Epilogue
One year later
The changes in Theo were subtle to anyone who didn’t know him well, but to Annabel, they were everything. After he’d poured his heart out to her on ink and paper, there were no more late night wanderings—most of the time he managed to sleep through the night. The bruises she’d sometimes noticed underneath his eyes faded and the haunted look fled.
There were, occasionally, bad days, but they were becoming more and more seldom. She didn’t know if they’d ever go away completely.
But it was getting better. And they could work on it. They had time.
The important thing was that Theo was healing. He was learning to forgive himself. And he loved her with an openness and tenderness that she’d never dared to dream about, even in her wildest fantasies.
And those were really the only things that mattered to Annabel.
A letter came from Fiona, assuring Annabel that she and Mary were safe and doing well, assuring her that there would be many more letters, and she kept her promise.
And then, one overcast day, the post-runner dropped off a letter written in a hand they didn’t recognize.
Theo frowned down at the letter, and when he unfolded it by the window in the drawing room, his face went white.
Annabel’s heart jangled unpleasantly while she watched his gaze flicker over the paper. “What is it?” she whispered.
“It’s from Thomas Leander’s wife,” he said, almost inaudibly. He moved slowly to the table to sit down and read it. Then the letter fell from his hands and he stared down at nothing for several long moments.
She had no idea what to do, so she reached across the table and grabbed the letter. She could barely jumble the words together to figure out their meaning, but one line caught her attention— I’m sorry that I didn’t speak to you again before I returned to England. I was too caught up in my own grief to recognize yours. But I want you to know—if you need my forgiveness, it’s yours.
She moved around the table to stand behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. For long moments, the only sound in the room was the steady rush of their breathing. Eventually Theo stirred, as though coming back to life.
He lifted his head, took her hand, and pressed his cheek to her palm, breathing a little unsteadily.
“Are you happy?” she asked.
“Happier than I could have ever imagined,” he said. He pulled her around in front of him and then down onto his lap. “It feels like too much. Your acceptance was enough. More than enough.”
“But a part of you needed this, too.”
“I didn’t dare hope for it,” he said. “But yes, I think you’re right.”
“I usually am,” she said, lifting her eyebrow.
He traced the curve of it with his fingertip. “You are very contrary.”
“You love it when I’m contrary,” she whispered in his ear.
He grinned, pulled her close and began to kiss every visible portion of her throat. Theo was momentarily distracted from his task when Catriona stomped in, unrepentantly, with a small silver dish, muttering something about excessive displays of affection.
She set the covered dish on the table along with a spoon and stalked out again.
“What is this?” Theo asked, still holding onto Annabel.
“An anniversary gift,” she told him.
He stared at the dish suspiciously. She pulled it closer and lifted the lid with a flourish. When the food inside was revealed to him, he tipped back his head and laughed. He still didn’t laugh as easily as some men, but it was such a bright, deep, lovely sound that Annabel didn’t care.
She coveted each laugh, like the precious things they were.
“It’s your favorite, if I recall.”
“Indeed it is.”
She arched a brow. “Would you like to say a few words before you consume it?”
“Witch,” he said, but the oath sounded more like an endearment than a curse. “Actually, there is one thing I would like to do, but it doesn’t involve words.”
He lifted both the dish and the spoon from her hands. He dabbed a bit of lemon cream onto her lower lip and then sucked it from her, like a bee drinking nectar. Dabbed some along her collarbone and licked it away. He pulled at her bodice and spilled the cream onto her breast before his hungry mouth found it.
Her fingers dug into his arms as she fought to keep herself from moaning out loud. She was thinking they should probably take the dessert to their bedchamber before Catriona walked in on them again, when he lifted his head from her chest and pressed his lips to hers—the kiss was tart and creamy and sweet, exhilarating, but familiar, too.
“This,” he said, as though he could guess her thoughts, “is the best lemon cream I have ever tasted.”
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