CHAPTER TWELVE
Six weeks later …
aphne stood before the hearth in a drawing room of Fairchild House, holding her hands toward the blaze for warmth. She had just arrived home and needed to ward off the chill of the outdoors. Spring was fast approaching, and she would be grateful when it banished the last of the cold. It agitated her shoulder, which, even though the doctor had declared it to have healed nicely, plagued her when the weather grew cold and damp. Her black bombazine skirts rustled as she shifted to warm her back, the ugly, shapeless garment annoying her to no end.
Yet, one must skirt propriety and dress in mourning attire on the day that one’s brother faced the gallows … even when one did not plan to mourn said brother for a single moment.
Bertram’s trial had ended days ago, with him being found guilty of all the crimes leveled against him—including her attempted murder. Her appearance in court, with a white sling cradling her injured arm, had only aided Cunningham’s case and the testimony of the women he had harmed. He’d been sentenced to execution by hanging … a public event taking place just that morning.
She had attended the execution in her black mourning clothes, a veiled hat covering her face—though she’d still felt the eyes of the other spectators on her, watching, assessing. The narrative concerning her ruination had changed in light of Bertram’s crimes becoming public knowledge, and now, instead of scorning her, they pitied her, seeing her as some tragic creature brought low by the deeds of her brother.
In truth, she had preferred the scorn, abhorring this feeling of being looked upon as if she were some sort of wounded animal.
She’d ignored their pitying glances and open stares, lingering at the back of the crowd and watching as her brother was trotted out before the masses and allowed his last words. He had made a cake of himself, as she’d known he would, proclaiming that he’d been wrongly accused and harshly judged, and that the Earl of Hartmoor had succeeded in a malicious vendetta against him. None of it could save him in the end, and he was brought forward, the noose fit around his neck.
Daphne had watched every second of his death, refusing to so much as blink as the lever was pulled and Bertram fell through the trapdoor, his body jerking and writhing on the end of the rope. His neck did not break, and so he suffered right up until the very end, the violence of his end fitting with the pain he’d inflicted on others.
He had been there, too … even though she had not seen his face. She’d seen the carriage on the street overlooking the event, the curtains drawn tight enough that she could not peek inside. However, the Hartmoor coat of arms on the door had given him away, and so she’d stared after the conveyance, watching it disappear into the busy traffic the moment Bertram had gone still, slumping in the noose, dead.
She supposed he had stayed to view the execution. Now, he would return to Scotland, for he had no other reason to remain here.
She had not laid eyes upon him since the morning she’d awakened after being shot … since she had confessed her love for him only to have him walk away, leaving her in a puddle of her own tears.
From that moment on, she’d seen no one save the maids who cared for her—one of whom had been Clarice, sent for from her home on Half-Moon Street. The physician had come several times to inspect her wound and declare she was healing quite well. He did mention the possibility of damaged nerves, but as the injury had occurred in her left arm and not her dominant right, he did not foresee that it would hold her back very much. The fingers had been a bit sluggish, but with practice, she’d gotten them to cooperate. Not as strong as it had once been, her left hand functioned well enough for her to lift and grasp things, which satisfied her. She could have died or lost her entire limb … limited movement seemed a paltry thing compared to the other possibilities. She’d even begun practicing the harp again, and liked to think it helped to improve the dexterity of her hand.
She had not been able to leave her bed for a week, but once she had, it was to discover that the Callahan brood had vacated Fairchild House altogether. Not a trace of them remained, and not one of them had even come to say good-bye. Adam’s doing, she supposed. If they saw her, she might coerce them into helping change his mind. He knew her well.
The only thing he’d left behind had been an envelope on the desk in the study, which contained the deed to Fairchild House.
It had been placed in her name, free and clear.
She’d cried for hours upon finding it, both angry at him for such a gift and grateful.
Since then, her days had passed with excruciating slowness, her heart languishing even as her body healed. She missed him with an ache that would not abate … the melody of the pianoforte echoing through the house, the sounds of his footsteps on the stairs, the rough rasp of his voice in her ear right before he threw her down and ravaged her body.
Would it always hurt so much, being in the places he’d been and finding them empty? Would her heart always yearn for him, even when she knew he did not feel the same way?
How could he, if he’d found it so easy to walk away now that all had been said and done? Bertram was gone, the Fairchild legacy in tatters, and Olivia had been avenged, her secret safe, and Serena protected. She served no more use to him … as disposable as a pile of rubbish.
With a sigh, she glanced up as the butler entered the room, pulling her out of her wandering thoughts. When she raised her eyebrows in silent question, he cleared his throat and motioned toward the drawing room door.
“The Honourable Mr. Robert Stanley,” he declared.
She hardly had time to recover from the shock of hearing that name before the man himself stood before her, his hair tousled by the wind, the collar of his greatcoat sitting askew. He was as handsome as ever, looking like something out of a romantic novel … the perfect white knight arriving to save her from her loneliness and despair.
And she could not conjure an ounce of joy at the sight of him.
Still, she forced a smile, dismissing the butler with a wave. “Robert. This is … quite a surprise.”
He returned her smile, coming forward to take her hand and kiss it. “Indeed. I had thought to give you a few days given the circumstances, but … well, I did not think this could wait.”
She frowned, inclining her head. “What could not wait?”
Pointing toward a nearby sofa, he motioned for her to sit. She acquiesced, her curiosity piqued. He did not seem to be pressed by any urgency, despite the fact that they had not spoken since the night of his marriage proposal. Truly, she had not given it any thought since Adam had threatened to murder him if she said yes. She wondered if that threat proved an idle one now that he no longer claimed her as his own.
“First, I want you to know how sorry I am,” he began, turning his body so that he faced her, one leg bent on the sofa cushion. “For my ignorance concerning the things Bertram had done. If I’d known …”
“There was nothing you could have done,” she insisted. “I allowed myself the same guilt at one time, but I came to realize that none of it was my fault. Bertram made choices that put him in a position to hurt others … and has paid for it with his life.”
Robert nodded, as if he’d expected to hear that. “Then I am not sorry that he has met his end.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Neither am I.”
Nodding again, he cleared his throat and sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Secondly, I wanted to tell you … Hartmoor paid me a visit a fortnight ago.”
Her breath caught and held, her throat and lungs burning as she struggled to draw breath, to make her mind work. The mention of his name had thrown her into a muddle, and now, she could hardly breathe past the tears clogging her airway.
“He did?” she managed.
“Yes,” Robert confirmed, reaching into his coat pocket and coming out with a small object. “He gave me this.”
She glanced down to find the sapphire engagement ring in the center of his palm, glistening accusingly at her in the light of the sun coming through the window. Closing her eyes, she released a pained sigh.
“Robert …”
“It’s all right,” he said, clenching his fingers around the ring and placing the other upon her knee. “Truly, I … the conversation we had was quite … well, it was enlightening, to say the least.”
“What did he say to you?” she asked, leaning forward, prepared to cling to every word, even if it came from someone else’s lips. She was truly a pitiful creature.
“That he no longer had any intention of interfering if I decided to continue pursuing you,” Robert answered. “He gave back the ring and told me that I should allow you some time… but that, if you would have me, I should try again to win your hand. He told me I’d be a fool if I didn’t at least try.”
That did not make her feel any better. In fact, it only made her feel worse. She shot to her feet, her palms going hot and her spine bristling as she paced away from the sofa.
“How dare he?” she spat. “As if I am his to give away like some … some trinket!”
Robert’s lips twitched as he stood, as well, inclining his head at her. “Actually, I found it all quite … romantic.”
She paused and swiveled to face him, her jaw dropping in disbelief. “Romantic?”
He shrugged. “Well, yes. Clearly, he loves you, Daphne. Why else would he try so ardently to mend what he destroyed?”
She opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, but the words died on her lips as she considered Robert’s words. He had walked away and left her in tears; he had not told her he loved her back when she’d confessed her feelings, though he’d at least had the grace to say goodbye this time. Conversely, he had returned her family home, had stayed away during Bertram’s trial, and had not interfered in any way. And now this. He must know that marriage would be the best thing for her, even if she wed Robert. People would soon stop treating her like a spectacle if she married the Honourable Robert Stanley and settled down in the country. She would have the sort of life he would suppose she deserved.
Perhaps a kind gesture, but did it prove his love?
Coming forward to take her hands once again, Robert looked her in the eye. “Listen to me, Daff. I still love you … and I think a part of me always will. And if you say yes, I will marry you today, tomorrow … whenever you wish. I will do everything within my power to make you happy and give you whatever your heart desires. Even if it means sending my mother off to the Outer Hebrides.”
She laughed. “Robert!”
He shrugged. “The weather there will be good for her gout. I mean it, Daphne. I’ll be the best husband I can to you, I promise. But …”
She frowned. “But what?”
His smile caught her off guard, as did his sincerity when he spoke again.
“We both know it would never be enough. Not when Hartmoor holds your heart.”
Tears filled her eyes again, and she muttered an oath under her breath. She was sick to death of crying, of feeling this way.
“It hardly matters,” she protested weakly. “Not when he could so easily leave me behind.”
Robert shook his head. “I looked him in the eye and asked him why he was doing this … why he was giving you up. He said—with so much conviction—that he was doing it for you. His words, his demeanor, everything about him struck me as being in line with the actions of a man in love. A man so deeply in love that he is willing to give you whatever you need … even if that something is not him.”
A tear fell, and then another, and then she was sobbing and smiling at the same time like an idiot because she realized that he was right. Robert was right, and the truth had been in front of her the entire time.
Adam loved her.
It was why he’d left, why he’d set her free. He’d all but said the words that day, proclaiming his desire to keep her to be selfish. He’d done the one and only thing he could have done to prove his love by letting her go and walking away.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, covering her mouth with one hand. “I’ve been such a fool.”
Robert chuckled. “Perhaps not a fool. Just … confused. We men are not always adept at spelling out our feelings.”
She swiped at her tears and laughed, shaking her head. “You’ve never had any trouble with it.”
His expression shifted, his smile becoming sad as he reached out to touch her, his hand cupping her cheek. “It has only ever been easy when it comes to you … even now, when I can feel you slipping through my fingers yet again.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Robert … surely, you must know I care so deeply for you. But I cannot marry you.”
He nodded. “I know. It is all right.”
She tried to smile, but found it difficult when guilt assailed her over having to break his heart yet again. “I wish I could be different. I wish I could be … the sort of woman who could love a man like you instead of a man like him.”
With a sarcastic snort, he shook his head. “No, you don’t … and do not lie to yourself or trick yourself into thinking you are. A woman like you was never made for a man like me, and I always knew that. You were made for fire and passion and … well, whatever it is that makes up a man like Hartmoor.”
Of course she was … she’d known that all along. Knowing that someone else could see it made her feel a little less mad for her feelings, her love for a man who had done nothing to deserve it. Except love her back.
“Well?” he prodded when she did not reply. “Shall we go after him? My carriage is just outside, and I do believe he is still at his hotel in Mayfair. We could be there in a quarter of an hour.”
A wide smile split her face, and she laughed, taking up her skirts in her hands and dashing for the door. Robert followed, lingering in the opening.
“Where are you going?” he bellowed as she rushed to the stairs.
“To change clothes,” she declared, pausing to glance him over her shoulder. “I’ll only be a moment, and then I would be so grateful if you’d take me to him.”
Robert gave her a puzzled look, but nodded, disappearing back into the drawing room. It seemed silly, wanting to change clothes at a time like this. But she refused to go to Adam in mourning attire … not when she had nothing to mourn, and everything to celebrate. Love. New beginnings. Hope.
Black bombazine did not go with such aspirations.
Adam slouched in the seat of his coach and closed his eyes, hoping the gentle bounce and sway of the vehicle would put him to sleep. As it was, it took everything he had not to pound the roof of the vehicle and command the driver to take him back to London.
Gripping the edge of the seat, he shook his head, reminding himself that he could not give in to that urge. He’d done an admirable job these past six weeks, staying away from Daphne even while occupying the same city as her. He’d left Fairchild House as soon as he’d known she would be all right, sending Niall back to Dunnottar ahead of him with Olivia and Serena. Then, he’d closeted himself away in a hotel suite, emerging only to read the papers for pieces of news concerning Bertram’s trial and set a few of his affairs in order.
He’d attended the execution that morning, the final thing he’d needed before he could quit London. He’d sat in his coach and watched through the curtains as Bertram had been brought to the gallows, unable to take his gaze away from the sight of his sister’s rapist jerking and choking at the end of a noose. At least, until it had ended, and he’d spotted Daphne in the crowd. His resolve had almost crumbled, and he’d nearly leapt down from the coach and pursued her, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her away. She’d never get away from him again; she would be his once more.
Except, he had let her go for a reason. Because it had been the right thing to do after she’d so selflessly placed herself between him and a loaded gun … after she’d proved with both words and deeds that she loved him.
The foolish girl. She had no notion of what loving a man like him meant, as even he had no notion. So, he’d forced himself to do what needed to be done, even when it enraged him to think of her with that weakling Robert. It would be good for her, and someday, she would forget about him.
And he … well, he would live in the same place of torment he’d wallowed in for most of his life. He had grown used to it by now, had learned to revel in the darkness, to endure the pain. What was one more loss when he’d never been able to cling to the people he loved?
Releasing an annoyed growl, he pounded the seat. He needed to stop thinking about her, or he might do something foolish like—
“Adam!”
He drew his eyebrows together at the muffled sound of his name being called, the voice just barely reaching him over the pounding of horses’ hooves and clatter of carriage wheels. Sitting up straight, he inclined his head and listened, certain he must be hearing things.
“Adam!”
It came again, unmistakable this time. A woman’s voice calling his name from outside.
He snatched open the curtains, squinting against the bright light of the afternoon. When his vision adjusted, he spotted an open-air barouche speeding alongside his coach, two people seated on the perch as a duo of matched black bays pulled it along. His eyes widened at the sight of Daphne, her redingote hanging open over her carriage dress, her loose hair billowing in the wind. His fingers twisted in the curtains, his gut churning as she grinned at him and waved.
His scowl deepened, his anger boiling to the surface as he raised his fist to pound on the carriage roof. What the devil was wrong with this woman? Had she not understood that he’d been determined to leave her … that he’d done it all for her own good? The idiot didn’t know what was good for her, and by God, he was going to make her pay for this … for forcing him to confront her when all he’d wanted to do was retreat to Dunnottar to lick his wounds in peace.
“Goddamn stubborn woman,” he grumbled as the carriage rumbled to a stop, the sound of the barouche slowing coming at him as he threw open the carriage door.
He jumped down and stomped toward the barouche, which had halted several yards ahead of him. His chest heaved when she came down out of the small conveyance and began running toward him, her coat fluttering behind her, her gown fisted and held up to reveal her stockinged legs and slippers. He couldn’t breathe through his rage, his hands clenching into fists as he imagined wrapping one around her neck and throwing her to the ground.
One more time, he told himself.
He’d throw her skirts up and fuck her in front of the person who’d driven her here, in front of his coachman and footman … he did not give a bloody damn. He’d fuck her and be done with her once and for all … he would show her. He would show her that he would not be swayed.
But then, she came closer, and he saw it … the purple bit of ribbon tied around her slender throat, the saucy bow resting just over her collarbone. His gut clenched, and air filled his lungs, and he could do nothing more than stand there and open his arms when she hurled herself at him with a laugh.
She was kissing him all over his face—his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, his jaw, his lips. And he was destroyed, torn apart and vulnerable, unable to resist clinging to her and dragging her tighter against him, her feet dangling off the ground. Then, she was leaning back to look at him, smiling and laughing and acting as if her brother had not just been hanged that morning.
“Dear God,” he said drily. “It has finally happened, hasn’t it? You’ve gone mad.”
She giggled and kissed the tip of his nose, using both hands to cup his face. “Tell me you love me.”
He flinched as if she’d struck him, his entire body tensing in reaction to her words. His voice came out gruff when he finally found the words to answer her.
“What?”
Sighing, she stroked his face, her fingers tickling the stubble that seemed to have grown on his jaw since just after he’d shaved this morning.
“Tell me you love me,” she whispered, her eyes wide and sincere, and bluer than he’d ever seen them against the backdrop of the cloudy sky. “Please. I know you do, but I … I need to hear you say it. I need to hear what we both know to be true.”
He shook his head, the words lodging in his throat and remaining there. He could not give her that … it was one line he hadn’t been willing to cross, even when setting her free. Because he’d known that once he declared it, it would be real … and once it had become real, he would never have been able to let her go.
“Damn you, little dove,” he rasped, warring with the part of him that needed to let her go and the parts of him that refused now that she was back in his arms. “You stupid little thing. You do not want this … my love isn’t the kind that nurtures or soothes. It’s the kind that hurts. The kind that destroys things. It’s the kind that consumes you until there’s nothing left.”
She sank into him, pressing her lips to his with a sigh, sending a shudder through his entire being.
“Then consume me,” she whispered against his mouth. “Take all of me, Adam. I give it freely … because if you tell me you love me, then that makes you mine. It will be an even exchange.”
They were kissing again, and he couldn’t stop drowning in her, tasting her, staking his claim with his lips and tongue and teeth.
“Goddamn you,” he growled into her mouth. “I was trying to do the honorable thing for once … I let you go … I walked away.”
“And I’ve come after you,” she insisted. “Now put us both out of our misery, Adam, and just say it. Say it, and I am yours always. Tell me you love me.”
The last bit of his resistance melted away, and before he could think better of it, he’d turned and begun walking toward his coach with her still in his arms. He tightened his hold when she moved, not willing to give her a chance to escape now that she’d put herself back in his clutches. Yet, she merely adjusted her grasp and clung to him, seeming disinclined to put up any fight.
“I love you, damn it,” he grumbled. “I fucking love you! Are you happy, little dove? Now you’ll never be rid of me.”
She laughed, kissing his neck, which only made his cock swell. The organ had taken on a life of its own, trying to push its way through the layers of their clothes to get to her. It wouldn’t wait much longer to have its satisfaction, and after six long weeks, he did not intend to force it to. He had tried walking in Covent Garden, perusing the offerings of the various whores, hoping one of them would prove enough to tempt him, to help him exorcise this madness in his blood. He’d returned to his inn disappointed, unable to follow through when no woman could give him what he needed like his little dove.
“I most certainly hope not,” she said, biting his ear.
“Control yourself,” he snapped, needing to keep himself in control until they were ensconced in the privacy of the carriage. “There will be time enough for me to punish you for doing this to me.”
“I hope you do not intend to hold back,” she teased.
Damn her, he was going to use that saucy little mouth. He’d missed it, missed her.
They reached the carriage, and he set her on her feet, gesturing through the door he’d left hanging open. “Get in. We are going home, and God help you once I get you there. You are never setting foot outside Dunnottar again.”
Bracing one foot on the carriage steps, she grinned at him. “Promise?”
He bared his teeth at her and growled, and she leapt up into the carriage with another laugh at his expense. She’d forgotten what it meant to fear him, but that was a problem easily mended.
Just before he stepped up into the carriage behind her, the figure of a man appeared at his side, having come from the waiting barouche. It was Robert Stanley, Daphne’s would-be fiancé, and the person he blamed for all of this.
“You,” he grumbled with a snort. “I entrusted you with taking care of her. You were supposed to marry her.”
The ever-amiable Robert simply laughed, shrugging one shoulder. “I did try, Hartmoor, but you know Daphne. She understands her own mind and cannot be convinced otherwise once she’s decided on something. Guess you will have to see to the business of marriage yourself.”
He grunted, but offered the man a hand, grateful that if Daphne were going to come after him like some fool that she’d at least had protection instead of coming alone. Robert might be a weakling, but he was honorable, and Adam supposed he could admire that.
“I suppose,” he relented as the other man shook his head.
Releasing his hand, Robert began backing away toward his own vehicle. “Don’t you have to pass through Gretna Green on your way to Kincardineshire? Just something to consider, Hartmoor.”
And with that, he was gone, disappearing down the dirt lane with his greatcoat flapping in the wind like some novel hero. A hero who had just delivered the fair maiden into the hands of the villain.
His tongue traced over his teeth, the thrill of claiming what was his blotting out all else. Only there was no longer any need to chase her. She’d come to him, thrown herself at his feet and surrendered. He would sink his teeth in and never let up … not even if the day came when she regretted her choice.
He leapt up into the carriage, and the moment he pounded the ceiling, they were underway again.
The parted curtains illuminated the coach’s large interior, revealing Daphne on the seat across from him. That damned ribbon taunted him, a mark of ownership he had not realized he’d missed until he saw her this way again. She should wear lilac every day, the color enlivening her complexion and making her eyes appear almost violet.
Clenching a fist, he contemplated tearing the gown to shreds, even knowing she had come with nothing but the clothes on her back.
“I hope you do not mind,” she said, breaking the silence. “Robert came to me … he told me what you did and then offered me marriage again. But I couldn’t … not when I knew you’d only done it because you loved me. He offered to bring me to your hotel, only we arrived after you’d already departed. It was his idea to follow you … he found it all very romantic.”
“It isn’t,” he groused, annoyed that Robert would get any sort of satisfaction out of this.
She smirked at him, the amusement in her gaze continuing to rustle the flames of his agitation. He needed her to understand that this was no laughing matter. She’d just put herself back in his clutches, and this time, he did not intend to do the honorable thing.
“Get on your knees,” he barked. “With your back to me … bend over the seat.”
Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched, the hammering of her pulse visible at the juncture of her neck and collarbone. Licking her lips, she nodded, peeling off her redingote and tossing it aside before coming off the seat and sinking to the floor.
“Yes, Master,” she replied.
He scowled at her, despite enjoying the way that honorific sounded coming from her. He quite liked it.
“Do not try to placate me,” he snapped, pressing a hand against his throbbing erection as she presented her backside to him, bending over the seat and arching her back, her hips and arse an enticing outline against the fabric of her gown. “Not if you think it will get you out of this predicament. I will not be merciful.”
“Don’t,” she panted, her breath already quickening when he fisted her gown and began lifting it, baring her legs, skimming her silk stockings, giving one of her garters a tug. “I have never wanted you to be merciful.”
His own breathing grew harsh when her hips filled his hands, the firm cheeks of her arse appearing as he pushed the gown up and left it resting at her lower back. He trailed a finger over the swell of one hip, down the back of her leg, then up the inside of her thigh. She shuddered, whimpering and trying to angle herself so he touched where she wanted. He slapped the back of her thigh in warning, and she went still with a gasp and a groan.
Then, he delved his fingers between her legs, tickling her entrance, stroking the wet silken folds and teasing the little nub of her clit. She gasped, her wetness drenching his fingers, her body responding to him as if they’d never parted. He couldn’t resist taking a taste, lapping her juices off his fingers and flooding his senses with her heady scent and flavor.
“Adam,” she begged, the desperation in her voice only adding fuel to his desire.
“Not until I’ve had my due,” he murmured, grasping her buttocks and kneading them, warming her skin, opening her up to lay his eyes on what was his.
His gut clenched, his chest tightening and his fingers digging into her flesh in a hold he knew would leave his fingerprints, the mark of his possession. All of it was his, the slick entrance to her cunt, the tight little pucker of her rear passage, all of it and more. She was his in a way she’d never been before.
He raised one hand and let it fall, the impact of his blow resounding through his arm, making his palm sting. She gasped, but held still, accepting her punishment for pushing him, forcing his hand, making him toss aside his honor and take what should never have been his.
He hit her again, harder this time, finding the exact same spot and making her pink skin flush crimson. She cried out, her fingernails clawing at the upholstery as he went on spanking her, using both hands, punishing both cheeks, working her into a frenzy. By the time he’d finished with her, the evidence of her desire had begun trickling down one thigh, and her screams filled the carriage.
“Please, Adam,” she pleaded when he finally ceased and went back to touching her, sinking a finger inside her and withdrawing, teasing her to the brink. “I cannot wait any longer … I need …”
He knew what she needed, even if she could not say it aloud. Because he needed it, too.
He had his breeches snatched open in a matter of seconds, his cock falling heavy and hot into his hand. He stroked himself, once, hissing at the pleasure of it, of his naked cock free and inches away from taking its place inside her body. After time apart, he should go slow with her, perhaps take her gently and whisper words of love in her ear. But he didn’t have it in him … not now, perhaps not ever. He’d said it, and he’d meant it, but now came the time for possession … now, he would remind her who he was and what he’d demand of her, every single day until the day he died.
She threw her head back and cried out when he impaled her with one brutal thrust, his pelvis coming up against her arse as he rested his body over hers, covering her, pinning her to the seat. She sighed as if in relief when he began moving inside of her, battering her body with his own, driving as hard, fast, and deep into her as humanly possible.
He lifted his upper body and tore at her buttons, needing to touch her, to brand her skin, to access the parts of her he’d gone without for so long. Her gown loosened, and he kissed the ridges of her spine, ran his tongue over them, then sank his teeth into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She flew apart beneath him, writhing and crying out his name, her entire being shaken by the spasms rippling through her insides.
He clutched her shoulders, his thumb tracing her healed gunshot wound, a feral anger tearing through him at the reminder that she’d almost died.
“Mine,” he declared against her ear, nipping at the lobe and kissing the shell. “Never again will another touch you.”
“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, Adam.”
“No one will ever harm you again,” he declared, his fingers still pressed against her wound, a poignant reminder of the pain she’d endured for his sake. “I’ll kill anyone who even touches you.”
She shivered, leaning her head back to rest against his shoulder, sighing as he dug deeper, his thrusts becoming less precise as he reached his end. It had been too long, and he could not hold back his completion. Fisting her hair, he yanked her head back, bending her neck until her lips were within reach. He clamped his lips over hers, moaning into her mouth as he went still, seating himself inside of her and finishing with a hot rush of seed. He filled her mouth with his tongue, drunk on the taste of her while he wrung himself dry inside her, pumping his hips a few more times and giving her every drop.
He released her, and she slumped against the seat with a heavy, contented sigh. Taking his time, he pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and used it to clean her. Then, he buttoned his fall and set her dress to rights before taking her in his arms, pulling her into his lap as he settled back on the carriage seat. She moved as if to sit beside him, but he squeezed her, slapping her undoubtedly sore arse to keep her in place. He liked her weight on his thighs, the feel of her hair tickling his jaw as she curled up like a kitten settling in for a nap.
A sound escaped him, a sigh … it almost sounded contented. He supposed that was exactly how he felt, the restlessness that seemed to plague him now eased with her here, her fingers toying with the buttons of his waistcoat. If she was not careful, she’d find herself impaled again. She was barely touching him, but it had been six weeks … far too long for him to be forced to go without his little dove. How had he ever expected to go a lifetime?
A sudden thought occurred to him, and he rested a hand on her belly, absently rubbing her through the fabric of her gown.
“It has been over a month since we were last together,” he remarked. “Are you …”
She shook her head and sighed, nestling closer to him, fitting her head in the gap between his neck and shoulder. “No. I felt like such a fool for crying when my courses came. I wept for hours.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, not certain he liked this feeling in his gut at the mention of her crying. It made him want to hit something. “We shall have to truly try, then … in earnest.”
She chuckled. “Was that a marriage proposal, or do you simply intend to have me living with you in sin for the rest of my days?”
Pushing her so she sat up and looked at him, he inclined his head, meeting her gaze. “Is that what you want from me? Marriage? A ring and a wedding and … and guests.”
He shuddered at the thought of filling Dunnottar with people he hardly knew and certainly did not like—something that would be required due to his status as an earl.
She shook her head. “Not if it isn’t what you want. In truth, I do not care about any of it, Adam. I only want you.”
“You have me,” he declared quickly … so quickly, she grinned as if he’d just given her a palm full of diamonds.
“Then I am content,” she said with a nod.
That should have been enough for him, then. That she was coming back to Dunnottar with him, permanently, should be enough. They belonged to each other, and that was what mattered to him.
Still …
“You know,” he murmured with a smirk. “We have to pass through Gretna Green on our way to Kincardineshire.”
Her face lit up like a starry night sky, and he felt torn between feeling smug he’d been the one to do it and being annoyed because they were Robert’s words, not his own. Still, he’d be the one marrying her, not the Honourable Mr. Stanley.
“Truly?” she whispered, her voice becoming choked up.
He nodded. “Aye. It seems as good a way to get married as any … and this way, we do not have to wait or plan some frivolous party. Unless that is what you want?”
Shaking her head, she took his face in her hands and kissed him soundly. “No. Marriage over the blacksmith’s anvil sounds like the perfect way to me.”
He kissed her back, agreeing wholeheartedly. This way, their bond would be sealed in a place that would be very much like the battlefield of their entire relationship—smoke and fire, darkness and ash. He would not have it any other way.
“Then it will be done,” he declared. “When I take you back up my mountain, you will enter Dunnottar as Lady Daphne Callahan. What do you say to that?”
She pressed her forehead against his and smiled. “I think, it does not matter what my name is, as long as I can always be your little dove.”
He studied her and mulled that over for a moment. Despite the fact that he’d first compared her to a dove because of her purity and fragility, he had come to see her as so much more than he’d known she could be. It seemed better to compare her to a phoenix, or some other strong, resilient creature.
Yet, the endearment still came to him as easily as ever as he stroked her cheek and returned her smile.
“Aye, little dove,” he murmured. “That, you’ll always be.”