it? Withers said it would never grow, because I started it when it was too cold.
I told him it would, it just needed some love and attention.”
“Is that all it takes?” he asked softly.
Abbey nodded eagerly. “I think so. That old sailor is much more practical.
He
says water and sunshine are all these plants need.”
Michael smiled enigmatically. “I have a surprise for you, sweetheart. Cook is
preparing a basket for us—I’d like to take you for a ride in the coach.”
“Really? Where are we going?” She grinned, clearly pleased.
“To the sea. There is a cove I would show you.”
“Oh, how perfectly wonderful! I truly miss the sea, don’t you?” she asked, already turning to leave. Oddly, he really did not miss the sea anymore.
Not
since she had come into his life.
“I must change—”
“No, go as you are,” he said huskily.
Abbey glanced curiously over her shoulder, her violet eyes sparkling. “At least
my hat, then. Will you wait for me, Michael? I shall be but a moment,” she called over her shoulder, and disappeared through the door. Michael pushed off
the desk and walked over to examine the azalea. Yes, Abbey, I will wait for you.
I think I shall always wait for you, he responded silently.
The sun was bright, but there was a lingering frost in the air. As Michael tossed a few shillings to the coachmen and pointed them in the direction of the
nearest public house, Abbey ran ahead, easily climbing down the thickly wooded
hill to the cove. When Michael finally emerged through the brush, she was standing on the small beach with her feet braced apart and her hands fisted on
her hips.
“Michael Evan Ingram, why have you kept this place hidden from me?” she demanded.
He laughed, dropping the basket he was carrying. “In truth, darling, I haven’t
been here since I was a lad.” He glanced around the little cove in which he had
spent many summer afternoons as a child. Afternoons when he and Mariah would
escape the drunken tirades of his father. He strolled toward a tree that protruded from the natural tree line and checked the trunk. Running his fingers
over the smooth bark, he found what he was looking for: the carved initials M.E.I, and, next to them, M.A.I.
“Whose are those?” Abbey asked.
“Mariah,” he said as he ran his fingers over her initials.
“Do you miss her?”
Michael shrugged. “I miss her from time to time, but she’s been gone a long
while. She just had a son, her second child. I received a letter from her just a
few days ago, admonishing me for not having told her about you before now,” he
said as he stepped away from the tree.
“She knows about me?” Abbey asked, surprised.
“Of course she does. Do you think I would not tell my sister about my own marriage?” Michael put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his
side
to lead her to the small beach.
“Did you tell her why?” Abbey asked.
“Why?”
There were times, Abbey thought, that Michael could be a little dense.
“Did you
tell her you were forced?”
Michael squeezed her shoulders. “I told her I had married, but I did not think
to bore her with the details,” he said reassuringly.
“Or astound her with them,” Abbey muttered under her breath.
Michael playfully pinched her cheek and wisely ignored the remark. He retrieved
the basket and rummaged inside, producing a blanket, which he spread on the
sand.
“I’m going to gather some firewood. Don’t wander off,” he said, and headed back
into the woods. By the time he returned with an armload, Abbey had spread out
the small feast Cook had prepared. He requested laughingly that she save some
for him before returning to the thicket for more wood. The second time he emerged, he was surprised to find a small fire. Abbey was sitting next to it,
her arms wrapped around her knees.
“Who lit that fire?” he asked in genuine surprise and dropped the armload of
wood. Abbey laughed. “I don’t see any evidence of an intruder. There are no
footprints in the sand save the small ones there,” he said, pointing to her prints. “Madam, am I to understand that you lit this fire?”
“Of course I did!” Abbey giggled.
“How on earth—”
“With a flint and some kindling, of course.” She frowned laughingly.
Michael slowly shook his head. “Good God, woman, is there no end to what you
know?”
I don’t know if you love me, she thought, but smiled up at him and said nothing.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
Michael smiled sardonically. “Aye, I am hungry,” he muttered, and dropped next
to her. In one fluid movement, he pulled her onto his lap and sought her mouth.
Abbey’s hands instantly swept up his chest and around his neck. Michael groaned
against her mouth as her tongue darted between his lips. She was aware of being
lowered onto the blanket, of his hand moving deftly over the buttons of her blouse.
“Michael, you aren’t thinking—”
“Oh, yes I am,” he said, and covered her mouth before she could protest again.
In the cool afternoon sun, with a small fire to warm them, Michael made gentle
love to her. It was exquisite, Abbey thought, as he thrust deeply within her,
the muscles of his arms quivering next to her as he held himself above her. The
sun was behind his head and blinded her to his face. But she could hear him,
smell him, and when she ran her tongue across his nipple, she could taste him.
As his strokes grew more insistent, he reached between them and stroked her, and
after a few richly agonizing moments she imploded into a thousand dots of light.
With one last powerful surge, Michael groaned and shuddered, spilling his seed
deep within her, then he slowly lowered himself to her, resting his forehead on
her shoulder.
“I love you, Michael,” she whispered in his ear. He snaked his arms around her
and squeezed her tightly to him in response. Neither of them said a word for a
long while, and finally Michael sighed and withdrew. He made a show of rearranging her blouse before jumping to his feet and fastening his breeches.
She lowered her skirt and sat up, then tried to rearrange her hair. Michael kissed the mess.
“I think you will find some ale in that flagon,” he said, and moved to tend the
fire. Abbey found two wooden cups and poured them ale, then filled a plate of
food for him. Satisfied with the small, roaring fire, Michael settled next to her and regaled her with his youthful adventures in the cove with Mariah.
After
they finished their languid meal, Michael propped himself up against a tree.
Abbey’s lids were growing heavy, and she laid her head on his lap.
“Who were you speaking with in the garden this morning?” he murmured.
Abbey’s lashes fluttered and a moment passed before she answered.
Several things
went through her mind, not the least of which was surprise that he had seen
them. But that was followed quickly by the memory of Galen’s warning to keep his
secret. In the space of a moment, she decided her cousin was right.
When he had
a legitimate post, she would tell Michael everything. Michael had said very clearly he did not want to be burdened with her relatives, and she was not about
to let him think he was burdened with Galen. Nor was she willing to do anything
that might sour the intimate bond they seemed to have established and strengthened this afternoon.
“He was a hand aboard the Dancing Maiden a few years ago, from Pemberheath.
Withers and the lads know him,” she said softly. Michael watched her, looking
for a sign of deceit, and slowly, reluctantly, accepted her explanation. He really could not believe she would lie to him; not when he could easily confirm
anything she said with Withers. Given that she would embrace an old dairy cow if
so moved, it seemed almost plausible she would greet an old friend thus.
Almost
plausible. He could not quite shake a feeling of doubt.
She made a small sound and snuggled closer to him. With the ever-present strand
of silken hair drifted across one eye, she looked so young and innocent in her
slumber. He tenderly brushed the tress from her face, and with a protective arm
around her, he sat, staring out at the sea. He savored the contentment he had
not known was achievable, and he marveled at the budding realization of
how
important it was to him.
Abbey slowly became aware that something was tickling her, and she grumpily
batted the thing away. What felt like a feather next drifted across her face.
She swatted at it again, then slowly opened her eyes. She was still lying with
her head on Michael’s lap, and when she looked up, he was smiling down at her,
holding a feather in his hand.
“Wake up, sweetheart. You have slept the afternoon away,” he murmured, and
brought her hand to his lips.
“No, I only closed my eyes for a moment,” she insisted, and pushed herself to a
sitting position.
“I assure you it was more than a moment,” he chuckled. He watched as she
sleepily brushed the hair from her face, then glanced, bewildered, around the
cove.
“There is something I want to ask you,” he said. Abbey nodded and crossed her
legs beneath her voluminous skirt.
“A few months ago, we played billiards, do you recall?” he asked, a smile playing on his lips.
“I remember very well.”
“And do you recall the wager?”
“Better still,” Abbey said slowly. Like a flash of light, it suddenly occurred to her that the three months was over. She blanched visibly; Michael’s smile
faded.
“Is something wrong?” he asked softly. Abbey swallowed and shook her head.
“Today is the three-month mark of our wager,” he said, and impulsively covered
her hands with one of his.
Abbey’s throat parched; what did he want her to say? She felt uncomfortably
exposed; the facts today were no different from what they had been that night
three months ago. Michael had been forced into a marriage against his will and
deserved to be released. But God, did he want to be released? Her breathing grew
constricted. She could not bear to hear him say he wanted out of this marriage,
but she owed him the opportunity. She closed her eyes; Michael’s hand gripped
hers tightly.
“Abbey, I would have your answer,” he insisted. Abbey flinched. “But before you
do, I think you should know that I will be sorely displeased if I must rescind
my favorable reply to the Delacorte Ball next month.” Abbey’s eyes flew open and
she started to shake her head. He came quickly to his knees and grabbed her
shoulders; his gray gaze pierced hers with brutal intensity. She did not want to
go, but she could not deny the very real truth of their marriage.
“It’s… it’s not fair! You deserve—”
“I deserve to have my wife on my arm in London. I deserve to have you in my bed
at night. I deserve to see that devastating smile of yours every day, and I would have sworn on my mother’s grave that you did not want to go!” he said
gruffly.
“I don’t want to go!” she cried.
“Then why in the devil do you look as if you could be ill at any moment?”
he
roared.
“I’d rather die than be without you, don’t you know that? But I can’t ask it of
you, Michael! Papa lied to you!” she cried.
Something flicked across his gray eyes and he smiled ruefully. “Abbey, listen to
me. That is past history and has nothing to do with us now. I would prefer you
not go.”
Shocked by the words she had so longed to hear, she suddenly threw herself at
Michael, knocking him to his back. “Oh, Michael!” she cried, and covered his
face with fierce kisses until her elation managed to manifest itself in a burst
of tears.
“Good God,” he murmured, and with his thumbs, wiped her tears away.
“Darfield, you d-don’t know how happy you’ve m-made me!” she cried.
Made her happy? He had only managed to convey very awkwardly that he wanted her
to stay. He crushed her to him in a bruising kiss, to which Abbey responded with
abandon. He quickly rolled her onto her back and grabbed the hem of her skirt,
pushing it up to her waist. He growled, fumbling with the buttons of his breeches, then thrust into her with such strength that Abbey cried out in ecstasy, lifting her hips to meet the next powerful surge. And as Abbey found
fulfillment, she whispered her love, over and over again in glorious elation.
When at last they lay spent in each other’s arms, Michael chuckled against her
neck.
“What’s so funny?” she asked lazily as she stared up at the pinkening sky.
“Have I your word that you will not cause me bodily harm?”
“Of course!” she said very seriously.
“Then I have a confession to make,” he said cheerfully. “The wager was four
balls, remember?”
“Yes.”
“You turned your back, do you recall?” he asked, and swept a finger across her
swollen lips.
“I could not bear to watch. I was afraid you would miss,” she added sheepishly.
“I did miss. I made only three. I helped the fourth ball into the pocket,” he said casually.
“You what?‘ She gasped.
“I cheated. Blatantly. I even threatened Anderson with his employment if he
dared breathe a word,” he grinned.
Abbey’s eyes narrowed. “Michael Ingram, how despicable,” she began. He nodded in
cheerful agreement. “But I suppose I am hardly in a position to censure you.”
Michael’s brows rose slightly. “And why is that?”