterer,” he said flatly. “I’m the last person you should marry.”
Merry stared at him, and made a discovery. Sir Barnaby had rebuilt his friendship with Marcus, but he hadn’t forgiven himself. “Do you believe you’ll commit adultery again?”
Sir Barnaby’s expression became affronted, as if she had offered him a profound insult. “Of course not!”
“Then I fail to see the relevance of your objection.”
“I’m not a fit husband for any respectable woman!” Sir Barnaby wasn’t wooden anymore; he was angry. “My reputation—”
“Is irrelevant. My father was a dancing master. In the eyes of polite society, it’s I who am not respectable, not you.”
Sir Barnaby frowned, and drew breath to argue.
“If you don’t wish to marry me because I’m too old, or too odd, or because of my breeding, then say so. But don’t use your reputation as an excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse,” Sir Barnaby said stiffly. “And you’re not old or odd, and your breeding is perfectly respectable. Any man would be lucky to have you as a wife.”
“Then will you marry me? Please?”
Sir Barnaby turned his head from her. “You deserve better.”
Merry sat back on her heels. How to reach him? “You’ve punished yourself enough.”
Sir Barnaby glanced at her, a frown biting between his eyebrows.
Merry leaned forward and said fiercely, “Come out of your dungeon, Sir Barnaby!”
He blinked. His eyebrows twitched up. “You are a little unusual.”
Merry found herself smiling crookedly at him. She held out her hand. “Marry me? Please?”
Sir Barnaby hesitated, and then took her hand. She felt the warm strength of his fingers. His expression was a study in doubt. “Miss Merryweather . . .”
“When Henry died, I never thought I’d meet another man I’d want to marry. But I have. I’ve met you. And I know we’ll be happy together. We suit each other.”
Sir Barnaby didn’t look convinced. His face was filled with misgiving and uncertainty. “Miss Merryweather, things will look different once we’re out of here—”
“I’ve known for two days that I want to marry you,” Merry told him. She leaned closer and kissed him.
Sir Barnaby tensed, almost a flinch.
Merry kissed him a second time—a gentle kiss that told him that she loved him, that she trusted him. This is how it’s meant to be. See? A third gentle kiss, a fourth, inviting him to kiss her back.
For a long, agonizing moment Sir Barnaby held himself rigid—and then he relented. His kiss was hesitant.
Merry gave an inward sigh of relief. He was unlocking the door to his dungeon.
She shyly explored his lips, learning their shape, their texture, their taste. Sir Barnaby wasn’t completely relaxed. He was still holding back, permitting the kiss but not committing wholeheartedly to it. One foot in his dungeon, one out.
Merry nipped his lower lip gently. Open for me, please.
After another hesitation, Sir Barnaby did.
Their tongues touched. Merry felt Sir Barnaby tremble. He groaned, low in his throat, and then his arms came strongly around her.
The kiss changed its tempo. Now that Sir Barnaby had broken free of his dungeon, he wasn’t hesitant at all. Long, delicious, candlelit minutes passed. Somehow—and Merry didn’t quite notice how—she ended up on Sir Barnaby’s lap, and her arms were around his neck, and she was holding him quite as tightly as he was holding her, and they were kissing each other as if their lives depended on it. She felt dizzy, breathless, feverish, and quite exhilaratingly alive. She’d never felt quite this alive before, not even when she’d kissed Henry. But she and Henry had only kissed once like this. And then, he’d died.
A dreadful shiver of prescience crawled up Merry’s spine and she knew—knew with utter certainty—that Sir Barnaby was going to die, too. Knew that they both were. Knew that the roof was going to fall on them, crush them, bury them.
The heat that had built in her evaporated as abruptly as a candle being snuffed. Her skin prickled in a shiver.
Sir Barnaby broke their kiss. “Cold?”
Scared. Merry tightened her arms around his neck. “I love you,” she whispered against his throat.
“I love you, too. You are the most exceptional woman I’ve ever met. There is no one in the world like you. No one.” Sir Barnaby laid a light kiss on her hair. “Are you tired? Would you like to sleep?”
Sleep? No, she wanted to cram as much as she could into what little time they had. She wouldn’t make the same mistake she’d made with Henry. She would kiss Sir Barnaby while she could, talk with him while she could, touch him, tell him she loved him. “No.” Merry pressed her lips to Sir Barnaby’s throat, to his jaw, to his mouth again.
The kiss made a swift crescendo from dolce to furioso, but it was fear that drove her this time, not passion. Fear of running out of time. Fear of losing Sir Barnaby. Fear of dying.
Sir Barnaby pulled back, panting. “Miss Merryweather, we really must—”
“Merry. Or Anne, if you prefer.”
“Merry, we really must stop.”
“No,” Merry said seriously. “We really mustn’t.” Sir Barnaby looked half-wild. His filthy hair stood on end, his breathing was ragged, his cheeks hectically flushed. His pupils were fully dilated, his eyes so fiercely bright that they seemed to burn. My kisses make him feel alive, she realized, and that made her want to cry.
Merry laid her hand on his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin and the faint prickle of his stubble. “Barnaby . . . will you please make love to me?”