The Runaway Heiress (32 page)

'What? No London Season?' There was mischief in the
curve of her lips. 'That was the only reason I would consent to marry you!'

'I think we might stretch a point there.' His face
remained grave, but she sensed a lightening of the atmosphere and saw an
answering gleam in his eye.

She did not answer at once. And then, 'Would you be
willing to accept life here rather than in the Army—and be content?'

For the first time since they entered the
churchyard, a shadow of a smile touched his face. 'You are very astute. Yes, I
can. Perhaps I should give in to overwhelming pressure and let Matthew go—if
only to keep him out of Pall Mall gaming hells.'

She smiled in recognition of the gesture, but
remained where she stood, still separated from him. She held her breath.
Matthew's future might be settled, but hers was still in the balance.

She did not have to wait long. He held out his
hand, the old dominance evident in his commanding gesture and fierce gaze, and
she was compelled to put her own into it.

'Well, Madam Wife?'

'I will live here with you. The place touches my
heart, from the night you first brought me here. Make it work, Hugh. Remove the
neglect and make it live again.'

It
was what he had been waiting to hear and he realised with a warmth that spread
through his whole body that she had pushed him to make the commitment. He
raised their clasped hands to his lips, kissing her fingers in a silent promise.
The lingering peace and serenity of the long-dead Augustinians settled round
them in benediction as he stepped across the grave to take her in his arms.

'I have been thinking.' As they retraced their
steps towards the house, he drew her to a halt in the shelter of a richly
carved doorway to place his hands on her shoulders and turn her towards him.
When she looked at him quizzically, he bent his head to kiss her hair, her eyes
and then pressed his lips to the palm of her hand with utmost tenderness before
folding her fingers over to seal the caress.

That was very nice, Hugh.' Her eyes sparkled with a
sudden hint of mischief. 'Tell me, my love. Will you write more poems for me?'

'Ah. Well...only if you insist.' He grinned,
bending his head to touch his lips to the rose at her breast. 'I have a
confession to make, Frances Rosalind.'

'Really, my lord?' She was charmed by the
unexpected touch of colour that softened his cheekbones. 'And what could that
be?'

'I had a little help. From a medieval troubadour
who just happened to cross my path... But his sentiments towards his lady are
mine, and the words that he expressed mirror the thoughts in my heart.'

'Then I forgive you. How could I not?'

Their eyes met and held for a long moment in
complete understanding, in a bond as potent as shimmering steel.

'And now, my lady, as I was saying before you so
sadly interrupted, I have been thinking about your inheritance. If you
remember, it is dependent on one eventuality.'

'And that is?' She smiled because his train of
thought was
_:
as clear and glittering as faceted crystal.

'You have four years in which to carry my child.
Otherwise the money goes into the pockets of your uncle.'

'Four years? Such a short time.' Her smile was a
delight to him. 'You will have to persuade me.'

'I want you to carry my heir, my son,' he said
fiercely startling her with the intensity in his voice and the insistent
pressure of his fingers on her shoulders. 'That is the only reason I married
you, after all.' The expression in his eyes heated her blood and she read
desire in their depths.

'That is not very persuasive. I think you can do
better, my lord. Besides, I want a daughter to whom I can leave all my money.
We now have a family tradition, you realise.'

'I knew you would be difficult, my lady.' His kiss
was hot and possessive, leaving her in no doubt of his intentions. Her heart
leapt in unity and her response was immediate.

'Well, then.'

He linked his fingers with hers and pulled her once
more into his arms, to turn his face into her hair. This love was still too
new, too bright for him to take for granted. A wave of sheer disbelief swept
over him, that she could love him, that he could love her with such certainty.
She saw it as she stepped back and rubbed at the crease between his brows with
gentle fingers, as he often did with her.

'My love. My soul. I adore you. Do you love me,
Frances Rosalind?'

'Yes,' she sighed with magnificent understatement.

'Tell me again so that I may believe it.'

'I love you. I give you my body, my heart and my
soul freely and without condition. That is your inheritance.'

He touched her forehead with his lips, gently,
almost reverently, in recognition of her gift.