Epilogue
She was out in the rain again. It was the silliest thing, she was always doing it, and it was going to get her sick one of these days. She just stood there, head tilting back, breathing in the fresh air and soaking her skin and clothing with the raindrops.
An artist would have wept at the beauty in the scene, and begged for opportunity to capture it onto canvas.
But there were no artists here, and certainly no weeping.
“Helena Thornton, what do you think you are doing?”
The little dark-haired girl looked coyly over her shoulder and wrinkled her nose up. “Catching raindrops.”
“Oh? What with?”
“My face.”
Rafe chuckled and opened the door further. “Well, you’ve certainly caught enough for today. Come on inside and dry off now.”
His daughter turned and put her hands on her hips, her brow furrowing in a frown. “You never force Mama to come inside when she does it.”
“Your mama is a grown woman and I do not force her to do anything.” He waved her in, his expression serious, despite his urge to laugh. “You, however, I can, because I am your father, and it is getting cold.”
Helena grumbled under her breath and marched towards him.
He bit back a smile as he took the toweling from the maid and rubbed it through his daughter’s long hair. She crossed her arms, shivering slightly.
“I told you it was cold,” he teased, moving to wrap the towel around her shoulders.
“It wasn’t cold until I came inside,” she insisted firmly.
Rafe sighed a longsuffering sigh, knowing his daughter took after him in many ways, despite looking exactly like her mother. And her uncle Rogue was a horrible influence on her. “Well, we had better sit by the fire then, hadn’t we, poppet?”
She grinned up at him and nodded.
He moved over to the large chair by the fire, and laughed when she jumped into his lap, snuggling close. She was almost too big to be doing this, and it would break his heart when she was. At a very precocious eight years old, she was growing more and more independent, with some rather mature moments, and her younger siblings followed her lead in all things.
It was one of the reasons Rafe rarely slept well anymore.
“What did you do today, poppet?” he asked her, running his hand over her damp head.
“Mama let Anna Riverton come to play,” Helena replied, sounding sleepy. “She has the best dolls, and her papa is always giving her more.”
Rafe laughed and looked down at his oldest child. “And your papa does not?”
“No,” she said stubbornly. “You always say we must play with what we have until we can prove we deserve more.”
“That’s right,” he replied with a sage nod, enjoying the petulant tone his daughter employed. “And have you?”
“I should say so!” she retorted, pushing back and looking at him with a fierce frown. “I am always letting the boys play with my things, and I tend them while Mama and Cousin Helen visit, even when she brings those awful twins.”
“Don’t say awful.”
“AWE-FULL,” she insisted, pronouncing each syllable emphatically.
Rafe leaned his head back against his chair. “They are not awful.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Oh, all right, yes they are, but you are sweet for tolerating them.”
Helena sniffed with too much airs. “I know. But they do bring out the worst in Gabriel and Christopher. David behaves himself, but only just.”
“And what about Lucy?”
Helena smiled at the mention of her youngest sibling and only sister, not yet two years in age. “Lucy is perfect, Papa, and you know it.” She snuggled against him again, closing her eyes. “Why were you gone so long this time? It took ages for you to come back.”
He sighed and hugged his little girl close. “I’m sorry, poppet. Business took far longer than I thought it would, but it is all settled now, and I won’t be going away for a while.”
“That’s good,” she replied, her words slurring a little with her drowsiness.
Within moments, she was asleep, and he was close to it himself.
“When did you get home?”
Rafe turned at the soft scold of his wife, now standing in the doorway, as beautiful now as the first day he’d seen her in the streets of London. He smiled fondly, momentarily without words. “Only just,” he assured her.
She raised a brow and folded her arms, the motion emphasizing her swollen abdomen. “You know perfectly well you are supposed to come directly to me the moment you arrive from any trip, Rafe Thornton.”
The rule had been instituted almost from the first moments of their marriage, and he had never broken it before now. He’d never even considered doing so, as he rather liked greeting his wife first after an absence, even if it was only after one day. Nothing was certain in his life but the love of his wife and children, and he refused to take a single moment with them for granted.
“I was about to do so,” he told her, “when I saw our oldest out in the rain.”
Margaret smiled, her violet eyes twinkling merrily. “What was she doing? Dancing?”
He shook his head. “She said she was catching the rain. With her face.”
Margaret laughed, glancing out of the windows. “Well, it is a rather lovely rain today.”
Rafe gave her a playful look. “Are you so inclined?”
She smirked a little. “You just scolded our daughter for going out into the rain, Lord Marlowe. Are you now encouraging your wife to do the same?”
“I might be.” He shrugged as best as he could with his daughter sleeping in his lap. “There are far more benefits to my wife being out in the rain than my daughter.”
Margaret watched him for a long moment, her eyes softening. “I missed you,” she whispered.
Instantly, his teasing was gone. “Oh, pet…”
She waved a hand, the sheen of tears in her eyes now. “Stop.”
He shook his head and rose from the chair carefully, then deposited Helena back into it, covering her with a nearby blanket. Then he moved to his wife and pulled her into his arms.
“I always miss you when you’re away,” Margaret whispered, her voice wavering. “It doesn’t matter how many times you go, or how many years it has been, it always aches just as much as the first.”
“I know, love,” he murmured, kissing her hair and dusting his lips along her hairline. “It kills me to be away from you, each and every time. I hardly leave before I am yearning for home.”
She arched up to kiss his lips softly, lingering a bit, then she sighed. “I’m sorry. I should not complain.”
Rafe snorted and tucked her head under his chin. “My love, you are not complaining, and you never have. It is a hard thing I do, and you are an angel for putting up with it. Hush and let me hold you a while.”
Margaret patted his chest softly. “How was it?”
“Challenging,” he replied carefully. “But Kem and Lela send their regards, as well as gifts for the children.”
“I would have loved to see them.”
“Yes, I know. But not this time, sweetheart. Maybe next.”
He never told her specifics of his missions, and she never asked. He never told her of the dangers, but she knew anyway. She knew when he was worried, stressed, or needed assistance, and his rare bursts of temper had never once upset her. She took his comings and goings with patience and tolerance, and loved him when he was at his most unlovable.
He had devoted his life to loving her with passion and tenderness, to proving to her that he was worth the risk of loving him, but he still did not know why she had agreed to marry him after everything. Her parents had left England shortly after their marriage, and only returned for the occasional visits and to see the children, but Margaret had never expressed a moment of regret about their life.
She always teased that she’d wanted to remain in England, and he was her best alternative, but he’d never forgotten those harried days before their surprise betrothal, short as it had been. He’d never forgotten how close he came to losing her, and times like these, it felt closer than usual, and he held her a little tighter.
His one comfort in leaving her as often as he must was that she was never unprotected. Half of their servants were his operatives or part of the network, and extras were posted nearby when he was away. It might have seemed excessive, but he knew the others did the same.
“Are you well?” Margaret asked, bringing his thoughts back to his most recent mission.
“I am now,” he told her, tipping her chin back to kiss her softly.
Margaret broke off the kiss before he expected, backing away with a sly smile.
“Where are you going, Lady Marlowe?” Rafe purred, smiling and following her slowly.
She started humming softly, and turned to the terrace doors, pushing them open once more, then striding out into the rain, tipping her head back, just as her daughter had.
“It is a lovely rain,” she murmured in a throaty tone that drove him mad.
He stared at her for the longest time, his breath catching. He’d seen her do this before, hundreds of times, but it never felt any less stirring. This was the essence of his wife, and this was what had made him fall in love with her. Not her wit or her beauty, not her unconventional ways or stubborn will… It was this contentment, peace, and moving energy that encompassed everything she did and was.
She turned slightly to look at him, smiling as the rain dampened her hair and clothes further. “Come and dance with me, Rafe.”
He stared at her, held her loving, violet gaze with his own. “One,” he murmured slowly, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets.
Margaret’s full lips curved into a smile and she stared back at him.
At three she sighed.
At five her eyes turned a dusky, darker shade that almost undid him.
At eight his heart cried out for mercy.
At ten…
“Ten,” she whispered, exhaling unsteadily and holding out a hand to him.
He was to her in an instant, cupping her dampened cheeks and staring deeply into those wondrous eyes of hers. “I love you,” he choked out, his emotions completely beyond his control.
She kissed the palm of his hand. “I love you, too.” Smiling gently, she nuzzled against him. “Dance with me, Rafe.”
He chuckled and prepared to waltz, but she shook her head, turning her back to him. “Not like that,” she whispered. She placed his hand on her waist, then drew the other around her middle, and began swaying, humming once more.
Rafe pulled his wife flush against him, closing his eyes as they danced in the rain, turning and stomping, staying close to each other, their hands running the familiar courses of each other as they swayed and moved together.
A soft jingling sound accompanied them, and Rafe grinned as Margaret flashed her ankle at him, where a small chain of coins danced against her skin.
He pulled her back to his front, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her hungrily, almost smiling when one of her hands reached up to his hair, the other lacing with his fingers where they rested on her stomach, where their next child kicked in time with the dance.
“I love you so much, monisha,” Rafe rasped, stroking her jaw with a free hand.
Margaret smiled, and it dazzled him. “Darling Gent, I know you do.” And then she kissed him again.
Helena Thornton, now not so very asleep, watched her parents kiss in the rain, dancing in that rather strange way, and wondered where in the world her very proper mother had learned that, and how her slightly boring father had convinced her to marry him. And why in the world they were always counting to ten with each other…
They were a very unusual family, and she had far too many siblings for her taste, but they all loved each other, and she supposed there were worse things.
Besides, it was her mother who taught her to stand in the rain.
And someday, she had promised, some man will find that a very fine thing indeed.
Helena smiled now, and settled back down into her chair by the fire.
She did so love when her father came home.