Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

  She’d given it gladly. In exchange, he’d ravished her with pleasure, and for a few sweet hours, she’d forgotten.

  Now, despite his protestations, the truth had been spoken aloud. There was no denying it. Even John understood. “Robert, this …” She gestured between them. “This has already hurt us both so badly. Perhaps it is time to consider—”

  His arm circled her waist, drew her tight against him. “No. You will hold to your promise.” His lips breathed against hers. “Or I will tell everyone where I spent last night. John, your family. I will announce it to the bloody congregation.”

  Stricken, she pushed against his chest to gain some distance, but he refused her the barest inch. “I cannot believe you would stoop so low—”

  “Believe it,” he growled. “Think we traveled here alone together by chance?”

  “You—you were concerned about my safety … in a rush to leave London …”

  “I was in a rush to claim you.”

  Her skin began to heat. Her thighs began to soften. The places he’d touched last night tingled and swelled. The longer he stared at her, the worse her reaction became. “Why?” she wondered aloud. “We would have married in a month or so anyway.”

  He tilted his head, the posture deeply thrilling—or, rather, intimidating. Yes, intimidating was a better word. Not thrilling. Or enflaming. Or so compelling she wanted to lie down on the library floor and lift her pink silk gown for him.

  “Because of this,” he answered softly. “Your reaction. What’s between us frightens you. For months, I’ve been worried you would withdraw. Obviously a sensible concern.”

  She jerked back. “Absurd. I’ve dreamt of marrying you since I was a girl.”

  “You wanted to marry your knight, love. Not me.”

  “No. I—I love you. I have forever.”

  A small smile curled his lips. Combined with his commanding air and possessive, flickering glance over her bosom and lips, he did, indeed, appear more warlord than knight. “Does that include this moment, Bumblebee? Now that you see what I am.”

  Silence fell as she considered his question. Did she even recognize this hard, ruthless man? The Robert she knew would not threaten to reveal what they’d done last night. He would not insist they dash off alone together like youths eloping to Gretna Green. And he would not be standing here now, looking at her this way.

  The desperation was stark and raw. For the first time, she saw a mirror of her own feelings.

  “What are you, then?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

  “Uncivilized, Grandfather calls it. The past few years haven’t improved matters, I grant, but this is who I have always been.”

  Swallowing against a dry throat, she lifted a hand from where it rested on his chest and gently stroked that hard, familiar jaw. He hadn’t shaved yet this morning. Dark whiskers chafed her fingertips. “We’ve hurt each other,” she murmured.

  He didn’t answer, merely breathed against her wrist and held her waist between his hands.

  “I don’t know …” She couldn’t finish the whispered thought. Her head spun with warring love and longing and bewilderment. The world had just reordered itself, and she needed to catch her breath.

  Her indecision seemed to ignite something dark inside him. His hands tightened. Gripped her waist like a rope. His voice dropped to a growl. “By God, Annabelle, you will marry me—”

  She slid two fingers over his lips. “Shh. Be easy, my love.”

  His hands loosened, sliding down to cup her hips. He propped his forehead against hers.

  She continued stroking his cheek, as it seemed to calm him. “John will not countenance a wedding today. He will want to take me back to Clumberwood.”

  He grunted, closed his eyes, and nuzzled his cheek into her hand.

  Watching him, she smiled. A tiny glow of hope flickered to life. When he clasped her hand and kissed her inner wrist, that glow surrounded her heart. Perhaps he did not love her as much as she loved him. But that did not mean he didn’t love her enough.

  Blue eyes opened. They stole her soul in a single, time-stopping moment. Love unfurled its wings inside the cage of her ribs, awakened by everything she saw in him—desperate longing, deep need, strength, tenderness.

  She held his jaw with her hands. Stroked his lips with her thumbs. Stood on her toes to kiss him. “All I ask is a bit more time.”

  Scowling, he shook his head. “No.”

  “Listen to me.”

  “I need you, Annabelle.”

  “And I you.”

  “I cannot wait any longer.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  He enfolded her in powerful arms and buried his face in her neck. “No.”

  She held him. Breathed him. Stroked his hair, already grown too long. Together, they swayed slowly to one side then the other.

  “We’re dancing again,” she teased into his ear.

  Releasing several deep breaths, he kissed her neck, her temple, her lips. “How long?” he demanded.

  “Let’s delay the wedding until my family arrives. That will give us a chance to …” She grinned up at him with a deliberate twinkle. “… further our acquaintance.”

  He groaned.

  “Meanwhile, John will come round to the idea of his best friend and his sister as man and wife.”

  “Think he will reconcile himself to it, do you?”

  She raised a brow. “I am most persuasive when I wish to be. Besides, John is headstrong, but he hasn’t the nature for sustained fury. When he realizes you are the only husband I will accept, he’ll recover his good humor.”

  Robert’s expression remained sober. “Do you believe I love you?” The question was hoarse.

  She didn’t know what he felt because, as it turned out, she’d never known him quite as well as she’d assumed.

  Yet, she could not forget the crumpets, the honey and butter, the pink silk gown. She could not forget the way he’d held her, with such remorse and patience, or the way he’d touched her as though her pleasure was the only thing that would satisfy him.

  Looking at the man now—unshaven face, overlong hair, desperate longing, and perennial frown—she believed he did love her in his way. Which allowed her to answer truthfully, “Well, I should hope so. Only a madman would go to such lengths to trap a woman he does not love into marriage.”

  Slowly—as slowly as the sun rising—a smile curved his lips, first tender then sensual. “Perhaps I want you for your fortune.”

  “Sadly, my fortune consists of a modest dowry and a vast collection of slippers. Papa has five daughters to launch, and I am merely the first. Budgets are confining.”

  Brooding blue eyes lightened further. “Perhaps I have lecherous intentions.”

  “Mmm, that sounds splendid.”

  His grin broadened. He chuckled, eyes dancing. “Or perhaps I intend to exploit your talent for caricature to profit myself whilst humiliating my enemies.”

  “A poor investment on your part. In Mr. Green’s employ, I spent more on sketchbooks and slippers than I earned.”

  His frown returned. “Truly?”

  “A bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.”

  “Bloody infuriating.”

  His low grumble made her heart light up. “You believe I am worth more, Robert Conrad?”

  This time, his eyes glowed with intensity that made her wish the wedding were, indeed, this morning instead of a week or two away. “You are worth everything,” he said. “Everything.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “A common mistake, I daresay. A man in high dudgeon and a raving lunatic do bear a striking resemblance. However, the distinction is meaningless, for the remedy is the same—good brandy, sound sleep, and reassurances that nonsense is sanity.”

  —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock regarding the value of wifely comfort in the prevention of mad
ness.

  *~*~*

  Dearest Robert,

  Attended the theatre with Jane and Maureen three nights ago.

  Today, the pond was frozen. We went skating.

  Outside my window, snow has started.

  I miss you.

  Ever yours,

  Annabelle

  —Letter to Robert Conrad dated December 24, 1815

  *~*~*

  The moment Annabelle saw the twin oaks flanking the drive to Clumberwood Manor, another dratted lump formed in her throat. Clumberwood was no palatial stone sprawl as some country houses were. In fact, one might be forgiven for thinking it an overgrown cottage, with its three black-and-white, timber-framed stories; five steep gables; countless diamond-paned windows with old, rippled glass; and an ivy-covered brick wing that was at least a hundred years newer than the rest.

  The house nestled on a gentle knoll above a too-small fish pond containing no fish whatsoever but, rather, an overabundance of frogs. Surrounding the pond were two clusters of birch trees. Maureen had thrown a rare tantrum to save them from Papa’s ax. Down a long, gradual slope sat the coach house, a crooked, pint-sized version of the manor house with whimsical framing that Annabelle fancied as bright, orderly stars. Nearby was a brick stable, which Papa had reconstructed when Annabelle was seven so she could have a pony. Ivy covered that, too.

  Heavens, how she’d missed this place.

  “You’re not going to weep, are you?”

  Deliberately, she let her lower lip quiver and pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead. “Oh, John,” she mocked. “Have you any smelling salts? I feel a swoon coming on.”

  Her brother snorted, rolled his eyes, and urged the horses pulling the curricle a bit faster. “Mama will be the one swooning once she realizes the scandals you’ve been courting, little sister.”

  She ignored his aggravating observation in favor of reminiscing. “Do you remember when we would sledge down the hill to the coach house?”

  John chuckled. “You loved it so much, you wanted me to pull you about even when we hadn’t a flake of snow.”

  “That was Genie.”

  “No, that was you. The Christmas before you broke your toe.”

  A memory tugged. “Oh. Perhaps you are right.”

  “Sisters,” he grumbled. “Nothing but trouble.” His tone was teasing, his manner charming as always. John could charm the moon from the sky, she’d often thought. But then she glanced at his hands. One held the reins. The other fisted upon his knee.

  Her heart squeezed. Not knowing what to say to ease his mind, she patted his arm. “I’m glad you are home, John.”

  He cast her a glance, hazel eyes both twinkling and turbulent. “As am I.”

  Less than an hour later, Annabelle stood in her bedchamber trying to decide which of her second-best gowns she should wear while attempting to coax her overprotective brother to see reason. She was torn between a blue muslin frock with uneven tucks along the sleeves, and a pretty green cambric gown with a faintly stained hem.

  Fanny, one of the few chambermaids left behind at Clumberwood during the season, flitted around the lilac-draped room opening windows and gathering up garments. “Begging your pardon, my lady. What would you have me do with this?”

  Annabelle turned. Fanny held the pink silk gown.

  Slowly smiling until her cheeks warmed with memories, her breath caught as a new vision replaced the old—there would be the light through the chapel windows, of course. Ivy and orange blossoms. A bit of lace for her hair. And now, this. Pink silk. Perfection.

  “A proper cleaning should do. But have a care. This shall be my wedding gown.”

  After washing, dressing in the green gown, pinning her hair into a semblance of order, and having a spot of tea, Annabelle went in search of her brother. She found him in an unlikely place—the herb garden outside the kitchen. John was in his shirtsleeves, bent over a bed of rosemary. He held a sprig to his nose.

  “Good heavens, John. Gardening? What have the Athenians and Spaniards done to you?”

  He shot her a wickedly charming grin over his shoulder. “That is hardly a subject for your ears.”

  “Hmm. These ears might surprise you. I shall be a wife soon, you know.”

  His grin died. His jaw flexed. He stood and planted his hands on his hips. “Not Robert’s wife. Not after what he’s done.”

  She sighed and picked her way past fragrant thyme and lavender that should have already bloomed. “Yes. Robert’s wife.”

  “I forbid it.”

  Moving to stand beside him, she looped her arm through his and squeezed. “Whether you do or not, the wedding will happen.”

  He looked away, his lips tight. “Have you forgotten so easily, Annabelle? Because I have not.”

  She swallowed a lump and rested her head on his upper arm. “No. I remember everything. Including how many times you defended me to him. You nearly lost your friendship over it.”

  A damp breeze came up and ruffled John’s hair. It was lighter than when he’d left, now the color of Maureen’s—brown streaked with gold. He gazed out toward the woodlands on the eastern horizon, hazel eyes both angry and sad. “Should have done,” he murmured. “Should have thrashed the stubborn cur.”

  “It would not have solved anything. He thought he was doing right.” She ignored the ache in her chest. “Who knows? Perhaps he was.”

  “There were other ways—”

  “Were there? I’ve never been particularly biddable.”

  He fell silent as the breeze picked up and carried the scent of rosemary to her nose. He tossed the sprig back into the garden bed.

  “In any event,” she continued, “he realized his error weeks ago and has since gone to great lengths to convey his regret.”

  John looked at her askance. “Regret. Is that what this is about? He thinks to make amends by trapping you in leg shackles—”

  “No. Nothing like that.” Unbidden, a smile came to her lips. If there was one thing she knew, it was that Robert was not marrying her as compensation. He did want her. He did love her. Their connection was deep and complicated by many factors—mistakes, unruly impulses, regrets, and wounds that had been disguised rather than healed. Beyond that, she only knew one thing: She loved him. The whole man, both knight and warlord, gentleman and conqueror. She loved the friend he’d been to her as a child. She loved the man he’d become before the accident—the one who revered his grandfather and caught fish with his hands. More than anything, she loved the man he’d become since then. Harder, quieter. Stronger. She even loved the ruthless parts.

  “God, Annabelle. Don’t go weepy on me.”

  She blinked. Sniffed. Felt her cheek and found it wet. She hadn’t realized tears had spilled. “Not to worry. This is happiness, John. Truly.”

  “Odd sort of happiness. Can’t you laugh instead?” Her brother rolled his shoulders.

  “Apologies.”

  “He made you cry before. He cut you in half.”

  Yes, he had. And knowing how easily he could do it again was a vulnerability she must live with, for she could not live without him. She simply could not. “I wasn’t blameless, you know.”

  “You were a girl. You had trouble controlling your impulses. What he did was akin to hanging a child for eating too many peach tarts.”

  Wondering if she was making the right decision, she argued with herself for long seconds before saying quietly, “Look at me, John.”

  When he did, he was frowning.

  “I am no longer a girl, am I?”

  “Precisely my point. You’re now a lady deserving of every care. A man should show you respect if he favors keeping his teeth in his head.”

  She bit down against her instinct to guard her secret, to keep her brother’s good opinion of her intact. But she could not. John had been with her the day Robert had banished her. John alone had held the shattered pieces together.

  John deserved t
o understand.

  “I have something to confess.” And with that, she explained about Edward Yarrow Aimes, about Mr. Green and the imposter, about Robert’s efforts to protect her, once again, from the consequences of her decisions. When she finished her tale, her brother was pale beneath the bronze of his skin. He paced away from her and came back looking grim and tightly coiled.

  “You took a grave risk, Annabelle,” he rasped.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I needed it. I needed to … fill the emptiness with something I had created. Something clever and true.” She glanced down at her hands, clasped over a white sash and green cambric. “Robert discovered what I was doing. He did everything in his power to protect me, just as he’s always done. You may fault him for his tactics, John.” She lifted her eyes to meet his. “But never doubt that he cares for me.”

  He didn’t believe her. She could see it from the twist of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes. “Very well, if you’re so certain of him, let’s go for a visit.”

  She frowned. “To Rivermore?”

  “Tomorrow morning. You can wander about the chapel and plan the wedding decorations, if you like.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “Chatting with your paragon of protectiveness.”

  “Oh, for …” She sighed. Rubbed her suddenly aching temples. “At least wait a few days for tempers to cool. Otherwise, this will end very badly.”

  John grinned. “For him, perhaps.”

  “I really think it best to remain here until—”

  “Shall I go without you, then?”

  She rolled her eyes. “As if I would stay behind even if you did.”

  *~*~*

  “Devil take it,” Robert growled to no one in particular. His hammer had struck the fine nail with such force it bent in half and dented the oak board he’d just spent an hour smoothing with a rasp. He muttered a curse before pulling the nail and replacing it with another. This time, he controlled his temper enough to lightly tap it into place.