Epilogue
Three days later. The River Suir, Waterford, Ireland.
“May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the Hills of Damnation that the Lord himself can’t find you with a telescope,” repeated the Duke of Rakecombe, peering up at his wife.
“Very good,” she flattered, so he tugged a lock of hair until she was forced to bend down for a kiss.
The river gurgled its delight while he savoured the taste of early strawberries on his wife’s lips and, as he lay with his head in her lap, he couldn’t think of a better place to be than by this river, kissing his wife and learning curses.
As Rainham had instructed, he’d taken just a sennight to honeymoon with his duchess in Waterford, and not only had he met Aideen’s father but also the infamous Uncle Seamus.
Her father had ranted about weak-willed English maggots, but a half hour in the study alone with him had seen a change of opinion. He was still the Duke of Ruthlessness after all, and love, as Jack had proclaimed, didn’t bring about miracles.
Then the much talked-of Seamus…
At this very moment, the jovial chap was bellowing to his dogs further along the river after they’d all enjoyed a picnic together. Her uncle was without doubt ingenious, an artisan, and he’d promised to craft a new cane for Rakecombe – an Irish wolfhound would grace the head this time, with onyx black eyes and a cherry tongue.
Aideen and he would return to London in a few days, as Napoleon gathered his strength and battle loomed.
Fraught times lay ahead, but Aideen would always be by his side, not separate but joined, for as long as forever would allow them.
The previous day, they’d discussed and agreed upon precautions for both their protection once they returned to the city. She’d removed a leaf from a tree with her red-enamelled pistol and nearly gutted him with her little knife. He’d apologised again for not trusting her, and thanked her for saving his life.
Talking late into the night, he’d offered to leave his work behind, but Aideen had tugged his hair and told him not to be ridiculous, that the country needed men like him more than ever with the coming danger.
Both of them had heard the unsaid words of sacrifice and love, care yet worry.
Long fingers brushed the curl from his forehead, halting his thoughts.
“Blasted thing,” he said lazily.
“I adore it,” she declared. “You appear…boyish.”
“How dare you!” And before she had time to struggle, he reared and rolled her back, pressing his wife onto the woollen blanket with the weight of his body. “I shall have to ensure my ruthless mien returns for London.”
“Oh good.” She grinned, eyes hinting of dark chocolate on this bright day. “I miss my duke’s cold stares and curt nods. They make me feel all peculiar.”
He stroked her cheek, suddenly serious. “I am that creature as well, Aideen. Priggish and aloof, but I will try not to–”
A kiss took his words, long and slow. “Don’t you dare,” she commanded. “It would be akin to me supressing my curses. ’Tis a part of you and a part I rather love. I love all of you, Alexander. The cold, the hot, the passionate, the ruthless. They make you.”
“My Aideen,” he whispered, lowering his head.
“Do you think,” she purred, as he plotted kisses along her bare shoulder, the sleeve having coincidently lowered with his teeth, “that I might at last know what your tattoo stands for?”
He smiled against her skin, deciding he would confide tonight about his alias’s initial, but for now…
“Desperately in love? Dying for you?” he teased, but she shook her head, laughing.
He stole that laughter with a searing kiss and her body arched.
Mindful of their location, he gentled his touch. “I am both of those, my love,” he murmured against her lips. “You are my wild River Suir, forever flowing with life and spirit, beguiling my mind with your melody, stealing my soul with your eyes, twining your grip around me. You quenched my ire and I was swept away with nary a chance to breathe.”
She gazed up, lips parted and eyes moist.
Lust and love flared within and his head lowered to–
A cascade of freezing cold water landed on his back, a growl rumbling in his ear.
“Murchú! Gerroff the duke, ya great lump,” shouted Seamus, “although from what I could hear, we’ve made an Irishman out of you in a matter of days with all that ‘quenching’ blarney.”
Alexander hauled himself from his duchess, the Irish wolfhound puppy still attached to his back – the puppy that would be returning to England with them.
Smiling, he imagined the butler’s face as this huge ball of fur hurtled and skidded around the marble hallways. The little blighter chewed his shirt and he grabbed hold of the drenched bundle, flumping it into Aideen’s lap to many un-duchess-like shrieks.
“I do seem to have kissed my very own enchanting blarney stone quite thoroughly,” Alex agreed, gazing at Aideen’s rosy swollen lips.
She grinned and the part of him which was pitiless and ruthless grinned back, thinking of all the ways he would kiss her tonight.
“You do know,” his wife replied, “that kissing the blarney stone is considered proof of perseverance, courage, and agility because, my duke…” She twirled a ringlet, raven eyes twinkling. “…it’s so awkward to get at.”
Seamus guffawed, and Alexander raised his duchess’s fingers to his lips, basking in the love of her gaze whilst returning it with equal measure.
“And that is what makes my reward all the sweeter, fy cariad aur.” And Murchú yipped his puppy delight.
The End