CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Westleigh was a hard nut to crack.
Even lying on the ground with a bullet in his shoulder, the screams of his wife and mother still echoing around them, the earl hadn’t made a sound. Instead, he sat up, a bored look on his face, removed a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly to the bloodstained wound site like he was attending to a troublesome splash of brandy.
Taff ground his teeth. If that was the way the bastard wanted to play the game, so be it.
Tossing the used pistol over the cliff, he removed a fresh one from his jacket pocket and marched over to the dowager countess.
“Come along, my lady,” he said, clamping a hand around her arm and propelling her towards the cliff edge. “We’re going to test your son’s rope tying ability.”
She regarded him with a cool stare, managing to look down her nose at him even though he must be at least a foot taller. “I have no doubts regarding my son’s abilities. He has talents you’ve probably never even heard of. It’s only a matter of…ahhhhh!”
The dowager’s shriek was gratifyingly loud as she dropped, but the rope was only long enough for a several-foot descent before it tightened and jerked and she swung back into the cliff. Amused, he watched her grapple with the lifeline and attempt to get a foothold in the treacherously slippery rock.
How well he knew the futility of that particular exercise.
“It seems you did an admirable job for your mother, my lord,” Taff said, over his shoulder. “Although she is rather small. A far better test will be your wife. Come along, Lady Westleigh.”
Caroline Forsyth glared at him and spat on his boot. “No.”
“No?”
“Congratulations, Mr. Martin, you can comprehend basic English. That’s one skill at least.”
Taff chuckled. Then cocked his pistol and pointed it at her head. “I like your spirit, Lady Westleigh. Always have. But now is really not the time.”
“If you think I’m just going to-”
“Jump off a cliff? Yes, I think you will,” he said quietly, lowering his arm until the muzzle dug into her belly. “Unless you’d prefer I shoot you now? Right here? Tell me, my lady, have you done your duty yet? Or is it too soon to know? It would be particularly appropriate, would it not, if you were with child.”
Her face turned stark white and she sagged against him. Perfect. Or at least it might have been if the damned woman didn’t weigh half a ton. Half-walking, half-dragging Caroline’s limp body to the cliff edge, he shoved her over. The rope creaked audibly but held, and like her mother in law she swung several times, except her inertness led to one wince-worthy connection with the rocks.
“Ouch,” he said, turning and walking back to where the earl sat hunched over on the ground. “Someone is going to have a bit of a headache when they come to. Now, how’s that shoulder, Westleigh?”
“Not too bad, thank you,” Westleigh replied impassively, his ashen, perspiration-coated face and a spreading bloodstain on his linen shirt and jacket sleeve making a complete lie of the words.
“Hmmm. It’s just that I wanted this experience to be truly authentic. So you understand what it feels like to only have the use of one arm in a critical situation.”
“If authenticity were the aim, why didn’t you use a dagger?”
“Because,” snorted Uncle Albert from where he stood a few feet away, “despite the lessons I gave him, Taff is like you and far more adept with a pistol. So a pistol it had to be.”
“Yes,” said Taff. “But that is by the by. Now comes the advanced level of the game. I like to call this version ‘who do you love more?’”
“Don’t think I know this one,” Westleigh replied, but his stormy expression spoke volumes.
“Quite simple really. Two women. Two ropes to be cut. One viable arm. Who do you save?”
~ * ~
Her husband had called her bold and brave and clever. The good news, Stephen was definitely in love with her even if he hadn’t yet said the words. The bad news, he was definitely in love with her because he couldn’t be more wrong.
Even with Sir Malcolm, she’d never known such mind-numbing terror in her life. The feeling only intensified as her gaze flew between three things: a thin, creaking rope, the only barrier stopping her from a deadly plunge to the rocky, churning ocean below. The unforgiving cliff face which already wore a chunk of blood-smeared skin from her temple. And Jane, weeping softly while she gripped her piece of rope, her heeled slippers scratching fruitlessly as she tried to gouge out a small hold. Yet closing her eyes didn’t help either. Much as she wanted to pretend this was all just a vivid nightmare, that she was actually in bed wrapped in Stephen’s arms, she had to face reality. If the rope snapped, she was a dead woman.
Caroline shuddered, her teeth chattering. The sun’s faint warmth had been replaced by clouds and a brisk breeze, yet perspiration still trickled down her neck and between her breasts, making them itch. Her hands were so clammy and trembling they kept slipping. The rope around her waist bit cruelly through her gown and into her flesh, yet there was no way to ease the pressure of her weight. Not to mention the debilitating fear. She’d already had two severe frights, the first when Taff shot Stephen and he slumped to the ground. Despite an oath to herself to remain calm, to not give the twisted creature any kind of satisfaction, a scream had torn from her throat. Seeing her husband lying motionless on the gravel path, blood spurting from a bullet wound, was a memory she wanted entirely erased from her mind. The second, when Taff shoved the pistol muzzle into her stomach and asked her if she was with child…
Because she just might be. Her courses usually plagued her at the start of each month, and twelve days later, still hadn’t arrived. Of course the delay might well be related to all the awful recent happenings, except her stomach had also been unsettled and her breasts unusually tender. She hadn’t breathed a word to Stephen, or anyone for that matter, just in case she was mistaken.
Oh please God, let us survive this.
Craning her neck, Caroline attempted to peer through the heavy grass, twisting vines and medium-sized rocks covering the top of the cliff. It was torture not knowing what the men were doing; maddeningly, the length of the rope meant she hung just low enough to only be able to catch sporadic glimpses of them. Was Stephen all right? She hadn’t heard another shot fired, or any sounds to indicate a fight, no matter how hard she strained her ears. Not necessarily a good thing.
If he were dead already.
“Caroline. Can you see anything?” muttered Jane, startling her enough she actually flinched and jerked on the rope, making it creak and moan.
Please, please don’t break.
“Not really,” she whispered back. “Stephen is still on the ground I think.”
“I’m going to kill that Mr. Martin. Once I get back on s-solid earth. I just wish I had something sharp.”
On another occasion she might have smiled at Jane’s tear-clogged yet fierce tone. It was hard to imagine her swatting a fly, let alone killing a man. Then again, under the circumstances…
“Can you reach me, Jane?”
Her mother in law flattened herself against the rock face, then inched a hand sideways. “Nearly. Wait. If I swing a little…”
“No! Don’t swing. The ropes will rub against each other. I don’t know how old they are, they might unravel at any time.”
“I’m fine. See? What do you have?”
Slowly, carefully, one hand gripping the rope, Caroline reached into her bodice and withdrew the first dagger hidden in her stays. “This.”
“Keep it for yourself.”
“I have others. Take the knife, Jane. Dig it into the rock.”
Holding her breath, she didn’t relax until Jane patiently worked the razor-sharp dagger halfway into the rock face. Thank God the surface was just soft enough to do so.
“Done.”
“Excellent. All right, come back and get this one,” Caroline replied, tugging out the second dagger and holding it out to her. “Slowly, slowly. That’s it.”
“Now what?”
She paused, mentally crossing her fingers and toes for luck. Then removed the knife from under her sleeve, tearing away the sheath with her teeth and burying it into the rock face. The one strapped to her thigh was far harder to access, but eventually, after several fervent prayers and some painstaking maneuvering, she also had two daggers in the rock above her head.
“Hold onto them no matter what, Jane. Inch them upwards to level ground if you can. If the rope breaks or if it is cut, they will at least give you a chance…oh hell, they’re walking this way. All three. Don’t let them see.”
“I won’t. Good luck, my darling.”
~ * ~
The burning, coiling agony in his shoulder was so bad he wanted to vomit. Or pass out. Every time the muscle flexed another gush of blood soaked his shirt, and he could practically feel bullet and bone grinding insistently against each other. But he couldn’t think about that now. Not when his wife and mother were both swinging from a cliff top, a deranged killer strutted in front of him and a battle-hardened soldier waited behind. Somehow one foggy brain, two syllabub legs and one trembling arm had to defeat two perfectly healthy men, each with cocked pistol in hand.
This is why you’ve never enjoyed gambling.
Bloody, great and nightmare were the only words to adequately describe the current situation, yet it did have one tiny positive. The two women were currently well out of the line of fire.
“You still haven’t answered Taff’s question, Westleigh. Who do you love more? Your mother or your wife?”
Stephen glanced backwards at Sir Albert as a wave of rage surged through his body, so unrelentingly powerful his shoulder agony dulled to a throbbing ache.
One chance. Right now.
Do it.
He laughed heartily, as if the baronet had just made a particularly amusing joke. Then in one fast, brutal movement, he pivoted and smashed his right fist into the older man’s face. Sir Albert dropped like a stone, blood gushing from a broken nose, and his pistol clattered onto the path. The impact was enough to discharge the bullet, but it caused no more damage than a deafening thunderclap and violent spray of gravel.
“Westleigh, you bastard, you’re ruining our plan!” screamed Taff, uncocking his pistol and throwing it onto the ground before grabbing Stephen’s injured shoulder, wrenching him around and landing a fierce blow on his chin. The combination felt like the stab of a thousand knives and Stephen’s legs buckled while his stomach roiled unmercifully. Yet seconds later the rage surged again and he kicked out a foot, hooking it around Taff’s knee. As Taff wobbled, he lowered his good shoulder and charged. They both tumbled onto the grassed verge and rolled back and forth, one on top then the other, their heads hanging over the cliff edge as they exchanged uncoordinated but fierce blows.
Finally, somehow, he managed to land a punch that left Taff reeling. Pinning him on the ground with one knee, he reached behind into his waistband for one of his pistols.
Only to drop it on the way back.
Blood pounded through his veins and the world around him faded. Numbly, his head swimming, he watched the weapon bounce on the verge, almost straight into Taff’s hand.
“Well, well. Looks like the fates are smiling on me today, Westleigh,” Taff said, gripping the pistol and lifting it until the muzzle rested in the center of Stephen’s chest. “Say goodbye. I’m going to put a bullet through your heart, just like I did Hallmere. Then I’m going to cut the ropes and watch those two blonde whores get smashed to pieces on the rocks. Today is definitely a gooaaaaahhhh…”
Stephen blinked. Why the hell had Taff screamed? When did the temperature plummet? How could his throbbing shoulder get so perfectly in sync with his heartbeat?
“Shoot him, darling. Now!”
At the sharpest tone he’d ever heard his mother use, the fog lifted and he saw Taff’s shoulder. Or rather the dagger half-protruding from Taff’s shoulder.
“Goddamned bitches!” Taff hissed, writhing in pain, his hold on the pistol visibly loosening. “I’m going to…kill you both…”
Stephen grabbed the weapon, using every bit of his remaining strength to turn the muzzle around so it instead pointed at Taff. With trembling hands he cocked it and squeezed the trigger. The explosion echoed loudly, so loud his ears rang and burning hot gunpowder flew into his face, stinging his eyes and mixing with his sweat.
But he could still see Taff’s face. The stunned confusion as he realized his life was now bubbling up and trickling away onto the pale brown rocks and rough grass beneath them.
“You. Shot. Meeeeee,” Taff gurgled, coughing out a stream of dark red blood as he grabbed a fistful of Stephen’s jacket. “Bas…tard…die…”
Stephen wrenched from his grasp and Taff’s hands dropped limply to his sides. Minutes later he stopped moving altogether.
Panting hard, so cold his teeth were chattering, Stephen shoved Taff’s blood-soaked body out of the way and crawled to the cliff edge. “Caroline…Mama…”
“Darling! Can you lift us up?” said his mother.
“I’ll try,” he rasped, glancing over his shoulder. Sir Albert still lay on the path, yet his arms and feet were twitching. Fuck. The baronet was waking up.
Shuffling sideways on knees and elbows, every movement causing fiery pain to tear through his body, Stephen rolled onto his back and braced his feet against the stump. As black spots danced in front of him and a roaring sound grew louder in his ears, he began to pull the first rope. Inch by agonizing inch he tugged on the coarse fiber until after what seemed like a thousand years, his mother’s head appeared above the grass.
“Hold. Ground. Mother,” he slurred and she grabbed some fistfuls of vine and swung her legs up onto the top.
“Stephen! Oh my God!”
“Help. Get. Caro.”
Yanking the rope over her head and heaving it away, Jane kicked off her heeled slippers and dropped down beside him. Together they pulled on the second rope and eventually his wife scrambled over the grassed verge and into his arms.
He smiled, trying to fight the heavy darkness encroaching on his vision. “Caro…”
Then everything went black.
~ * ~
So much blood. Stephen’s jacket and shirt were soaked and now his eyes were shut and he wasn’t moving.
Gently drawing his head into her lap, Caroline began smoothing his hair over and over, her body shaking uncontrollably as hysteria gripped her.
“Stephen,” she babbled. “Wake up now. Come on, wake up, my love.”
“What are we g-going to do?” said Jane as she crouched beside them, tears running down her face.
Glancing up, Caroline scanned their surroundings. All was quiet and still except for Sir Albert, who was attempting to get onto his hands and knees. Very carefully, she rolled Stephen and removed the second pistol from his waistband. “Jane, would you…”
“My pleasure,” her mother-in-law replied, taking the pistol and strolling over to Sir Albert like she was ascending the stairs to Almack’s. One sharp blow to the back of the head, and the baronet again slumped on the ground. They were now marginally safer, although she wouldn’t feel truly safe until they were all back at Forsyth House and Stephen was being attended by the best physicians in England.
“One of us needs to go for help. Stephen’s carriage, with his footmen and coachman, is only about a half mile from here. If they can bring it close enough we can carry him.”
“I’ll go.”
“Are you sure, Jane?”
“Absolutely, darling. Your place is beside your husband.”
“Can you shoot a pistol?”
“Yes. Andrew insisted I learn. You keep this one, I’ll take Taff’s. Back soon, just hang on,” Jane finished, kneeling down to kiss Stephen’s forehead. After slipping her shoes on and collecting the abandoned pistol, she ran down the path toward the cottage.
The silence twisted and stretched Caroline’s shattered nerves. Surrounded by a dead man, an unconscious man and a horribly injured man, her cut forehead stinging painfully, she busied herself tearing a section of her gown hem and pressing it firmly against Stephen’s shoulder to stem the blood flow. Yet still he didn’t move, only very shallow breathing letting her know he lived.
Where was Jane? What if something had happened to her?
Tears trickled down Caroline’s face.
“Come on, Stephen,” she whispered. “You know damn well I’ve forbidden you to die, so open your blasted eyes and look at me. Look at me!”
He didn’t so much as twitch.
She buried her face in his neck, sobbing until her eyes were so raw and gritty it hurt to hold them open. Her husband was dying. After everything they had been through, that damned bastard Taff would still win.
Pulling Stephen closer, she started rocking him. And humming a ridiculous lullaby she’d overheard a nurse singing to a young charge, interspersed with the words ‘please don’t leave me’. Again and again she sang the tune, sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, unable to make herself stop.
Until the softest of groans sounded.
Freezing, she peered down at him. “Stephen?”
Silence.
“Stephen?” she said again, louder this time, even shaking him lightly.
One eye opened. “War…” he muttered.
“War? What do you mean war? Stephen?”
“No. Warbling. Stop.”
Tearful laughter erupted. “Are you c-casting aspersions on my singing, h-husband?” she said, her voice wobbling dangerously.
“Not. Singing. Warbling. Awful.”
“Well then, I guess you’ll have to live. It’s the only way to silence me.”
“Doing. Best. Hurts. ”
She pressed a soft kiss to his damp forehead. “I’m not surprised, my love. But very, very soon your mother will be back with the men and the carriage and we will whisk you to London. That Dr. Murray will fix everything and have you in tip top shape in no time. As a matter of fact,” she said joyfully, her ears pricking up at the sound of gravel crunching. “Here they come now!”
“Took. Long. Enough.”
“I know! For heaven’s sake, did you walk back on your hands,” she finished, glancing teasingly over her shoulder.
The world tilted.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Not Jane and help. Baron Kimbolton, Sir John Smythe and Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne. Halted into a semi-circle, their arms folded as they regarded the scene in front of them.
“No! Get back!” Caroline cried, scrabbling for the pistol. Even though she understood one against three was the worst of odds, and not even knowing how to fire the weapon made her beyond useless as a protector.
Sir John stepped forward. “Well, well. Lord Westleigh and dead bodies. Such a déjà vu scenario, yet this time it appears he is also in a bad way. How unfortunate.”
Stephen flinched in her lap and turned his head. “Sir John. Always. Unpleasant. See. You. Why. Here?”
“I’m sure you know we have informers everywhere, dear boy. When we received word regarding your very sudden journey to a certain cottage in Kent, naturally we were intrigued.”
“Very interesting being back here, I must say,” mused Kimbolton. “Such memories.”
“Ha,” said Wynn-Thorne. ‘You’re only thinking about all the times you tupped Hermia Bruce. Never met such a whore in all my life. Completely willing to spread her legs for anyone.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Sir John with a low chuckle. “More like sometimes willing, sometimes not. I particularly enjoyed the latter occasions. So much more fun when a woman needs to be…persuaded.”
Bile rose in Caroline’s mouth and she coughed several times. Monsters. If only she had three pistols, she would give shooting them all a decent try.
“…Rock liked that too,” Sir John continued reminiscently. “Until Westleigh killed him, of course.
“Goddamned fools. Westleigh didn’t kill Major Rochland. I did.”
Five startled gazes flew to Sir Albert as he staggered upright, rubbed the back of his head and stalked forward, his gait getting faster and steadier with every step.
Caroline stilled and hugged Stephen closer, every hair on the back of her neck rising as a gust of wind swept across the path. The ex-soldier must have a head of cast iron.
“You, ragged-pants?” said Sir John derisively. “And who might you be?”
The baronet smiled coldly. “Just a simple, retired soldier.”
Seconds later, in the crisp movement of a true expert, Sir Albert removed two knives from his jacket and buried them in Sir John and Lord Kimbolton’s chests. Tilting his head, he watched them fall to the ground and writhe in pained shock. “However, also father of a dead daughter and hell bent on justice,” he continued. “Sir Albert Bruce, at your service.”
Caroline choked as bright red flowers began to bloom on both men’s shirts. Not more blood. Not more death. And yet a tiny part of her wanted to cheer, to celebrate a victory.
“Well, Sir Albert,” snarled Wynn-Thorne, his face twisting with anger as he withdrew a pistol from his jacket. “Consider me a grieving friend hell bent on justice…”
“Don’t even think about it, my lord. Drop to your knees and put your hands on your head.”
Caroline jerked her head up at the now-familiar voice. Mr. White! And behind him a dozen soldiers all armed to the hilt, with Jane. And…George?
Joy and relief, such beautiful relief swirled in her head, making her dizzy. Could it really be over? “You took your sweet time, Mr. White,” she called unsteadily.
“My apologies, Lady Westleigh. The location was a little hard to pinpoint.”
“I’m sh-shocked. You are after all, the intelligence arm of the government.”
White’s lips twitched, but he said nothing, merely lifted a hand. The soldiers marched forward and began rounding up the men and dragging them back down the path.
Swallowing hard, she stared at her twin who now stood alone about twenty feet away. George stepped forward then hesitated, his eyes so dark in his pale face they appeared almost black.
“Caro…”
“For heaven’s sake, George, c-come here and make yourself useful, you cr-cretin.”
He sprinted over and fell to his knees beside her and Stephen. “Stupid, foolish twit. I stopped by Forsyth House to raid your brandy supply and Innes told me what happened. Can’t the pair of you go a day without getting into trouble? Am I the only responsible adult around here?”
Stephen coughed and shuddered. “It seems so.”
“Don’t talk, you goddamned idiot. You’re only rambling anyway. No one wants to hear a boring man ramble. Especially one with such a vast, gaping space where his brain should be. Now, baby sister, I’ll help you up first…UGH. Really? That’s how you thank me?”
She gave her twin an apologetic look and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A shame for his trousers, but was it any wonder her stomach had just attempted to purge itself of everything eaten within the past month?
“Caroline…” Stephen rasped, clumsily trying to pat her shoulder and instead whacking her ear. “You all right?”
She took his good hand and squeezed it. “Absolutely, dearest. Despite your attempts to physically correct me. In fact, after yet another bath I shall be ready to dance until dawn.”
“I detect sarcasm.”
A wide grin stretched her lips. Oh, how she loved this man.
“That’s just the blood loss talking. Probably the nasty sea air as well. Let’s get back to crowded streets and dirt immediately.”
“Don’t forget cake.”
“That, husband, goes without saying.”
~ * ~
Dr. Geoffrey Murray might be the most irritating man in England, with his perfectly combed silver hair, pressed gray jacket and trousers, and chilly bedside manner. Then again, when you were the very best at your profession, you could probably afford to be arrogant. At the moment, however, it didn’t suit Stephen’s purposes at all.
Narrowing his gaze, he unleashed his fiercest glare on the physician. “Another week of bed rest? I’ve already been trapped in this bloody room for three! And if I have to consume another glass of barley water or bowl of chicken broth…”
Dr. Murray didn’t so much as blink his wide gray eyes as he repacked his brown medical bag, the only colored item he appeared to possess. “You suffered a severe injury, Lord Westleigh, and lost a great deal of blood. Quite frankly you are lucky to still be with us. In the great scheme of things, I do not believe a period of bed rest or proper invalid food will kill you. Unlike pistols and knives. Now, I’ll have Victoria prepare another tonic to help your body heal. She is far more skilled than I am with herbs, I am both sad and proud to admit.”
“Victoria? Is that your wife?”
“My daughter,” Dr Murray said shortly. “If only she’d been born a boy.”
Stephen snorted. “Rubbish. One day our great nation will advance to the point where all professions are open to women. Already decided any daughters I have will be tutored in all subjects. And taught to box. Then they’ll proceed to government reforms and resolving all the continent’s issues.”
Dr Murray made a rusty, barking sound. It might have been laughter, it was hard to tell. “You might wish to speak to your wife about that. Soon.”
“Why?”
“Good day to you, my lord.”
Alone again, Stephen sank back onto a pile of pillows. Not that he would ever admit it, but between the shoulder pain and debilitating fatigue, even the thought of getting out of bed made him wince. He supposed he felt infinitely better than a few weeks ago, but Dr. Murray insisted it would take months to return to full health, and Stephen suspected the man might be correct.
The connecting door between the earl and countess’ bedchambers inched open.
“Yes, Caroline, he’s gone,” he called. “You can stop pressing your ear to the keyhole and come in.”
She sashayed into the room and carefully arranged herself on his bed. “Excuse me, who discovered all the details about Sir Albert escaping to France? And Sir John dying of his wound? And Kimbolton and Wynn-Thorne being locked up in Tower rooms entirely unbefitting of their station?”
“I think you give Albert Bruce far too much credit. If White didn’t want him to escape, there is no way he would have. But what else have you been doing with your days?”
“Resting,” she grumbled. “Resting, resting, resting. I’m perfectly fine yet I’ve been ordered to nap for an hour every afternoon. And eat awful nourishing food.”
“Don’t cry to me about food. When you’ve been on the diet I have…wait a minute, why is Dr. Murray being strict with you?”
Caroline’s gaze shifted. “Er, well, I…”
“Your head?” he asked, frowning. “Or something else you didn’t tell me?”
“No. Just a little, ah, sickness.”
“What kind? What did he say? Is it serious?”
She snorted. “Yes and no.”
“Now you’re just talking in riddles.”
“Perhaps,” Caroline replied, gently resting her head against his uninjured shoulder. “My mind does wander a little. A common affliction, I’m told, for pregnant women.”
He stilled, as pure joy warmed his entire body. “You’re with child?”
“I am indeed. And if you think it is an enjoyable experience, you are entirely mistaken. Even the sight of cake makes me cast up my accounts. Instead I want creamed peas. Peas! All the damned time!”
Curving his good arm around her shoulder, he tugged Caroline down until she rested against his chest. So she couldn’t see the stupidly huge grin on his face or the suspicious dampness in his eyes. “If it’s peas you want, Lady Westleigh, then it’s peas you shall have,” he muttered unsteadily.
“I should think so, Lord Efficient and Dedicated to the Cause. The very least you can do.”
“Does Dr Murray know when approximately?”
“He thinks perhaps late January or early February. Plenty of time to prepare for the rogue mathematician or too-clever hellion.”
“Or perhaps one of each? Ow, Caroline, no pinching, I’m a seriously injured man.”
She gave him a fierce glare. “You’ll be even more seriously injured if you keep up that talk. One child at a time is more than sufficient, thank you very much!”
“But you are a twin, my dear. The probability…Ow! Vicious, bloodthirsty wench.”
“And yet you still married me.”
“Had to, as a public service. Who else could manage you?”
Caroline tilted her head then shimmied upwards until her mouth hovered inches from his. “Oh, you think you manage me, do you?”
“Occasionally,” he groaned, as her tongue brushed against his lips. How cruel, seducing him when he didn’t have the energy to do a thing about it.
“And the rest of time?”
“I thought perhaps I’d try…well…”
“Loving me?”
“Something like that.”
She snorted. “I think exactly like that. Say the words. Like you mean them, and I’ll hold them until we’re ancient and you deign to say them again.”
“So demanding,” he said, sighing theatrically. “Very well. I love you, hellion. Today, tomorrow and always.”
“Now that,” Caroline replied happily. “Sounds like a plan.”