Catherine lay snuggled in the crook of Glenarvon's arm, her head resting on his chest. The bedsheets fanned around them, having been thrown off the bed with haste.

Catherine was glad to be back at Castle Fen after such a trying day. The couple had visited with her family for only a short time. After everything that had passed, they were no longer in a disposition to spend hours with Catherine’s family. They were cold, tired, wet, and wanted nothing better than to be in each other’s arms again.

Explaining the highwaymen to Lady Edmonson had been an ordeal. Where Sir William merely nodded his head–such things were to be expected from time to time, even if they were not ideal–Lady Edmonson could hardly believe that such villainous men existed. The sight of her daughter and the marquess standing at her door, disheveled and panting, had sent her nearly into apoplexy. Smelling salts were required. Anne had fetched a large fan and exuberantly wafted cool air at her mother, hiding her smile behind her dainty hand.

After much insistence from Lady Edmonson, Lord and Lady Glenarvon had consented to rest in the drawing room until they had recuperated long enough to take the carriage home.

Indeed, a large part of Catherine had wished that they could take the carriage immediately so that she could place her hands upon her husband once again. Some repose, however, was necessary, and after thirty minutes’ rest, even Catherine was glad for the inactivity.

Finally, with much hemming, Lady Edmonson had condescended to let them leave, but only on the condition that they immediately sent word that they had arrived home safely.

The trip back to Castle Fen could not have gone by fast enough. Glenarvon's stomach clenched with need and it was all he could do to stop himself from throwing Catherine down upon the carriage seat and taking her right there.

After arriving at the estate, Glenarvon quickly whisked Catherine to the bedchambers, barely even letting her feet touch the floor.

Now, with his appetite sated once again, the marquess was quite pleased to have Catherine resting in his arms. Stroking her hair, Glenarvon wrapped a single lock around his finger, letting the red hue catch the firelight. Catherine kissed Glenarvon's strong chest, reveling in the scent of him, then pushed herself away. She stood and stretched, letting the tensions of the day melt away.

Sensing Glenarvon's eyes on her, Catherine turned to give him a mischievous grin. "I'm yours to look at, my lord," she said. "You needn't be coy about it."

"Coy? No,” replied Glenarvon, cocking an eyebrow. “But discretion is the mother of all things.” Still, he stared at her unblinking, drinking in her nakedness.

With a shrug, Catherine made her way to the dressing table, intent on finding the dressing gown she had so carelessly strewn across the low chair. But before she could put it on, the little golden locket on the table caught her eye once again.

Catherine reached out, then hesitated. Somehow, she did not yet feel like she could pry into the marquess's personal belongings. Not when she had so many secrets of her own, at least. Her movements were too obvious to go unnoticed, however.

Glenarvon cleared his throat then closed his eyes for a brief second, preparing himself.

"You can touch it," he said quietly.

Glancing at Glenarvon and back, Catherine let her fingers graze the cool metal of the locket. It was in the shape of an oval with a little design etched on the front. The filigree just barely made an impression on her skin, the work was so finely done.

Glenarvon wiped a dry hand against his mouth. "Bring it here."

After carefully picking up the locket by its delicate chain, Catherine returned to the bed, pulling the covers over herself. She held the locket out on her upturned palm, afraid to take too much possession over it. In that moment, she would rather have grasped a living flame.

Glenarvon took the locket from Catherine, turning it over in his hand, inspecting it with the eye of one who had seen it many times before.

Finally, without looking at Catherine, he said, "This was my mother's locket." Then, he lapsed into silence once more.

Catherine placed her hand over his, hoping that the human contact would provide some comfort.

Glenarvon licked his arid lips and continued. "She loved my father quite dearly, although I do not believe they had much choice in their match." He waved his hands as if to rid himself of that topic. "But that was of little matter to them. They lived in a state of constant bliss, or so it always seemed to me. Not just to me. Everyone I ever heard speak of them agreed: theirs was a marriage to be envied... My father gave my mother this locket in their first month of marriage. A little gift to symbolize their union."

He opened up the locket, revealing three locks of intertwined hair. "A strand of her hair and strand of his. She put the locket on that morning and never took it off again. Every day, she wore this locket just over her heart. When I was born, she added a lock of my own hair. So she could always carry us with her, she said. Everything was always so sunny with her, so light. Then one day–a day quite like this–my mother developed a cough."

As he spoke, Glenarvon's eyes started to gleam, the ghost of tears threatening to let loose. "At first, we thought it was nothing. A common ailment. Then, as the days went on, we grew more worried. Months went by and the cough remained, wracking her body daily. My father called the best doctors he could find. Doctors from London, from the continent. None could cure her. I lay beside her in her bed, my father sitting in the chair next to us, his face always buried in his hands. Her breath came ragged and bloody. With frail, trembling hands, she took the locket off her neck for the first time I had ever seen and handed it to me. She smiled weakly, closing my fingers around the necklace. Then finally, her breath came no more."

The marquess closed his eyes, fighting back tears. Leaning her head against his shoulder, Catherine squeezed his arm. He closed his hand around the locket, then pushed it towards Catherine.

Glenarvon opened his eyes and they were clear and bright once more. "I think she would have liked you to have this, Catherine," he said.

Catherine blinked. "I couldn't possibly accept that," she said.

"Please." Glenarvon opened the clasp on the locket and swept Catherine's hair off her neck. "I don’t wear jewelry. Someone should wear this. That person should be my wife. You."

He secured the locket around Catherine's neck. Her hand went up to it instinctively, feeling again for the grooves molded into the metal.

"Thank you," she said. The statement hardly seemed like enough after everything the marquess had told her, and yet she could find no other words to fill the moment.

Glenarvon touched Catherine's face, trailing his fingers against her soft cheek and down her neck, landing finally on her hand, still clasping the locket. "It suits you," he said.

Catherine slowly eased toward Glenarvon, her hands running up his muscular arms. Their kiss was warm and unhurried. The kiss of a marriage that had seen many years more than theirs had. Catherine lay her head upon her husband's chest once more, feeling safe in his arms. She listened to the sound of his heart beating, then raised a hand to her own, covering the locket. Their hearts beat in tempo, combining into one.