Married At Midnight (19 page)

He was moved beyond words, his brain gone black with her unconscious confession.

"Victoria," he said, standing.

"Yes?" She peered up at him.

He set the whip under his arm, freeing his hand.

He proffered it to her. "Will you come with me?"

Come with you?" She lifted up her hand to his.

"Wherever to?"

"I've something I wish to show you," he said, and dragged her after him, giving her no time to object.

It was all Victoria could do not to trip over her skirts to keep up with Thom. She must have been out of her wits to go

traipsing behind him without even eliciting the first explanation.

"Just a little further," he urged her.

"Where
are we going?"

"You shall see," he replied, tormenting her with his elusiveness.

"I must be mad!" Victoria exclaimed. It had been years since she'd ventured this far into the parklands.

So many years.

Not since she'd been a child.

He brought her to the crest of a hill, and then set down the pasteboard he carried in his hand.

"Now sit down upon it," he demanded of her.

Victoria stared up at him in disbelief. "I mean to say, I think
you
must be mad!" she amended. "Whyever should I sit down upon
that?"

He winked at her, grinning. "To humor me," he suggested. And then persisted, "Sit down, please?"

Victoria frowned. She could scarce refuse him when he looked at her so ... so ... engagingly . . . with his head tilted so like

that of a pleading little boy. "Very well," she relented somewhat grudgingly, and sat down upon the pasteboard, reeling like

a complete goose. "Now what?"

He began to laugh suddenly.

Victoria peered up at him in sheer exasperation, her hands going to her hips in outrage. "Did you, perchance, bring me all

this way to make me sit upon paper, only to snicker at me like some ungracious oaf, sirrah?"

To her dismay, he continued to chuckle and Victoria decided she'd had just about enough. She made to rise. "I thought you wished to show me something," she said. "Apparently, I was mistaken!"

"No!" he said, choking upon his laughter. He thrust out his hand, urging her to remain where she sat. "Ah, but, Victoria! 'tis merely that you look .. ." He shook his head. "Absolutely enchanting!" he declared, and began to laugh anew. "Sitting there upon that pasteboard .. . you have no idea what good it does my heart."

"You mean to say I look a merry-Andrew!" Victoria countered, wholly vexed with his amusement at her expense. "Well,

look at you!" she demanded, waving her hand at him. "You did not see that I laughed so rudely at you, sirrah, when you

came to me looking like . .. like
thatl"
She waved a hand once more in disgust, and made again to rise.

For the first time,

she noticed his feet. "And you have no bloody shoes!" she exclaimed.

He knelt down beside her, laughing uproariously now, placing a hand to her shoulder to soothe her. "I lost them," he told her between chuckles. "Hold," he said, while he groped behind her, feeling for the pasteboard at her back. He moved his hand

to her sides. Victoria only belatedly realized that that hand was beneath her dress.

"I beg your pardon!" she exclaimed, smacking at his probing hand in scandalized horror. She pinned it beneath her skirt

under her own, and glared at him fiercely. "What is it you think you are doing?"

He grinned at her, a rather infectious grin that Victoria had no intention of allowing to disarm her. "I simply need to know

how much room is left upon the pasteboard."

"Whatever for?"

His eyes twinkled with a devilish light. "You shall see."

"No I shan't!"

He tilted his head at her once more, giving her that little boy look and smile that melted her will. "Trust me," he said.

Victoria frowned at him. "Whyever should I?"

He sobered at that. "Because I am your husband," he suggested, "and I would never do anything to harm you?"

Victoria shook her head vehemently. "Try again, sirrah!"

"Because I
need
your trust," he told her. "Please Victoria?"

He didn't play fair a'tall, Victoria decided and glowered at him. How could she refuse him when he begged her please, and frowned so pitifully? She lifted her hand, but gave him a warning glare. "Very well," she relented. "Do what you will."

His grin returned, brighter than before, and the sight of it made her heart leap painfully. Good Lord, Victoria admonished herself. However was she supposed to keep her wits about her when he smiled at her so?

He groped about beneath the pasteboard, beneath her dress, and Victoria sat there feeling quite flustered, resisting the urge

to slap him again. His hands skimmed her thighs, and she flinched, her bottom, and she winced, and then between her thighs. She gasped at his forwardness, and slapped at his hand beneath her skirt, realizing belatedly that it was the wrong thing to do. Dear God . . . she swallowed convulsively, and peered at his face from the corner of her eyes. He was grinning wickedly, flashing perfect white teeth. The cad! She squeezed her eyes shut. And yet.. . heaven help her, this touch was nothing at all the same as the night before ... and still. . . her breath quickened, and her heart began to pound unmercifully.

"If you'll simply lift your hand up ... I shall move mine, Victoria," he whispered at her ear.

For an instant, Victoria couldn't respond. In fact, she thought she might die precisely any moment, so painfully was her heart leaping now.

"Of course," he yielded softly, his breath sweet and warm against her face, "I don't particularly
wish
to move it, you see ..."

Victoria blinked, and released his hand at once. He laughed softly.

"Now scoot forward," he demanded of her.

"Scoot?"

"Yes, Victoria,
scoot."
He placed a hand behind her, and quite boldly shoved her bottom forward, when she didn't respond quickly enough.

"Oh!" Victoria exclaimed.

He sat behind her then, and before she could even think to protest, wrapped his legs about her, entrapping her between them.

"Now," he commanded, "close your eyes!"

"This is entirely preposterous!" Victoria protested fervently. "Whatever in heaven's name are we doing?"

"You shall see," he only said. And then, "Trust me, Victoria."

Her eyes were wide with anticipation. "You keep saying that!" she contended, but somehow she did trust him.

"We're not quite done yet. Are your eyes closed?"

he asked her.

"Not yet. .. now they are. And now what?"

"Now," he murmured against her face, sending shivers down her spine. He took her hands into his own.

"Hold on to me tight."

Victoria didn't even have time to ask why. Within the instant he had shoved them forward. She screeched hysterically as they went flying out over the hill. For an instant, she was wholly terrified, but he wrapped his arms about her and held her close.

And then they were racing down the hill upon the pasteboard, the wind in her face, and Victoria couldn't contain a sudden

peal of laughter. It was glorious. Freedom. She opened her eyes and watched the horizon fly by, and giggled madly.

They ended at the bottom of the hill in a scattered heap, both of them laughing uncontrollably. Neither of them could seem to stop for the longest interval. Victoria lay back upon him, wholly unconscious of where she was, laughing like a schoolgirl in

his arms.

"Oh, my! That was unspeakably delightful!" she confessed.

He held her against him, a smile in his voice, his chuckles subsiding. "You've no idea how long I've wanted to do that with

you, Victoria."

"With me?" She peered back at him, surprised, confused.

"With you," he affirmed, nodding, smiling.

"I don't understand," she said. "We've onl met. How can you possibly—"

"Shhhh," he urged her, placing a palm gently over her lips to shush her. He sat up with her, and turned her about to face him. "I've come bearing gifts, as well," he told her, and handed her the whip he'd somehow managed to hold onto in their flight downward.

Victoria scrunched her nose at the wicked-looking device. "Whatever is that for?"

"For you to keep me in line," he said, grinning broadly, looking at her quite like a wicked little boy who deserved his

strapping, but knew his mother would never give it.

Victoria couldn't help but chuckle at his expression, at his outrageous gift. "Like Constance?"

"Gad, but I hope you never have to use it," he admitted. "Though I give you leave to if you must."

Victoria tossed it away, her heart suddenly a little heavy. It wasn't the same, she knew. Their marriage wasn't the same. "I'm certain I shan't have to," she declared. "It's not as though—"

"We love each other?" he finished for her, idly plucking a flattened windflower from the grass beside them. A cacophonous silence fell between them. Her brows drew together as memories accosted her.

She peered about at the place, the familiar landscape .. . the skyline above . . . the circle of trees .. . the hill they'd only just come racing down . . . the windflowers all swaying with the breeze. Her heart began to hammer. She stared at the windflower he twirled between his fingers, and swallowed convulsively, afraid to look at him suddenly, afraid to hope.

"Toria," he said, "I think I do."

Victoria's heart thumped furiously. She blinked, peering up into his eyes, recognizing him. How could she not have known

him before? Blue eyes that seemed so familiar. . . familiar because they were. She understood everything suddenly; the filthy shirt, the torn breeches, her unholy attraction to him. "Thomas?"

" 'Tis me," he whispered.

Time slipped away suddenly, and it was as though they were there together all those years before.

It
was
him.

"Oh, my dear God!" She choked on a sob, and cast herself into his arms, unable to keep herself from it.

"I cannot believe

it's really you!" she cried. "I cannot believe you've come!"

"It's truly me," he assured her, holding her tight, and then disclosed, "And I still love you, brat."

She clutched at his dirty shirt. "How can you possibly?" she asked him.

"I never stopped," he said easily. "I told you I'd never forget, and I never have." He pressed the windflower into her hand,

and then reached out to do what he hadn't the nerve to do all those years before. He took a wayward lock of her hair

between his fingers, and brushed it from her face.

Victoria wrapped her arms about his neck and held to him fiercely. "I love you, too," she whispered, crying softly now, clutching the windflower within her clenched fist. "And I never forgot," she swore. "I never forgot!"

"I know, my sweet, Victoria," he whispered. "I know .. ."

And he bent to seal their whispered vows with a simple, sweet, if slightly muddy, kiss.

"Victoria," he murmured, reaching out and gently tracing the curve of her breasts with his palm. He revelled in the feel of

supple flesh beneath his fingers. "I'd like to make you my wife, in truth," he whispered, and bent to kiss her throat. "Stop

me now," he commanded her. "Or not at all."

"Not at all," Victoria murmured, almost too softly to be heard. But he heard, and his heart nigh thudded to a halt. Thunder bolted through him.

It was all the reassurance Thom needed. He caught her wrists and drew her hands down . . . asking her without words to

free him, wanting her to know without any doubt just what it was he was asking of her.

For an instant, he thought she might refuse him.

She froze and lifted her gaze to his face. He heard her swallow, and then, with trembling hands, she moved to obey. Gulping

his relief, he slid his hand down, skimming her tiny waist, her hip, her thigh. He gave her leg a reassuring little squeeze when

she peered up at him, her eyes wide and full of uncertainty, and then he continued his path down her leg, her calf, clutching the hem of her dress within his hand, lifting it slightly, watching her expression for some sign that she would protest. She didn't stop him, merely stared back, her eyes shining with love and glazed with passion.

"I-I cannot seem to," she stammered, her face flushing prettily when her hands began to quake and fumble with his breeches. Thorn grinned down at her and reached to undo them himself, while his other hand continued to lift her skirt slowly. He heard her intake of breath, saw her lashes flutter closed, and he urged her back upon the grass, following her down. She moaned softly, lifting her face into the brilliant sunlight, surrendering to him, and his body quickened at the sight of her.

Christ, but she was beautiful. After all these years, it was difficult to believe she was truly his. At last. And yet, there was no denying the vision of loveliness lying there before him, with her glorious hair mussed from their play, woven like softest silk through the scattered windflowers. He reached out to thread his fingers through the shining strands, and sucked in an awe-filled breath.

Her eyes remained closed, but her desire was more than apparent upon her face, and Thorn rejoiced in it. God, but he