CHAPTER NINETEEN
ROCHFORD CROSSED THE room in two long strides and plowed his fist into the other man’s jaw. Perkins reeled back and crashed into the wall beside the bed. As he struggled dazedly to right himself, the duke grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. He wheeled and, grasping the back of Perkins’ jacket, propelled him with all his force forward, so that Perkins slammed into the wall beside the door. Perkins bounced off that wall and staggered back, falling in a heap on the floor.
Rochford turned to Francesca. “My God. Are you all right?”
Gently he pulled the sides of her nightgown together, covering her nakedness, then reached up to unfasten the gag that was wrapped around her mouth.
“Sinclair! Oh, Sinclair!” She fought back the tears of relief that threatened to flood her eyes. “Thank God you came! But…how did you get here?”
He bent to kiss her forehead, then turned to unfasten the knot that bound her to the post of the bed. Behind them, Perkins thrashed about on the floor and pulled himself up on all fours, then to his feet. Weaving drunkenly, he reached behind him, beneath his jacket, and pulled out a knife.
“No! Sinclair! Watch out!” Francesca cried.
Rochford whirled and saw the man lurching toward him, knife in hand. Dodging to the side, he grasped Perkins’ arm in both hands and slammed it against the footpost of the bed. There was an audible crack, and Perkins shrieked as the knife tumbled harmlessly out of his hand. Bunching his fist into the front of Perkins’ shirt to hold him in place, Rochford jabbed the other man twice in the face.
Only his hold kept the other man upright. Rochford spun him around, and, seizing his unbroken arm and twisting it behind his back, once again propelled Perkins into the wall beside the door.
Perkins let out a moan of pain, protesting, “No! No! Leave off! You’ve broken my arm!”
“You’ll be lucky if that’s the only thing I break,” Rochford retorted coldly. “For daring to touch Lady Haughston, I am tempted to smash every bone in your body.” For emphasis, he pulled back and shoved Perkins into the wall again. “You’re a worthless piece of scum, and I wish to God I had dispatched you the other night.”
“I didn’t do anything! Ask her! Ask her! I haven’t taken her. I swear it.”
“Sinclair! Don’t kill him,” Francesca put in quickly. “It’s true. He hadn’t quite gotten to it yet.”
Rochford’s jaw clenched. After a long moment, he growled, “Be glad for that, then, for if you had hurt her, I would make sure you died a very slow death. As it is, you are going to gaol, and I plan to devote myself to making sure that you stand trial for shooting Avery Bagshaw.”
Perkins began to babble in protest, but Rochford ignored him, shoving him out into the hallway, where a small crowd had gathered and were watching the scene with avid interest.
“Here, innkeeper, take this man and tie him up.” Rochford thrust Perkins into the hands of the large man who stood at the front of the crowd.
When the innkeeper began to protest, Rochford fixed him with the stare for which he was justifiably famous and told him, “Unless you plan to spend the night in gaol for aiding and abetting this criminal, I suggest that you tie him up and send for the magistrate.”
His statement was followed by a goggling silence, and Rochford stepped back inside, closing the door after him. As the latch no longer worked, he shoved the chair in front of it to keep out any prying eyes and hurried back to the bed.
He snatched up Perkins’ knife from where it had fallen on the mattress and cut Francesca free from the bedpost. Then he sliced the sash just below the knot at her wrists and turned to sawing through the rope that bound her ankles while she unwound the sash from her hands.
Her hands and feet began to tingle madly as the blood rushed back into them, and she had to press her lips together at the sudden pain. Tossing the knife onto the table beside the bed, Rochford chafed her feet in an effort to return warmth to them. After a moment, he released her feet and reached up to gently brush her hair from her face.
“Are you all right? Truly? Did he hurt you in any way?”
For answer, Francesca only threw her arms around him and clung tightly. His arms went around her with equal fervor, and for a long moment they simply clung together, as if that would somehow drive the previous night from their minds.
“I was so scared,” Francesca whispered. “He didn’t hurt me—well, apart from some bumps and bruises. But I was so afraid. I was certain no one would come after me quickly enough.”
“Thank heavens your butler and maid came running to me the instant they saw him carry you out of the house. And I went straight to his lodgings, hoping he had taken you there. His valet was there, packing up his things, and it did not take me much time to find out where Perkins was headed.”
He pressed his lips to her temple and murmured, “I died a thousand deaths tonight, thinking I would not reach you in time. Afraid the valet had been more foolish than I thought and had led me astray. When I think of him hurting you—”
“I’m all right,” she assured him, turning to kiss him lightly.
Then she kissed him again, her lips lingering on his this time. When she pulled away, he took her head between his hands and leaned in, his mouth seizing hers in a long, fierce kiss. All the roiling fear and rage that had eaten at him as he chased Perkins and Francesca now burst out of him in white-hot desire.
A long shudder shook Francesca, and she threw her arms around his neck. They kissed frantically, desperately, as if at any moment they might be pulled apart. They rolled across the bed, hands and mouths touching, tasting, exploring, in a maelstrom of passion.
They pulled and tugged at their clothing as they kissed, pausing only for him to wrench off his boots and throw them on the floor. Her nightgown, torn as it was, was easy to slide out of. His clothes were less so, and there was the sound of buttons popping, and even a tear as he yanked off his shirt and skinned out of his breeches.
But then, at last, they were naked and open to each other. He drove into her hard and fast, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging, almost sobbing in her need. There was no world outside of them, no thought or emotion but the desire pounding through them, so close together that they could not tell where one ended and the other began. And so they rode the storm of their passion until at last they crashed through into an explosion of pleasure that left them drained and floating blissfully.
Finally, he rolled from her and wrapped his arm around her, reaching out with the other to pull the counterpane over them. Francesca snuggled into him, too spent and exhausted to speak, and in the delicious warmth of his arms, she drifted off to sleep.
THE NOISES OF THE INN woke her. She had slept dreamlessly, never moving from the position in which she had fallen asleep. Sinclair was still draped around her, though the cover had long since slid from their bodies. She smiled a little to think what a picture they would have presented had someone entered the room.
She must have moved, for he came awake instantly beside her. She felt the sudden tension in his arms, and he raised his head, then settled back down, relaxing.
“How do you feel?” he asked, kissing the point of her shoulder.
“Wonderful—and a trifle sore.”
She felt his fingers trail down her spine, pausing at a tender spot low on her back and another on her side.
“I should have killed the filthy bastard,” he growled. “Did he hit you?”
“Once, when he first captured me.” She reached up to her hairline to touch a tender spot.
He gently kissed the place her fingers had found. “Perhaps I will advise the magistrate to release him after all, and then I’ll make sure he’s never seen again.”
Francesca smiled. “Thank you for the thought, but I would not have you do that. It would cause you guilt in the end.”
“I think not.”
“Well, I do not wish it.” She linked her fingers through his. “The rest of the bruises came from our struggling in the carriage—oh, and when I landed in the grocer’s stand.”
“The what?”
She giggled, finding humor in the incident in retrospect. “The grocer’s stand. We drove through the market area when he first took me. There were vendors all about, beginning to set up their wares. We had slowed down, so I jumped from the carriage—that was before he had bound my legs, you see—and I landed among the fruits and vegetables. It made for a softer landing, I suppose, but it doubtless gave me bruises.”
“So you led the blackguard on a chase.” He let out a bark of laughter. “I should have known that you would make it hard on him.”
“I fear I was reaching the end, though,” she told him, then lifted his hand and kissed his palm. “Thank you for coming after me.”
“Always.” He kissed her neck where it joined her shoulder.
“You must get very tired of rescuing me,” she went on softly.
“I would never tire of rescuing you,” he assured her, going up on his elbow and turning her onto her back, so that he looked down into her face. “I hope that I am always there when you need me. But you know, it was you who rescued yourself. Had you not fought as you did—screamed and struggled and jumped into the fruits and vegetables—I could not possibly have reached you in time. You delayed him—your courage…your strength.”
Emotion swelled Francesca’s throat, and she smiled up at him. He bent to kiss her, then pulled back with a sigh.
“If I stay here much longer, I won’t be able to leave at all.”
“Leave?” Francesca watched as he rolled away and got out of bed. She sat up, pulling the sheet up to cover her chest, feeling suddenly modest now that he had left the bed. “Why? Where are you going?”
He pulled on his breeches and continued to dress as he explained. “To visit the magistrate about Perkins. To order you food and a bath brought up, if you’d like.”
“Oh, yes!” A bath sounded heavenly, but the empty rumbling in her stomach was almost as compelling.
Rochford flashed her a quick smile and leaned over the bed, resting his fists on the mattress, to kiss her lightly on the nose. “And I thought I might find you some clothing to wear. Much as I would enjoy the trip home with you wearing only that nightrail, I imagine you would rather have a dress.”
“I would indeed,” she agreed. However, she could not help but feel a trifle bereft as he pulled the chair from the door and left.
It was all very well for him to tell her how brave and resourceful she had been last night in fighting off Perkins, but she knew how scared she had been the whole time—and that some of the anxiety still lingered in her now, even though she knew that Perkins was safely locked up.
Two maids brought up a long metal tub. It was a far cry from Francesca’s own porcelain slipper tub at home, but the maids filled it with warm water, and it was such a wonderful feeling to sink down into the heat that she did not mind that it was a trifle cramped and anything but elegant.
Somehow the maids’ chatter relaxed her and helped ease the anxiety inside her. Even their rampant curiosity and sidelong gazes were so normal that Francesca felt more herself again.
After they left, she lay back and relaxed, her lids drooping in exhaustion, but her eyes flew open when the door was shoved back. Then she saw that it was Rochford who stood framed in the doorway, and she relaxed. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his eyes drifting slowly down her body. A smile hovered at the edges of his lips.
“You look very inviting, I must say,” he told her, tossing the bundle in his hand onto the bed.
“Perhaps you would care to join me,” she suggested boldly, leaning back in the tub and making no move to cover herself.
The twitch became a grin. “I think there might not be enough room in there for both of us.” He sat down on the chair and pulled off his boots. “However, I would be happy to offer my services in drying you off.”
He shrugged out of his jacket and went to work on the buttons of his shirt as he walked toward her, then leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of the tub, and kissed her.
His lips moved slowly, deliciously, savoring the kiss, and by the time he pulled back, Francesca felt as warm and liquid as the water around her. She smiled up at him, the somnolent heat in her eyes beckoning him. He reached down and grasped her arms, pulling her up, and wrapped his arms around her.
She giggled. “You’re getting all wet.”
“I don’t care,” he assured her as his mouth sank into hers.
They made love unhurriedly this time, moving without haste in a counterpoint to their lovemaking of the night before. Caressing, kissing, making their way with almost agonizing slowness, they heightened their pleasure almost to the breaking point. Time and again they retreated from the intense peaks, until their bodies were slick with sweat and their breathing ragged, their flesh searing with desire. Then, at last, they came together, soaring on a wave of passion so strong that their bodies shook from it.
Afterwards, they lay curled together, lazily drifting in a state of golden, loose-limbed warmth. Sinclair brushed his hand down her arm and nuzzled into her hair.
“Francesca…”
“Mmm?”
“Whatever I missaid yesterday, I am sorry.”
Francesca stiffened, suddenly wary. “Sinclair, no—”
“Please, let me finish. I want to marry you. However you say, whenever it pleases you. I want you to be my wife.”
“Pray do not spoil this.” She rolled away from him, but he reached out and wrapped his hand around her arm, holding her in place.
“No, I will not let you do this. You are not running away from me again.”
“I am not running.” She turned back. She felt suddenly naked and exposed before him, and she pulled the sheet up over her chest and sat up to face him.
“What else would you call it?” He sat up, too, releasing her arm. “I am not a fool, Francesca, no matter how much I may have acted one yesterday. That was my pride speaking, my hurt over what happened fifteen years ago. But once I let myself look at it cleanly and clearly, I knew…” He doubled his fist and tapped it against his chest. “I know that you love me. Do not tell me that you do not.”
“Of course I love you!” Tears sprang into Francesca’s eyes, and she whirled, jumping off the bed and grabbing the bundle of clothes Sinclair had tossed on the bed earlier. She could not stand naked in front of him and argue. Hastily, she began to throw on the undergarments and the simple frock.
Rochford followed her, shoving his legs into his breeches and pulling them up, buttoning them high enough to stay on his body as he strode over to Francesca. His eyes were bright with anger and frustration, and color flamed on the high ridge of his cheekbones.
“Then why, in the name of all that is holy, do you refuse to marry me?” he thundered. “Blast it, Francesca, I cannot believe that you are playing a coquette’s game with me.”
“Of course not!” She faced him, her jaw set stubbornly, her hands fisted on her hips. “How can you even think such a thing? If you had but listened yesterday instead of charging off like a wounded bull, I would have explained.”
His brows rushed together, and a light flared in his eyes, and for an instant Francesca thought that he was about to explode into a rage. But he set his jaw and said only, “Explain, then. I will endeavor not to behave like a bull.”
Francesca drew a breath. Now that she had the opportunity, she suddenly found it terribly hard to speak. Tears threatened to clog her throat and fill her eyes. She pushed them back. “I am being reasonable.”
“Reasonable!”
“Yes, reasonable. I am thinking about the future, about your future.”
“Unless you hope to see me suffer a long and lonely one, I fail to see how you are thinking of my future,” he retorted.
“You are a duke. You have to marry well.”
“And you are not good enough to be a duchess?” His brows sailed upward. “I must say, my dear, I have never known you to be so modest.”
“You know that I am not the sort to be a duchess,” Francesca protested. “It is not my lineage at fault. It is me.”
“And how, pray, are you not fit?”
“In so many ways! I am not sober or dignified. I don’t think about important things or read weighty tomes or engage in learned discussions. Gossip and fashion and parties—those are what I know. I am flighty and frivolous. We are horridly unalike. You will be bound to grow tired of me and regret marrying me.”
“Francesca…dearest…for someone who knows so much about love, there are times when you are remarkably obtuse. If I wanted someone exactly like me, I would be quite content living alone. I have no desire to marry a bluestocking or a bore or someone puffed up with pride of family. I promise that I will read all the weighty tomes and think all the deep thoughts that we are required to. And you…” His face softened. “You will give our parties and entrance our friends, win the love of my tenants, and make everyone wonder how I could have caught a jewel such as you. And every day you will fill my eyes with beauty.”
He took her by the shoulders and kissed her softly on the mouth. “Believe me, I know a great deal about regret. I have suffered it for fifteen years. I will not regret marrying you. Your frivolity, your love of fun, your laughter, your smile—those are some of the things I find most enchanting about you. I want to laugh. I even want you to stick a pinprick in my pride now and then. Sweet heavens, don’t you realize—you are everything I could want in a wife.”
His words made her heart swell with love. She wanted to give in, to admit that nothing would make her happier than marrying him. But she could not allow herself to do so. She had to be strong.
She pulled away, saying, “I am not young. I am a widow.”
“I care not.” He crossed his arms, facing her.
She stared at him, frustrated. Her throat was tight, and she felt as if it was filling with such anger, such loss, that she might explode at any moment. Finally, as if it had been torn from her, she cried, “I cannot have children!”
Sinclair stared at her. Then he stepped forward, his arms going around her gently and he pulled her to him, cradling her against his chest. “Oh, my God, Francesca…I am so sorry.”
He kissed the top of her head and laid his cheek upon her hair. Francesca melted into him, unable to stand against his tenderness. She let him hold her, leaning on his strength, soaking in his warmth, taking the comfort that had never been offered her by the father of the child she had lost.
Rochford lifted her up and sat down in the chair by the window, holding her in his arms. For a long time they sat that way in silence, his head lowered to hers, wrapped together in regret and sadness. But finally, with a sigh, Francesca sat up, wiping at her cheeks to remove the tears that had escaped.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
She nodded. “I—I lost a child that I was carrying, and the doctor told me I would probably never have another one. He was right. I never conceived after that.” She gave him a small, glancing smile, and stood up, moving away. “Now you understand.”
“I understand that you have carried a burden of sorrow for years,” he replied carefully, standing up. “But is this why you refuse to marry me?”
“Yes, of course!” Francesca swung to face him. “Do not play dense with me. The Duke of Rochford cannot marry a barren woman. You have to produce heirs. You have a duty, a responsibility to your name, your family.”
“Pray, do not tell me about my duty,” he retorted, his face tight. “I have lived with it all my life. Since I was eighteen, I have done my utmost to live up to the name, to avoid tarnishing or betraying it in any way. Indeed, I have sought to improve it. But I am not going to sacrifice my life on the altar of Rochford. I am more than just the Duke of Rochford. I am Sinclair Lilles. And I will marry as I wish—not for my family, not for the name, not for the estate, but for me! You are the woman I want for my wife. You are the one I love.”
Francesca stared at him. “You—you love me?”
He looked back at her, puzzled. “Yes, of course. Isn’t that what we have been talking about? I love you. I want to marry you.”
Francesca’s knees felt suddenly weak, and she went to the chair and sat down. “I…but—you never said it.”
He gaped at her. “Never said it? I asked you to be my wife. Indeed, I asked you three times! Why else would I ask you?”
“Because my family is old and well-connected. I would be acceptable. You explained all those things to me when you asked me to marry you the first time. You told me how right and agreeable it would be for the two of us to marry. How we knew each other well and our families were—”
“I was trying to convince you,” he retorted. “Not myself. I knew I wanted to marry you, and it had nothing to do with your family.”
“You desired me. I understand that. I am aware that my face and form are pleasing to men.”
“You are more than pleasing to me. You always have been. When I saw you dancing at my house that Christmas, your hair up and your skirts down for the first time, I was dazzled. I lost my heart utterly and completely. Francesca…I burn for you. I am like a schoolboy again. Whenever you enter the room, my knees threaten to turn to water.”
“Truly?” Francesca tilted her head, a pleased smile curving her lips. “But when we were engaged, you never—well, you hardly even kissed me.”
He let out a groan. “My God, Francesca! You were eighteen, barely out of the schoolroom. Did you think I was going to grab you and ravish you?”
“No, of course not, but—I did not think you loved me.”
“You are so exasperating, I could shake you. I was trying to play the gentleman, however little I felt like it around you.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I lay awake at night, thinking of you, too filled with lust to sleep. I still do.”
“But—that is not love.”
“Desire alone does not last for fifteen years. That is how long I have loved you. No matter how I tried not to, I could not stop. There was no other woman who woke my interest.”
“Do not try to tell me that you have been celibate for fifteen years.”
“No. I will not lie to you. There have been other women, but none that I loved. None I would have married. When you broke it off, I did my best to hate you, and then I tried to forget you. It was like a knife in me every time I walked into a party and saw you there with Haughston. So I stayed away. I spent more time at my estates and less in London. Then Haughston died and I—It is wicked of me, but I admit it, I was filled with happiness the day I heard of his death.”
“Why did you never say anything?”
“What was I to say? You still held a low opinion of me. How was I to convince you that Daphne had lied? After all those years, it seemed an impossible task. And I—well, sometimes my pride is my own worst enemy. I told myself I would not grovel to you. Your love for me had died years ago. I saw no signs that I could bring it back. We had a sort of friendship. And perhaps…perhaps I was not brave enough to risk breaking my heart again. But this last year, it seemed…easier, I suppose, between us. When you told me Daphne had confessed what she had done, I hoped that you might come to feel differently about me.”
“Then why did you start looking for a wife? Why did you ask me for my help?”
“Sweet Lord, Francesca, what was I supposed to do?” His face contorted with frustration, and he swung away from her, beginning to pace. “You told me that you wanted to make it up to me by finding me a wife! It was clear that you had no feeling for me. But I realized—well, at first I was furious, and I wanted to lash out at you, but then I saw that this was a way to allow me to spend time with you. I thought that I could subtly woo you under the guise of letting you find me a bride.”
“So instead of courting those girls…”
He nodded. “I was trying to court you.”
Francesca could not hold back a little giggle. “What fools we both are.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I think perhaps we are.” He pulled her into his arms. “I love you, Francesca, more than anything or anyone in the world. I want to marry you.”
“But your heir…” She resisted, not leaning into him.
“Blast the heir. My cousin Bertram can inherit, or his sons. And if he manages to produce none, then it will pass to some other distant relative. I will be dead then, anyway, and I do not think I will care. What matters to me are all the years remaining to me…and spending them with you.”
He reached down and tilted up her chin. “Francesca…beloved…you are the only woman I want for my duchess. Will you marry me?”
Francesca looked up at him, and it was a moment before she could speak past the lump in her throat. “Yes, Sinclair. I will marry you.”
THEY WERE MARRIED two days later in Lilles House in London. The ceremony was simple, with no family or friends except Irene and Gideon to witness as the duke slipped the Lilles wedding ring upon her finger.
Rochford had obtained a special license before he had asked her to marry him that day in her garden, and he called in his favor to Lady Mary’s fiancé, Christopher Browning, asking him to marry them posthaste. He had no intention, Rochford told Francesca firmly, of allowing her to slip away again. And Francesca, smiling, had agreed. In truth, she wanted to waste no more time being anything other than his wife.
Afterwards, when their friends had left, Rochford took her hand in his and said, “Come. I have a present for you.”
She laughed as she followed him upstairs. “Another gift? But you have positively showered me with gifts. All the jewels…the dresses I ordered yesterday from Mlle. du Plessis.”
“Those are but a drop in the bucket,” he assured her with a grin. “It is my intention to buy you so many clothes that even you will not be able to wear them all. And slippers. And jewels. We will buy every gown and bauble in Paris on our honeymoon. I have years to make up for, years when I could do nothing, had no right to do anything for you, and I had to stand by and watch as you struggled.”
He led her into his bedroom and across to the small dressing room beyond. Unlocking a door in the wall, he revealed a closet of shelves behind it, many of them filled with jewelry cases. He removed a mahogany jewelry box and carried it out to the bedroom, setting it on a table.
“More jewels?” Francesca laughed. “How many jewels can the Lilleses have?”
“A positively vulgar amount, I assure you,” her husband replied. “However, these are different. They do not belong to the Lilles family. They are yours.”
Intrigued by his words and expression, Francesca pulled open the bottom drawer of the small chest. In it lay a sparkling tiara. Her eyes widened. It was a tiara that had belonged to her grandmother. She had given it to Francesca when she married Lord Haughston. Francesca looked over at Sinclair, her eyes wide.
“I don’t understand.”
He nodded toward the box, and she continued opening the drawers, taking out necklaces and bracelets, earrings and rings…all sorts of jewelry that had once belonged to her. The Haughston parure of emeralds Andrew had presented her with on their wedding day…a brooch of pearls and sapphires that Dom had given her…the pearl necklace from her parents.
“These are the things I sold!” Francesca stared at him. “You—you bought them?”
He nodded. “I saw a necklace once at the jeweler’s and recognized it as one you had worn. I was certain, and I managed to worm the information out of the man. He admitted that your maid had been selling things for you. So I bought it, and I told him to bring everything else you sold him to me.”
“So that is why I was able to get such good prices for them! I thought it was Maisie’s amazing bargaining skills.” Francesca laughed, tears filling her eyes. “I never dreamed that it was you….”
“The gold and silver pieces are downstairs in the butler’s pantry.”
“No! You bought all those, too? You did not need to take those, as well.”
“I doubted that most of them meant much to you, but I wanted to make sure—” He broke off and shrugged.
“That I got the best price for them,” Francesca finished.
“I am sorry. I could not buy your wedding ring back. He told me he had already sold it.”
“It doesn’t matter. None of them matter.” She smiled at him, her face glowing, struggling to hold back the tears in her eyes.
She understood now the depth of his caring. What he had done for her all these years, silently, expecting nothing in return, thinking that she loved him not, knowing that she had believed lies about him—yet despite all that, he had secretly purchased the things she had sold only because he wanted to help her. Because he could not bear to see her struggling with her poverty. She saw now, too, how often he had manipulated things so that she could make money—the bet he had made with her last year about finding a husband for Constance, the way he had led his great-aunt to her to arrange a wife for Gideon, the allowance for food he had arranged with her butler when Callie stayed with her, which she was sure had been far in excess of what was needed.
She swallowed hard and took his hands in hers. “All that matters is that you wanted to buy them. I love you more than I can ever tell you.”
“That is good. Because I love you even more.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. His hand curled around the sapphire bracelet he had given her after their bet. She had worn it and the sapphire earrings today; her dress had not mattered, but those gifts from him had.
He rubbed the sapphires thoughtfully with his thumb. “I thought that I would have to pay a great price for these. I feared you might have sold it somewhere else. The other day, when I saw you wearing it and my earrings…why did you not sell them?”
“I could not sell those,” she told him, her unshed tears shining like jewels in her eyes. “They were all I had of you.”
“Oh, my love.” He pulled her to him, hugging her fiercely. “Now you have all of me. You always shall.”
He bent his head and kissed her.