“Something like that. It seems I was mistaken about you, Mrs. Hunt. Please accept my humble apology.”
Suspecting that the earl was rarely given to making apologies of any kind, much less humble ones, Annabelle linked her arms around his neck. “I suppose I’ll have to,” she said grudgingly, “since you saved our lives.”
He shifted her more comfortably in his arms. “Shall we cry pax, then?”
“Pax,” she agreed, and coughed against his shoulder.
While the doctor visited Simon in the master bedroom of Marsden Terrace, Westcliff took Annabelle aside and personally tended to the wound in her upper arm. After tweezing out the metal chip that was half-buried in her skin, he doused the area with alcohol while Annabelle screeched in pain. He dabbed the cut with salve, bandaged it expertly, and gave her a glass of brandy to dull her discomfort. Whether he had added something to the brandy, or pure exhaustion had amplified its effects, Annabelle would never know. After downing two fingers of the dark amber liquid, she felt woozy and light-headed. Her voice was distinctly slurred as she told Westcliff that the world was fortunate that he hadn’t gone into the medical profession, which he gravely acknowledged was probably true. She staggered off drunkenly to find Simon, and was firmly dissuaded by the housekeeper and a pair of housemaids, who seemed intent on washing her. Before Annabelle quite knew what had happened, she had been bathed and changed into a nightgown purloined from Westcliff’s elderly mother’s closet and was lying in a soft, clean bed. As soon as she closed her eyes, she sank into a helpless slumber.
To Annabelle’s chagrin, she awoke quite late the next morning, struggling to gather where she was and what had happened. The moment her thoughts touched on Simon, she floundered out of bed, paying no heed to her handsome surroundings as she padded barefoot into the hall. She crossed the path of a house-maid, who looked mildly startled by the appearance of a woman with wild, unbound hair, a scratched and reddened face, and an ill-fitting nightgown…a woman, who, in spite of a thorough washing the night before, was still strongly scented of foundry smoke.
“Where is he?” Annabelle asked without prelude.
To the housemaid’s credit, she comprehended the abrupt query and directed Annabelle to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
Coming to the open doorway, Annabelle saw Lord Westcliff standing by the side of the huge bed, where Simon was sitting up against a stack of pillows. Simon was bare-chested, his shoulders and torso swarthy against the snowy linens that had been pulled up to his midriff. Annabelle winced as she saw the profusion of plasters affixed to his arms and chest, having some idea of the discomfort that he must have endured in having so many metal pellets removed. The two men stopped talking as soon as they became aware of her presence.
Simon’s gaze locked on her face and held with unnerving intensity. An invisible swell of emotion filled the room, drowning them both in acute tension. As Annabelle stared into her husband’s granite-hard face, no words seemed appropriate. If she spoke to him just then, it was either going to be puerile hyperbole or inane understatement. Absurdly grateful for Westcliff’s presence as a temporary buffer, Annabelle addressed her first comment to him.
“My lord,” she said, inspecting the cuts and burns on his face, “you look like the loser in a tavern brawl.”
Coming forward, Westcliff took her hand and executed an impeccable bow over it. He surprised her by pressing a chivalrous kiss to the back of her wrist. “Had I ever participated in a tavern brawl, madam, I assure you that I would not have lost.”
That drew a grin from Annabelle, who could not help reflecting that twenty-four hours ago, she had despised his arrogant aplomb, whereas now it seemed almost endearing. Westcliff released her hand after giving it a reassuring squeeze. “With your permission, Mrs. Hunt, I will withdraw. No doubt you have a few things to discuss with your husband.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
As the earl left and closed the door, Annabelle approached the bedside. Simon looked away from her with a frown, the bold structure of his profile gilded with sunlight.
“Is your leg broken?” Annabelle asked huskily.
Simon shook his head, concentrating on the ornately flowered paper that covered the bedroom wall. He spoke in a smoke-ravaged voice. “It will be fine.”
Annabelle’s gaze touched on him, lingering on the heavy musculature of his arms and chest, the long fingers of his hand, the way a lock of dark hair fell over his brow. “Simon,” she asked softly. “Won’t you look at me?”
His eyes narrowed as he turned to pin her with a hostile stare. “I’d like to do more than look at you. I’d like to throttle you.”
It would have been ingenuous for Annabelle to ask why, since she already knew. Instead, she waited with forced patience, while Simon’s throat worked violently. “What you did yesterday was unforgivable,” he finally muttered.
She gave him a startled glance. “What?”
“Lying there in that hell-pit, I made what I thought would be the last request of my life. And you refused.”
“As things turned out, it wasn’t your last request,” Annabelle replied warily. “You survived, and so did I, and now everything is fine—”
“It is not fine,” Simon snapped, his face darkening with rising fury. “For the rest of my life I will remember how it felt to know that you were going to die along with me, while I couldn’t do a damned thing to stop you.” He averted his face as his breath turned harsh with unwanted emotion.
Annabelle reached for him, then checked herself, her hands suspended in the air between them. “How could you ask me to leave you there, hurt and alone? I couldn’t.”
“You should have done as I told you!”
Annabelle didn’t flinch, understanding the fear that seethed beneath his anger. “You wouldn’t have left had it been me on the foundry floor—”
“I knew you were going to say that,” he said in savage disgust. “Of course I wouldn’t have left you. I’m the man. A man is supposed to protect his wife.”
“And a wife is supposed to be a helpmate,” Annabelle countered.
“You were not helping me,” Simon bit out. “You were putting me through agony. Dammit, Annabelle, why didn’t you obey me?”
She took a deep breath before replying. “Because I love you.”
Simon continued to look away from her, while the soft words sent a visible shock through him. His large hand tightened into a fist on the coverlet as his defenses began to crack visibly. “I would die a thousand times over,” he said, a tremor in his voice, “to spare you the slightest harm. And the fact that you were willing to throw your life away in a completely pointless sacrifice is more than I can bear.”
Annabelle’s eyes stung as she stared at him, while need and inexhaustible tenderness gathered like an ache in her body. “I realized something,” she said huskily, “when I was standing outside the foundry, watching it burn and knowing you were inside.” She swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat. “I would rather have died in your arms, Simon, than face a lifetime without you. All those endless years…all those winters, summers…a hundred seasons of wanting you and never having you. Growing old, while you stayed eternally young in my memories.” She bit her lip and shook her head, while her eyes flooded. “I was wrong when I told you that I didn’t know where I belonged. I do. With you, Simon. Nothing matters except being with you. You’re stuck with me forever, and I’ll never listen when you tell me to go.” She managed a tremulous smile. “So you may as well stop complaining and resign yourself to it.”
With startling suddenness, Simon turned to snatch her against him. He buried his face in the tangled skein of her hair. His voice came out in an anguished growl.
“My God, I can’t stand this! I can’t let you go out every day, fearing every minute that something might happen to you, knowing that every ounce of sanity I’ve got left is hinged on your well-being. I can’t feel this way…it’s too strong…oh, hell. I’ll turn into a raving lunatic. I’ll never be of use to anyone again. If I could just reduce it somehow…love you only half this much…I might be able to live with it.”
Annabelle laughed shakily at his rough confession, while a hot rush of joy spilled through her. “But I want all your love,” she said. As Simon drew his head back to look at her, his expression knocked the breath from her lungs. It took her several seconds to recover. “All your heart and mind,” she continued with a crooked smile, and lowered her voice provocatively. “All your body, too.”
Simon trembled and stared at her radiant face as if he would never be able to tear his gaze away. “That’s reassuring. Since you seemed more than eager to saw off my leg with a pocketknife yesterday.”
Annabelle’s mouth quirked, and she stroked her fingertips over his hairy chest, playing with the glinting dark strands. “My intention was to preserve the largest possible portion of you, and get you out of that place.”
“At that point I might have let you, had I thought it would work.” Simon caught her hand in his, and pressed his cheek against her abraded palm. “You’re a strong woman, Annabelle. Stronger than I would have believed.”
“No, it’s my love for you that is strong.” Sliding him a glance of sparkling mischief from beneath her lashes, Annabelle murmured, “I wouldn’t be able to saw off just anyone’s leg, you know.”
“If you ever risk your life again, for any reason, I’m going to strangle you. Come here.” Gripping his hand behind her head, Simon pulled her forward. When their noses were nearly touching, he took a deep breath, and said, “I love you, dammit.”
She brushed her lips teasingly against his. “How much?”
He made a slight sound, as if the soft kiss had affected him intensely. “Without limit. Beyond forever.”
“I love you more,” Annabelle said, and brought her mouth to his. She felt a surge of exquisite pleasure, accompanied by the elusive sense of completeness, of perfect fulfillment, that they had never quite reached before. She was floating in warmth, as if her soul was bathed in light. Drawing back, she saw from the stunned brilliance in Simon’s gaze that he had felt it, too.
There was a new, wondering note in his voice as he said, “Kiss me again.”
“No, I’ll hurt you. I’m leaning on your leg.”
“That’s not my leg,” came his roguish reply, making her laugh.
“You perverse man.”
“You’re so beautiful,” Simon whispered. “Inside and out. Annabelle, my wife, my sweet love…kiss me again. And don’t stop until I tell you to.”
“Yes, Simon,” she murmured, and cheerfully obeyed.
Epilogue
“…No, that’s not the best part,” Annabelle said animatedly, waving a handful of pages in a gesture for the Bowmans to be quiet. The three women lounged in Annabelle’s suite at the Rutledge, dangling their stockinged feet as they sipped glasses of sweet wine. “Let me read on…‘As we stopped in the Loire Valley to view a sixteenth-century chateau that is undergoing restoration, Miss Hunt made the acquaintance of an unmarried English gentleman, Mr. David Keir, who is accompanying his two younger cousins on their Grand Tour. Apparently he is an art historian, engaged in writing a scholarly work on something-or-other, and he and Miss Hunt found much to discuss. According to the mothers—from now on that is how I shall refer to Mama and Mrs. Hunt, as they are always in each other’s company and appear to have divided one brain between themselves—’ “
“Good God,” Lillian exclaimed with a laugh, “does your brother have to write in such long sentences?”
“Hush!” Daisy admonished. “Jeremy was about to say what the mothers think of Mr. Keir! Go on, Annabelle.”
“They are of the unified opinion that Mr. Keir is a prepossessing and well-favored gentleman” Annabelle read.
“Does that mean handsome?” Daisy asked.
Annabelle grinned. “Decidedly. And Jeremy goes on to say that Mr. Keir has asked permission to write to Meredith, and he intends to call on her when she returns to London!”
“How lovely!” Daisy exclaimed, extending her glass to Lillian. “Pour me another, dear—I want to drink to Meredith’s future happiness.”
They all drank obligingly, and Annabelle set the letter aside with a pleased sigh. “I wish I could tell Evie.”
“I miss Evie,” Lillian said with a surprising wistfulness. “Perhaps soon her jailers—pardon, her family— will allow us to visit.”
“I have an idea,” Daisy commented. “When father comes from New York next month, we’ll have to go with him for another visit to Stony Cross. Naturally, Annabelle and Mr. Hunt will be invited, because of their friendship with Lord Westcliff. Perhaps we can ask that Evie and her aunt be included, too. Then we can have an official wallflower meeting—not to mention another Rounders game.”
Annabelle groaned theatrically, downing her wine in a large gulp. “God help me.” Placing her glass on a nearby table, she fished in her pocket for a tiny paper packet with an object folded inside. “That reminds me—Daisy, will you do a favor for me?”
“Of course,” the girl replied promptly and opened the paper. Her face wrinkled in curiosity as she saw a needlelike piece of metal. “What in heaven’s name is this?”
“I pulled that from Lord Westcliff’s shoulder on the day of the foundry fire.” She grinned at their appalled expressions as they saw the long iron shard. “If you wouldn’t mind, take it with you to Stony Cross and toss it into the wishing well.”
“What should I wish for?”
Annabelle laughed softly. “Make the same wish for poor old Westcliff that you did for me.”
“Poor old Westcliff?” Lillian snorted, and regarded the two of them suspiciously. “What was the wish that you made for Annabelle?” she demanded of her younger sister. “You never told me.”
“I never told Annabelle, either,” Daisy murmured, regarding Annabelle with a curious smile. “How do you know what it was?”
Annabelle grinned back at her. “I figured it out.” Curling her legs beneath her, she leaned forward and murmured, “Now, about finding a husband for Lillian…I have a rather interesting notion…”