Because of the hasty nature of their departure, Marcus and Bowman brought few personal effects aside from a quickly packed change of clothes and the most basic toiletries. Sitting in opposite seats of the family carriage, they engaged in very little conversation. Wind and rain battered the vehicle, and Marcus thought with concern about the driver and horses.
It was foolhardy to travel in this weather, but Marcus was damned if he would let Matthew Swift…Phaelan…be whisked away from Stony Cross with no protection whatsoever. And it was obvious that Wendell Waring’s quest for vengeance had reached an irrational extreme.
Daisy had been astute in her remarks to Waring, that making someone else pay for the crime that Harry had committed would neither bring his son back nor serve his memory. But in Waring’s mind this was the last thing he could do for his son. And perhaps he had convinced himself that putting Matthew in prison would prove Harry’s innocence.
Harry Waring had tried to sacrifice Matthew to cover up his own corruption. Marcus wasn’t about to allow Wendell Waring to succeed where his son had failed.
“Do you doubt him?” Thomas Bowman asked suddenly. He looked more troubled than Marcus had ever seen him. No doubt this was acutely painful for Bowman, who loved Matthew Swift like a son. Possibly even more than his own sons. It was no wonder the two had formed a strong bond—Swift, a fatherless young man, and Bowman, in need of someone to guide and mentor.
“Are you asking if I doubt Swift? Not in the slightest. I found his version infinitely more believable than Waring’s.”
“So did I. And I know Swift’s character. I can assure you that in all my dealings with him, he has always been principled and honest to a fault.”
Marcus smiled slightly. “Can one be honest to a fault?”
Bowman shrugged, and his mustache twitched with reluctant amusement. “Well…extreme honesty can sometimes be a business liability.”
A crack of lighting came uncomfortably close, causing Marcus’s nape to prickle in warning. “This is madness,” he muttered. “They’ll have to stop at a tavern soon, if they can even make it past the Hampshire border. A few of the local creeks are stronger than some rivers. Given enough headwater surge, the roads will be impassable.”
“God, I hope so,” Thomas Bowman said fervently. “Nothing would delight me more than to see Waring and those two bumbling idiots being forced to return to Stony Cross Manor with Swift.”
The carriage slowed and came to an abrupt halt, the rain pounding like fists against the lacquered exterior.
“What’s this?” Bowman lifted the curtain to peer outside the window, but could see nothing except blackness and water pouring down the glass.
“Damn it,” Marcus said.
A panicked thumping at the door, and it was wrenched open. The driver’s white face appeared. With his black top hat and cloak blending into the gloom, he looked like a disembodied head. “Milord,” he gasped, “there’s been an accident ahead—ye must come see—”
Marcus sprang out of the carriage, a shock of cold rain striking him with stunning force. He yanked the carriage lantern from its holder and followed the driver to a creek crossing just ahead.
“Christ,” Marcus whispered.
The carriage carrying Waring and Matthew had stopped on a simple wooden beam bridge, one side of which had twisted away from the bank and was now angled diagonally across the creek. The force of the raging current had collapsed part of the bridge, leaving the carriage’s back wheels half-submerged in the water while the team of horses struggled in vain to pull it out. Swaying back and forth in the water like a child’s toy, the bridge threatened to detach from the other bank.
There was no way to reach the stranded carriage. The bridge had broken away on the side closest to them, and it would be suicidal to try and cross the current.
“My God, no,” he heard Thomas Bowman exclaim in horror.
They could only watch helplessly as the driver of Waring’s carriage fought to save the team, frantically unbuckling straps from carriage shafts.
At the same time, the uppermost door of the sinking carriage was pushed open, and a figure began to crawl out with obvious difficulty.
“Is it Swift?” Bowman demanded, going as close to the bank as he dared. “Swift!” But his bellow was swallowed in the crash of the storm and the roar of the current, and the angry creaks of the disintegrating bridge.
Then everything seemed to happen at once. The horses stumbled off the bridge to the safety of the bank. Movement on the bridge, a dark figure or two, and with a chilling, almost majestic slowness the heavy carriage eased into the water. It half-sank, retaining marginal buoyancy for a few moments…but then the carriage lanterns were extinguished, and the vehicle drifted sideways as the raging current swept it downstream.
Daisy had slept only fitfully, unable to stop her racing thoughts. She had woken repeatedly in the night, wondering what would happen to Matthew. She was afraid for his well-being. Only the knowledge that Westcliff was with him—or at least close by—kept her reasonably calm.
She kept reliving the moments in the parlor when Matthew had finally revealed the secrets of his past. How vulnerable and alone he had looked. What a burden he had carried all these years…and what courage and imagination it had taken for him to reinvent himself.
Daisy knew she wasn’t going to be able to wait in Hampshire for very long. She wanted desperately to see Matthew, to reassure him, to defend him against the world if necessary.
Earlier in the evening Mercedes had asked Daisy if the revelations about Matthew had affected her decision to marry him.
“Yes,” Daisy had replied. “It’s made me even more determined than before.”
Lillian had joined the conversation, admitting that she was far more predisposed to like Matthew Swift after what they had learned about him. “Although,” she had added, “it would be rather nice to know what your future married name is going to be.”
“Oh, what’s in a name?” Daisy had quoted, pulling a piece of paper from a lap desk and fidgeting with it.
“What are you doing?” Lillian had asked. “Don’t say you’re going to write a letter now?”
“I don’t know what to do,” Daisy had admitted. “I think I should send word to Annabelle and Evie.”
“They’ll find out soon enough from Westcliff,” Lillian said. “And they won’t be one bit surprised.”
“Why do you say that?”
“With your fondness for stories with dramatic twists and characters with mysterious pasts, it’s a foregone conclusion you wouldn’t have a quiet, ordinary courtship.”
“Be that as it may,” Daisy had replied wryly, “a quiet, ordinary courtship sounds very appealing at the moment.”
After a restless sleep, Daisy awakened in the morning as someone entered the room. At first she assumed it was the maid come to light the grate, but it was too early. Daybreak had not yet arrived, and the rain had slowed to a sullen drizzle.
It was her sister.
“Good morning,” Daisy croaked, sitting up and stretching. “Why are you up so early? Is the baby fretful?”
“No, she’s resting.” Lillian’s voice was husky. Wearing a heavy velvet robe, her hair in a loose braid, she came to the bed with a steaming cup of tea in hand. “Here, take this.”
Daisy frowned and obeyed, watching as Lillian levered herself onto the edge of the mattress. This was not the usual pattern of things.
Something had happened.
“What is it?” she asked, a feeling of dread crawling down her spine.
Lillian nodded toward the tea cup. “It can wait until you’re a bit more awake.”
It was too soon for any news to have come from London, Daisy reflected. This couldn’t have anything to do with Matthew. Maybe their mother had taken ill. Maybe something dreadful had happened in the village.
After downing a few swallows of tea, Daisy leaned over to set the cup on the bedside table. She returned her attention to her sister. “This is as awake as I’m going to get today,” she said. “Tell me now.”
Clearing her throat roughly, Lillian spoke in a thick voice. “Westcliff and Father are back.”
“What?” Daisy stared at her in bewilderment. “Why aren’t they in London with Matthew?”
“He’s not in London either.”
“Then they’re all back?”
Lillian gave a stiff little shake of her head. “No. I’m sorry. I’m explaining badly. I…I’ll just be blunt. Not long after Westcliff and Father left Stony Cross, their carriage had to stop because of an accident ahead at the bridge. You know that creaky old bridge you have to cross to stay on the main road?”
“The one that spans the little creek?”
“Yes. Well, the creek isn’t little right now. Thanks to the storm, it’s a big rushing river. And apparently the bridge was weakened by the current, and when Mr. Waring’s carriage tried to cross, it collapsed.”
Daisy froze in confusion. The bridge collapsed. She repeated the words to herself, but they seemed as impossible to interpret as some ancient forgotten language. With an effort, she gathered her wits. “Was everyone saved?” she heard herself ask.
“Everyone but Matthew.” Lillian’s voice shook. “He was trapped in the carriage as it was swept downstream.”
“He’s all right,” Daisy said automatically, her heart beginning to thrash like a caged wild animal. “He can swim. He probably ended up downstream on one of the banks—someone has to look for him—”
“They’re searching everywhere,” Lillian said. “Westcliff is organizing a full-scale effort. He spent most of the night searching and returned a little while ago. The carriage broke into pieces as it went downstream. No sign of Matthew. But Daisy, one of the constables admitted to Westcliff…” She stopped and her brown eyes sparkled with furious tears. “…admitted…” She continued with effort. “…that Matthew’s hands were tied.”
Daisy’s legs moved beneath the bedclothes, her knees bending, drawing up tight. Her body wanted to occupy as little physical space as possible, shrinking away from this new revelation.
“But why?” she whispered. “There was no reason.”
Lillian’s determined jaw quivered as she tried to regain control over her emotions. “Given Matthew’s history, they said there was a risk of escape. But I think Waring insisted on it out of spite.”
Daisy felt lightheaded from the thunder of her own pulse. She was frightened, and yet at the same time part of her had become bizarrely detached. Briefly she summoned an image of Matthew, struggling in dark water, his hands bound and thrashing—
“No,” she said, pressing her palms against the violent throb of her temples. It felt as if nails were being driven into her skull. She couldn’t breathe well. “He had no chance, did he?”
Lillian shook her head and looked away. Drops of water fell from her face to the counterpane.
How strange, Daisy thought, that she wasn’t crying too. Hot pressure built behind her eyes, deep in her head, making her skull ache. But it seemed her tears were waiting for some thought or word that would trigger their release.
Daisy continued to hold her pounding temples, nearly blind from the pain in her head as she asked, “Are you crying for Matthew?”
“Yes.” Lillian pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her robe and blew her nose roughly. “But mostly for you.” She leaned close enough to wrap her arms around Daisy, as if she could protect her from all harm. “I love you, Daisy.”
“I love you, too,” Daisy said in a muffled voice, hurting and dry-eyed, and gasping for breath.
The search continued all that day and the next night, but all the ordinary rituals, the times for sleeping and working and eating, had lost their meaning. Only one incident managed to reach through the numb weight that pressed at Daisy from all sides, and that was when Westcliff had refused to let her come help in the search.
“You’ll be of no use to anyone,” Westcliff had told her, too exhausted and bedeviled to exercise his usual tact. “It’s dangerous and difficult out there with the water so high. At best you’ll be a distraction. At worst, you’ll get hurt.”
Daisy had known he was right, but that didn’t stop a flare of outrage. The feeling, startling in its force, threatened to disintegrate her control, and so she had hurriedly withdrawn back into herself.
Matthew’s body might never be found. That was too cruel to bear, the fate of having to reconcile herself to that. Somehow a disappearance was even worse than a death—it was as if he had never existed at all, leaving nothing to mourn over. She had never understood before why some people needed to see the body of a loved one after they had died. Now she did. It was the only way to end this waking nightmare and perhaps find the release of tears and pain.
“I keep thinking I should know if he were dead,” she told Lillian as she sat on the floor next to the parlor hearth. An old shawl was wrapped around her, comforting in its time-worn softness. Despite the heat of the fire, the layers of her clothing, the mug of brandied tea in her hands, Daisy couldn’t seem to get warm. “I should feel it. But I can’t feel anything, it’s as if I’ve been frozen alive. I want to hide somewhere. I don’t want to bear this. I don’t want to strong.”
“You don’t have to be,” Lillian said quietly.
“Yes I do. Because the only other choice is to let myself break into a million pieces.”
“I’ll hold you together. Every single piece.”
A paper-thin smile touched Daisy’s lips as she stared into her sister’s concerned face. “Lillian,” she whispered. “What would I do without you?”
“You’ll never have to find out.”
It was only the prodding of her mother and sister that induced Daisy to take a few bites of supper. She drank a full glass of wine, hoping it would distract her from the endless circling of her mind.
“Westcliff and Father should be back soon,” Lillian said tensely. “They’ve had no rest and likely nothing to eat.”
“Let’s go to the parlor,” Mercedes suggested. “We can distract ourselves with cards, or perhaps you might read aloud from one of Daisy’s favorite books.”
Daisy gave her an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, I can’t. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to be alone upstairs.”
After she had washed and changed into her nightclothes, Daisy glanced at the bed. Even though she was tipsy and weary, her mind rejected the notion of sleep.
The house was quiet as she went to the Marsden parlor, her bare feet touching shadows that crossed the carpeted floor like dark vines. A single lamp sent a yellow glow through the parlor, light catching in faceted crystals that hung from the shade and sending scattered dots of white over the flower-papered walls. A pile of printed flotsam and jetsam had been left by the settee: periodicals, novels, a thin volume of humorous poetry she had read aloud to Matthew, watching for the elusive smiles on his face.
How was it that everything had changed so quickly? How could life so cavalierly pick someone up and set them on a new and violently unwanted path?
Daisy sat on the carpet beside the pile and began to sort through it slowly…one pile to be brought to the library, another to be taken to the villagers on visiting day. But perhaps it wasn’t wise to attempt this after so much wine. Instead of forming two neat piles, the reading materials ended up scattered around her like so many abandoned dreams.
Crossing her legs, Daisy leaned against the side of the settee and rested her head on the upholstered edge. Her fingers encountered the cloth covering on one of the books. She glanced at it with half-closed eyes. A book had always been a door to another world…a world much more interesting and fantastical than reality. But she had finally discovered that life could be even more wonderful than a fantasy.
And that love could fill the real world with magic.
Matthew was everything she had ever wanted. And she’d had so little time with him.
The mantel clock rationed quiet little ticks with miserly slowness. As Daisy leaned against the settee half-drowsing, she heard the door creak. Her sluggish gaze followed the sound.
A man had entered the room.
He paused just inside the doorway, contemplating the sight of her on the floor with all the discarded books around her.
Daisy’s eyes lifted jerkily to his face. She froze with longing and fear and terrible yearning.
It was Matthew, dressed in rough, unfamiliar clothing, his vital presence seeming to fill the room.
Afraid the vision would disappear, Daisy was as still as death. Her eyes stung and watered but she kept them open, willing him to stay.
He approached her with great care. Sinking to his haunches, he contemplated her with immeasurable tenderness and concern. One of his big hands moved, shoving aside some of the books until the space between their bodies was clear. “It’s me, love,” he said softly. “Everything’s all right.”
Daisy managed to whisper through dry lips. “If you’re a ghost…I hope you haunt me forever.”
Matthew sat on the floor and reached for her cold hands. “Would a ghost use the door?” he asked gently, bringing her fingers to his scratched, battered face.
The touch of his skin against her palms sent a dance of painful awareness through her. With relief Daisy finally felt the numbness thaw, her emotions unlocking, and she tried to cover her eyes. Her chest seemed to break open with sobs, the sounds raw and unrestrained.
Matthew took her hand away and pulled her firmly against him, murmuring quietly. As Daisy continued to cry he held her more tightly, seeming to understand that she needed the hard, almost hurtful pressure of his body.
“Please be real,” she gasped. “Please don’t be a dream.”
“I’m real,” Matthew said huskily. “Don’t cry so hard, there’s no—oh, Daisy, love—” He gripped her head in his hands and pressed comforting words against her lips while she struggled to get even closer to him. He eased her to the floor, using the reassuring weight of his body to subdue her.
His hands clasped with hers, fingers interlaced. Panting, Daisy turned her head to stare at his exposed wrist, where the flesh was red and welted. “Your hands were tied,” she said in a rough voice that didn’t sound at all like hers. “How did you free them?”
Matthew bent his head to kiss the tear-slicked surface of her cheek. “Pen-knife,” he said succinctly.
Daisy’s eyes widened as she continued to stare at his wrist. “You managed to get a pen-knife out of your pocket and cut the ropes while floating down the creek in a s-sinking carriage?”
“It was a damn sight easier than goose-wrestling, let me tell you.”
A watery chuckle escaped her, but it quickly turned into another broken sob. Matthew caught the sound with his mouth, his lips caressing hers.
“I started to cut through the ties at the first sign of trouble,” he continued. “And I had a few minutes before the carriage rolled into the water.”
“Why didn’t the others help you?” Daisy asked angrily, scrubbing the sleeve of her gown over her dripping face.
“They were busy saving their own skins. Although,” Matthew added ruefully, “I would have thought I merited a little more importance than the horses. But by the time the carriage started moving down the current, my hands were free. Debris was knocking the vehicle into matchsticks. I jumped into the current and made it to the shore, but I was bit pummeled in the process. I was found by an old man who was out searching for his dog—he brought me to his cottage, where he and his wife took care of me. I lost consciousness and woke up a day and a half later. By that time they had heard of Westcliff’s search, and they went out to tell him where I was.”
“I thought you were gone,” Daisy said, her voice cracking. “I thought I would never see you again.”
“No, no…” Matthew smoothed her hair and kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her trembling lips. “I’ll always come back to you. I’m dependable, remember?”
“Yes. Except for the—” Daisy had to take an extra breath as she felt his mouth move down to her throat. “—the twenty years of your life before I met you, I’d say you’re so dependable you’re almost pre—” His tongue had dipped into the pulsing hollow at the base of her neck. “—predictable.”
“You probably have a few complaints about that little matter of my assumed identity and grand larceny conviction.” His exploring kisses moved up to the delicate line of her jaw, absorbing the vagrant tear.
“Oh, no,” Daisy said breathlessly. “I f-forgave you before I even knew what it was.”
“Sweet darling,” Matthew whispered, nuzzling the side of her face, caressing her with his mouth and hands. She held onto him blindly, unable to get close enough. His head drew back and he looked down at her with a searching gaze. “Now that the whole business has reared its ugly head, I’m going to have to clear my name. Will you wait for me, Daisy?”
“No.”
Still sniffling, she applied herself to unfastening the wooden buttons of his borrowed clothes.
“No?” Matthew half-smiled and looked down at her quizzically. “Have you decided I’m too much trouble?”
“I’ve decided life is too short—” Daisy grunted as she tugged at the coarse cloth of his shirt. “—to waste a single day of it. Blast these buttons—”
His hands covered hers, stilling their feverish plucking. “I don’t think your family is going to be enthusiastic about letting you marry a fugitive from justice.”
“My father would forgive you anything. Besides, you won’t be a fugitive forever. Your case will be overturned once the facts are made known.” Daisy pulled her hands free and clutched at him tightly. “Take me to Gretna Green,” she begged. “Tonight. It’s how my sister got married. And Evie too. Elopement is practically a wallflower tradition. Take me—”
“Shhh…” Matthew wrapped his arms around her, cradling her against his sturdy frame. “No more running,” he whispered. “I’m finally going to face my past. Although it would be a hell of a lot easier to solve my problems if that bastard Harry Waring hadn’t died.”
“There are still people who know what really happened,” Daisy said anxiously. “His friends. And the servant you mentioned. And—”
“Yes, I know. Let’s not talk about all of that right now. God knows we’ll have time aplenty in the coming days.”
“I want to marry you,” Daisy persisted. “Not later. Now. After what I’ve gone through…thinking you were gone forever…nothing else is important.” A little hiccup disrupted the last word.
Matthew smoothed her hair and smudged a drying tear-track with his thumb. “All right. All right. I’ll talk to your father. Don’t cry again. Daisy, don’t.”
But she couldn’t stop the fresh tears of relief that leaked from the outward corners of her eyes. A new trembling came from the marrow of her bones. The more she stiffened against it, the worse it became.
“Sweetheart, what is it?” He ran his hands over her shaking limbs.
“I’m so afraid.”
He made a low, involuntary sound and cradled her tightly, his lips moving over her cheeks with impassioned pressure. “Why, dearest love?”
“I’m afraid this is a dream. I’m afraid I’ll wake up and—” Another hiccup. “—and I’ll be alone again and I’ll find out you were never here and—”
“No, I’m here. I won’t leave.” He moved down to her throat, pulling the sides of her nightgown apart with slow deliberation. “Let me make you feel better, love, let me…” His hands were gentle on her body, soothing and distracting. As his palm slid over her limbs, his touch sent darts of heat through her, and a low moan broke from her lips.
Hearing the sound, Matthew drew a ragged breath and searched for self-control. He found none. There was only need. Lost in the desire to fill her with pleasure, he undressed her right there on the floor, his palms stroking her chilled skin until the pale surface was steeped in a severe blush.
Trembling wildly, Daisy watched the candlelight shimmer over his dark head as he bent over her body, scattering kisses in unhurried paths…her legs, her bare stomach, her quivering breasts.
Everywhere he kissed her, the cold shaking dissolved into warmth. She sighed and relaxed into the assuaging rhythms of his hands and mouth. As she fumbled to open his shirt, he reached to help her. The rough-woven cloth dropped away to reveal satiny male skin. Somehow it reassured Daisy to see the the shadows of bruises on him, they were proof that she couldn’t be dreaming. She pressed her open mouth to one of the dark marks, touching it with her tongue.
Matthew drew her carefully against him, his hand riding over the curve of her waist and hip with a sensuality that caused gooseflesh to rise on her thighs. Daisy squirmed in mingled pleasure and discomfort as the wool pile of the carpet abraded her oversensitive skin, causing speckles of pain on her bare bottom.
Comprehending the problem, Matthew laughed quietly and pulled her up against him, into his lap. Perspiring and dry-mouthed, Daisy urged her breasts against his chest. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.
His hand cupped over her tingling backside. “You’ll be rubbed raw on the floor.”
“I don’t care, I just want…I want…”
“This?” He rearranged her in his lap until she straddled him, the fabric of his trousers taut beneath her thighs.
Embarrassed and excited, Daisy closed her eyes as she felt him caress the intricate folds of her body, gently layering moisture and sensation over her burning flesh.
Daisy’s arms felt weak as she slid them around his neck and wrapped the fingers of one hand around the wrist of the other. If it weren’t for the support of his hard arm across her back, she wouldn’t have been able to stay upright. All awareness was focused on the place where he touched her, the slide of his knuckle around the tiny silky-wet cusp…“Don’t stop,” she heard herself whisper again.
Her eyes snapped open as Matthew eased two fingers inside her, and then three, while desire writhed inside her like flames feeding on burning honey.
“Still afraid it’s a dream?” Matthew whispered.
She swallowed convulsively and shook her head. “I…I never have dreams like this.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement, and he withdrew his fingers, leaving her shuddering with emptiness. She whimpered and dropped her head on his flexing shoulder, and he hugged her securely against his naked chest.
Daisy clung to him, her vision misting until the room was a mosaic of yellow light and black shadow. She felt herself being lifted, turned, her knees pressing into the carpet as he helped her to kneel before the settee. The side of her face pressed against the smooth upholstery, while her lips parted to accomodate her hard-rushing breaths. He covered her, his big, solid body fitting behind and around her, and then he was pushing inside, and the fit between them was tight and slippery and exquisite.
Daisy stiffened in surprise, but his hands came to her hips, stroking in reassurance, encouraging her to trust him. She went still, her eyes closing while pleasure rose with each slow thrust he made. One of his hands swept down her front, and his fingertips found the plump rise of her sex and caressed her until she reached a bright blinding summit, overtaken with shudders of sharp relief.
Much later, Matthew dressed Daisy in her nightgown and carried her through the dark hallway until they reached her room. As he lay her in bed, she whispered for him to stay with her.
“No, love.” He leaned over her prone body in the darkness. “Much as I’d like to, we can’t go that far beyond propriety.”
“I don’t want to sleep without you.” Daisy stared into the shadowed face just above her own. “And I don’t want to wake without you.”
“Someday.” He bent to press a firm kiss on her mouth. “Someday I’ll be able to come to you any time, night or day, and hold you as long as you want.” His voice deepened with emotion as he added, “You can depend on that.”
Downstairs, the exhausted earl of Westcliff lay on a sofa, his head pillowed in his wife’s lap. After two days of relentless searching and precious little sleep, Marcus was weary down to his bones. However, he was grateful that tragedy had been avoided and that Daisy’s fiance had been safely returned.
Marcus was a bit surprised by the way his wife had fussed over him. As soon as he had arrived at the manor, Lillian had plied him with sandwiches and hot brandy, wiped the dirt smudges from his face with a damp towel, applied salve on his scrapes and bandages to a few cut fingers, and even pulled his muddy boots off.
“You look far worse than Mr. Swift,” Lillian had retorted when he had protested that he was fine. “From what I understand he’s been lying abed in a cottage for the past two days, whereas you’ve been foraging through the woods in the mud and rain.”
“He wasn’t exactly lounging about,” Marcus had pointed out. “He was wounded.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve had no rest and practically nothing to eat while you were looking for him.”
Marcus had submitted to her attentions, secretly enjoying the way she hovered over him. When she was satisfied that he was fed and bandaged properly, she cradled his head in her lap. Marcus sighed in contentment, staring into the blazing hearth-fire.
Lillian’s slender fingers played absently in his hair as she commented, “It’s been a long time since Mr. Swift went to find Daisy. And it’s too quiet. Aren’t you going to go up there and check on them?”
“Not for all the hemp in China,” Marcus said, repeating one of Daisy’s new favorite phrases. “God knows what I might be interrupting.”
“Good God.” Lillian sounded appalled. “You don’t think they’re…”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Marcus paused deliberately before adding, “Remember how we used to be.”
As he had intended, the remark diverted her instantly.
“We’re still that way,” Lillian protested.
“We haven’t made love since before the baby was born.” Marcus sat up, filling his gaze with the sight of his dark-haired young wife in the firelight. She was, and would always be, the most tempting woman he had ever known. Unspent passion roughened his voice as he asked, “How much longer must I wait?”
Propping her elbow on the back of the sofa, Lillian leaned her head on her hand and smiled apologetically. “The doctor said at least another fortnight. I’m sorry.” She laughed as she saw his expression. “Very sorry. Let’s go upstairs.”
“If we’re not going to bed together, I fail to see the point,” Marcus grumbled.
“I’ll help you with your bath. I’ll even scrub your back.”
He was sufficiently intrigued by the offer to ask, “Only my back?”
“I’m open to negotiation,” Lillian said provocatively. “As always.”
Marcus reached out to gather her against his chest and sighed. “At this point I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“You poor man.” Still smiling, Lillian turned her face to kiss him. “Just remember…some things are worth waiting for.”