Chapter Forty-Six
Cat tucked her knees up and wrapped her arms around the pouf of her skirts, so that she was folded into and around herself. Laying a cheek on one knee, she gazed out at the rolling hills and ancient houses built into the countryside.
It was beautiful. Every stone house glowed in the bright Italian sun, each terra-cotta roof absorbing the heat and sending waving lines into the blue, blue sky. The dark squares of the windows marching across the sea of homes seemed sharp. Below the labyrinth of houses, the earth opened up to trees and valleys and vineyards, as far as the eye could see.
A woman could weep at the beauty of Tuscany.
Yet there was little beauty for her. Here, at the top of a hill near the house she had rented in Colle di Val d’Elsa. The Hill of Elsa Valley. The River Elsa snaked through the trees and stone, its shining surface just visible from the lawns of the house—the house that was full of servants and furniture, but empty of everything she held dear.
He had not come. Six months, and Jones had not come. Eight months, and still he had not come.
Cat eyed at the letter lying on the thick, verdant grass beside her. All was well at home. Without her uncle to pressure them, the trustees had become more reasonable. Ashdown Abbey was well cared for by Mr. Sparks, the tenants were secure and happy, and her other estates were prosperous. There was no need for her to return.
Only Italy did not hold her here.
Setting her forehead against the hard, flat bones of her knees, Cat sighed long and loud. It was time to go home. Whatever waited for her there would not be what she’d left, of course. The scandal of a woman traveling alone, the difficulties of society, even the humbling re-entrance to her own home would not sit well. She had left England for a man and was returning alone. Alone and abandoned.
“Very well,” she said aloud, pressing her eyelids against her knees to stop any tears that might plan to escape. “I will return home. I will pull together whatever pieces of my life that are salvageable and return to England.”
She flopped back onto the earth with a puff of air rushing from her lips.
Tall grass and wildflowers danced around her head as she stared at dazzlingly bright clouds scattered over the sky. The sweet scent of the blossoms surrounded her as the breeze ruffled petals and leaves. Birds chirped while a bee buzzed above. She swore the flutter of butterfly wings was audible against this background of hilltop silence.
She saw it all, felt it all, and yet something had turned cold in her heart.
“You look like a faerie, lying among the flowers.”
After one gasping, shocked, breathless moment, her lungs began to function again. Her view was only of the sky and clouds and waving flowers. She couldn’t see him, wherever he stood, but she knew his voice as well as her own.
She did not answer, some primitive, protective part willing her voice to be silent lest she had only dreamed of him again.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Cat. I was detained.”
Her breath hitched as the sob rose in her throat. He was here. Late, so very, very late, but he was here. He had not died by the hand of some foreign agent, he had not died during the crossing—and he had not forgotten her.
“Ass.” She hadn’t realized she’d harbored anger, but it was mixed with joy and pain.
“Yes.” He said nothing more, no explanation or further apology.
Cat closed her eyes against the sunlight, against the dizzying relief that Jones was alive and beside her, and let the anger and fear wash away. For a moment, there was nothing but the buzz and lilt of the countryside in her ears and dark gratefulness behind her eyelids—then the grass sighed as he knelt beside her.
She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid to look at him.
Had he changed? Would he still be the Jones she’d known eight months ago?
A rough, calloused fingertip touched her mouth, skimming over her flesh as though hesitantly relearning a long-forgotten treasure. It moved to her hair, tangling in the mass she hadn’t bothered to pin up in weeks. There was no one there to see it.
“I’ve missed you.” He whispered it, even as his hand stroked the unruly locks. “Missed you. Loved you. It seems I couldn’t stop loving you, even when I believed I would not come.”
“Was it so hard?” She still did not open her eyes, but let the memory of his face live behind her eyelids. The dark eyes, the serious mouth.
“Not hard, but time consuming once I made the decision to come. There were missions to complete before I could be reassigned.”
His hand move from her hair to her cheekbone, the work-roughened pad of his fingers smoothing over her skin. He stroked once, gently, and she could no longer keep her eyes closed.
He was the same. Leaner, perhaps, with tired shadows beneath his eyes, but he was the same. Jones. Her Jones. The dark, intense eyes, the lean planes of his face. Full lips she was desperate to kiss.
He had come.
There was sorrow around the edges of his mouth, drawing the corners down. His hand hesitated on her cheek, then fell way. His continued to watch her, as she lay in the grass and he knelt beside her. The sounds of the meadow became a low hum in her ears, barely a murmur against the steady drum of her heart.
“Has it been so long that I have lost you, Cat?”
For a moment, she could not answer. Had he lost her? She searched her mind, her heart. No. No, he had not. There was so much inside her, so much heart and love and purpose, and while she could live without him, and had these last months, she didn’t want to.
“No, Jones.” She drew a deep, long breath, the bodice of her gown pulling and stretching even as her heart stretched to love more of this man. “You have not lost me.”
The relief and joy on his face was beyond measure. Her throat constricted and burned with a fierce, desperate need to cry. His breath shuddered out with the same rhythm that shook his shoulders and for a moment she thought he was crying.
But those eyes were dry when they rose to meet hers. Dry and bright with a turbulent darkness that called to her.
“I was afraid you would not be here,” he whispered. “Every night I closed my eyes and dreamed of you here, in the golden light of Italy, but I never thought you would come.”
“Jones.” Cat brushed aside a daisy dancing in the breeze and reached her hand up to cup his face. “I told you I would. I promised.”
“Yes.” He pressed a kiss against her palm. “Yes, you did.”
The sheer wonder in his voice made her want to cry again. This man—this wonderful, responsible, intelligent man—did not believe she could love him enough to wait. Her heart broke for him, then soared again. She’d kept her promise.
“There is only us, now, Jones. Here on this hillside. I waited here for you every day, because I thought perhaps I would see you sailing down the river, or riding up from the village.” Her gaze skimmed over every feature, drinking in the face she’d only been able to see in her mind these last months. “Be with me here, Jones, where I waited. Love me on this hill.”
Time spun out, filled with golden sunlight and the steady beat of the pulse in Jones’s throat.
“It will not be our first time.” She smiled at him. “But you will be the last man.”
Something went tight in Jones’s face—tight, but not angry. It was powerful, and so intense she shivered beneath his gaze.
“Cat. My love.” His mouth touched hers, gently. Whiskers rasped against her cheek and sent delicious pleasure winging through her body.
She twined her arms about his neck and met his lips as he lowered himself to the grass beside her. Slipping a hand beneath her back, he began to work the buttons of her bodice, quickly, and with almost frantic movements—though his mouth was lazy in its exploration of hers.
“Jones,” she whispered. “Let us not waste time with our clothing.”
He paused, looking down at her with such seriousness that her heart swelled with joy of being loved with a passion that excluded all else. “A very good suggestion.”
They disrobed quickly, tugging at ribbons and laughing. Through it, she became more aware of every inch of her skin, of the scent of his skin and the warm Tuscan sun. When he lay her down on his spread coat, she was ready to bring him into her.
Though his body was clearly ready, he waited, setting his mouth on her breast and his tongue to her nipple. She arched up, running her hands through the hair that grown during their time apart. It layered thick around his face and gave her more to tug.
He chuckled lightly and moved his lips to the valley between her breasts. Each kiss he feathered there created a wave beneath her skin. That wave grew as he moved down her body, tasting her inch by inch. It was as if he were trying to match her body to his memory.
Finally, he rose above her. She ran her hands up strong arms to grip his shoulders. So broad, and so willing. The strength there, the smooth skin rippling over muscle thrilled her.
The intensity shone in his eyes again, darkly full of promise and love. He pressed against her core, hot and hard, his gaze never leaving hers.
“I love you, Cat,” he whispered as he slipped into her, filling both her body and her heart. “I will love you always.”
“Did I tell you of my new assignment?” Sated, ridiculously full of love for her, Jones reached for a strand of curling, deep red hair. He let it slip and slide through his fingers. Their happiness had been as slippery as those lovely curls, but he could no longer pretend he didn’t want to capture it.
“No.” Her legs were tangled in his, though her arms were thrown above her head to rest in the tall grass. She was open to him, heart and body. “Is it here in Italy?”
“No. England.”
“I beg your pardon?” She sat up, quick as a flame might catch fire, to stare at him. Her breasts were exposed to the sunlight, and he could not help but run a finger from her shoulder, down the line of her breast to touch its pink tip.
“I am entering partial retirement, much like the Shadow.” The idea did not fill him with fear as it once had. “Sir Charles will call upon me occasionally, as needed. The rest of the time, I shall attend to my estates.”
Her mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is that all you can say?” He laughed, as it was such a pleasure to surprise her.
She only blinked at him, sun shining on her freckled shoulders and turning her hair to brilliant flame.
He sobered, though a smile still tugged at his lips. “I would have you marry me, Cat, if you are still willing. We could return home.”
“How can we? The scandal will be horrendous. We’ll be ostracized immediately.” Her gaze flicked over his face, the blue that had haunted his dreams clouded with doubt. “Even if we manage the first wave of outrage, we’ll never be truly accepted again. You said yourself, the ton will always buzz with gossip when you appear.”
“I did say that.” He set his arms around her, drew her warm body against his. “If we marry and lived here in Italy, Cat, what of our children? What happens when they return home to claim their birthright?”
She stilled, the breath leaving her body so that the woman he held in his arms was frozen in a single, crystalline moment of Italian sunshine.
“Our children?” The word was like a whisper of wind through the grass.
“We’ll have children, Cat. Many, I hope.” He pressed his lips against hers, softly. Wanting her to feel the love spilling over inside him. Yet, beneath all that love was truth. “When they return to England to claim their inheritance, the scandal will be theirs, not ours. They will not be accepted. If we weather the storm first, they may be accepted. More—” He breathed deep, knowing he was sending himself into the lion’s den of the ton. “More, you and I can stand together. We can provide our children with an example, so they understand love and sacrifice and strength. We can teach them to stand against those who would put money and property above others. We can show them how to navigate their birthright using the gift of love.”
“Oh, Jones.” Elegant, smooth hands cupped his cheek. Her gaze rested now on his, lips curving up. “That’s—that’s—”
“Ridiculously sentimental.” He felt foolish. Moving away, he began to roll into a crouch. The hand on his arm stayed him, then gently pulled him back toward her.
“Brave.” She sighed the word, her gaze meeting his. “It will not be easy.”
“No.” He ran his hand up her calf, down, willing comfort to flow from his touch and into her. “Though I plan to be too busy making love to my wife to notice.”
She laughed, a soft, amused sound that lifted his heart. “That can be arranged, Jones.”
“I don’t want to live in the shadows, Cat.” He’d done so all of his life. First in the rookeries, then in training, then as spy. He settled down beside her, kneeling almost at her feet. “Not with you.”
The wind kicked up, pushing at the grass so it rippled and rolled across the meadow. The wind pushed at her hair, too, so the strands danced around her face. When she tipped her face up to the sky and let the gold light of Italy gild her skin, his heart simply stumbled to a stop.
She was smart and beautiful—and she was his.
“I love you, Cat.”
Her eyes remained closed, her face still angled toward the sun, but her lips rose in a radiant smile.
“Let’s stay here a few months,” she said. “Let’s enjoy a little time before we face it all.” Now she did look at him, with eyes that echoed her soul. “When we go home, we’ll face all the difficulties of the ton. We’ll let the tide of scandal rage. In a few years, the scandal will not be as great, and a few years after that, it will only be whispered about. When we’re old and gray, no one will care.”
“In the interim, you will have to show me how to go on as a landowner and a man of the ton.” He grinned at her, relief and pleasure swirling in him. “I would not want to wear the wrong cravat.”
She cocked her head. “Considering you’re not wearing anything at all, Jones, I’d say a cravat is the least of your worries.”
Cat reached for him, uncurling her naked body. Running delicate hands up his forearms, she leaned forward, revealing the round loveliness of her breasts. He breathed in her scent, mingling with the sweetness of wildflowers. When she pressed her mouth to his, her fire hummed in his blood again.
She drew back to look at him, the butterfly blue alluring and filled with desire.
“Make love to me again, here in the field. Then we’ll return to the house, and you can make love to me again there.” She smiled at him. “Someday soon we’ll return to England, we shall be married, and you can make love to me there.”
It seemed to him his future wife was very wise.
“As you wish, my lady.”