The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  “I’m not married.” Eyes opened, she held up her hand to block the glare. “Mr. McGreevy, if you please. The lamp.”

  “He looks like the nice gentleman who fixed the coach brace back on Devil’s Causeway not long ago. You were there.” Cottony wisps of hair stuck out from the coachman’s head. “If ye’d be so kind as to speak to him. I’m not given to harboring runaway wives. I’m a God-fearing man, I am, married forty years meself.”

  Mrs. Underwood’s cautionary stare swept from her daughter to Genevieve. Learn from that woman’s egregious ways.

  Genevieve smiled, a bland effort, but she made the best of it since she was stuck with these ladies all the way to London. “I’ll speak to the man claiming to be my husband.”

  She checked her appearance in the door window and smoothed the odd stray hair back into her hood. The glass reflected her hand’s tremor. Marcus was free. Why drag on their parting? She pushed past the coach door into darkness, her heels sinking in rain-softened earth.

  Coach light spilled over familiar boots, stepping into the lamp’s glow. Black cocked hat pulled low, his collar flipped high, Lord Bowles huffed tiny clouds in winter air. Moonlight painted the angles of his face and the gleaming white bandage with its blood spot on his temple.

  “Mrs. Trumbull thinks you’re a highwayman.” As greetings go, it lacked artfulness.

  His head tipped a degree.

  “You’re running away again,” he taunted.

  Women whispered behind her. Door hinges creaked. The riders probably fought for the doorway…all the better to eavesdrop. Genevieve tried to speak, but nothing came—nor did he take pity on her mute struggle. No, her husband went for the jugular.

  “You left our cottage, you left our horses…you left me.”

  Our cottage? Our horses?

  Marcus volleyed more shots in his gentle attack. “Humble though it is, it’s our family home. I’m laying my heart and my home at your feet. I don’t have much else to give.”

  A tear pricked her eye. Family. Home. His heart. Oh, Marcus knew how to weaken her defenses. She blinked fast and stared at a sturdy stone fence lining the road. One red-gloved finger dabbed her eye, as if no more than one tear threatened to drop, rather than the torrent threatening to flow.

  “You have much to give,” she managed. “But, milord…don’t you have another woman to pursue?”

  “No,” he announced loud enough to entertain their audience. “Not when I love you.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, and a knot formed in her throat. “Don’t trifle with me.”

  His voice was strong, but an ache lit his eyes. He could’ve argued that marriage drove him to chase her, that he was compelled to find her because of a piece of paper and the vows said to get it. But Marcus wasn’t driven by paper or words. He was driven by love.

  His gloveless hand grazed her chin, sliding deeper into her hood. “You may not want my love, but I’m giving it to you.”

  The knot got bigger. Words stuck in her throat. Love scared her. Inside her heart a whirling, dizzying mass of feelings spun for Lord Marcus Bowles, gentler of horses and women. He’d flipped everything upside down and made it all seem normal. Men of his station didn’t seek women of hers.

  She craved logical order…of mechanisms and soul-cleansing labor.

  Sex was easy. Emotions were not.

  He knew this. It was in the tender line of his mouth, the angle of his head as if he hung on every word she had yet to say. The flat line of her mouth wobbled. He was more skilled with words, and she was on the verge of becoming a blubbery mass of tears. How horrifying!

  “Shh…” He soothed her, stroking her bottom lip.

  “Milord, we shared laughter and sex.” She sniffled. “It’s true we also shared an ease together…a friendship, if you will, full of respect and companionship and a genuine wish for the other’s well-being the way we looked after each other.” She sniffled again. “We accepted each other, flaws and all, but I don’t know that you could call it love.”

  He wiped a brazen tear rolling down her cheek. “Sounds a lot like love to me. Unless you’re negotiating for more sterling qualities.”

  His smile was a blur.

  “I’m very serious, milord.”

  “You usually are,” he said softly, wiping more wetness from her cheeks.

  She was weak in the knees with each caring caress.

  “I have something for you,” he said.

  What more could he give?

  Lord Bowles dug inside his coat and pulled out foolscap folded end over end. “These belong to you.”

  Paper slid against paper. A conspicuous notch showed. “My indenture.”

  “And our marriage license.”

  She fanned the papers in her hand.

  “You’re free, Genevieve. You don’t have to run from any man. Including me.”

  “My freedom,” she said, her voice awed.

  “Do with it what you will. If you come to me, you do it of your own free will.”

  The knot in her throat expanded. It swelled in her chest and stung her eyes. Years of being alone in crowded places crashed in on her. She was stripped bare on this quiet country road. Lord Bowles, her husband, saw everything, and he still wanted her.

  “But you’d be tied to the likes of me.”

  “There’s no other woman I’d rather be with.” His smile was gentle against his collar.

  A breeze blew blond wisps across her eyes. Unshed tears made him blurry and clogged her throat. “What about the wealthy, appropriate Miss Rutherford?”

  He cupped her cheek. “She’s not the one for me. Trust me on that.”

  “Trustworthy as a vicar.”

  Gentle north wind curled around them, blowing her cloak’s hem against his boots. Another gust freed brown hair from his queue. She angled her face into his palm, the warmth, the smell of his skin calling to her. She covered his hand with hers.

  “I want to be the man you need,” he said and kissed her forehead. “Somewhere in my life, I stopped listening to what made me happy…to who I am. Being with you opened my eyes.”

  “Your love of horses. The land.”

  His grin slid sideways. “I’m the worse for wear, but not so old.”

  “And…Khan?” Her legs bumped his. Tears dripped down her cheeks, one slow droplet at a time. The knot inside her uncoiled. Warmth blossomed in its place. This was her becoming part of him…this blending of lives and love. Hadn’t it started already? Possibly on another empty country road?

  “Khan will be a king among horses in Atal’s barn. He’s in the finest of quarters, being waited on day and night. I’m sure it’ll go to his head.” He paused to look deep in her eyes, his chin and mouth tight with pain. “Selling him was hard. I can’t deny that. But I did it to save the herd and to buy Pallinsburn. For us.”

  Her knees buckled. “I love you, Marcus.”

  The words were a whisper. He caressed her face, his smile wide in the dark. Her husband grasped how hard it was to say those words.

  She skimmed his collar, finding the unique sun-kissed curl she adored. “We have to face facts, Marcus. You’ll lose your freedom in London. Doors won’t open to the likes of me.”

  “Hang them all.” And he kissed her forehead.

  “He’s a keeper, that one,” a voice called from the coach. “But if you give him the boot, I’ll marry him.”

  Genevieve laughed. She’d forgotten about their audience. She slid her arms inside her husband’s coat and held on to his warm, strong body. “You’re right, Mrs. Featherton, he is a keeper.”

  His arms wrapped around her. “I may yet lose everything. I’m a second son with a derelict reputation and a brother who’d just as soon disown me if he could.”

  “Then we’ll be derelict and disowned together.” She buried her nose in his cravat. �
�I’m sure I could share a survival trick or two.”

  Behind them, a loud thunk.

  “The outrider left your trunk at the roadside.”

  She burrowed deeper in his redingote. “Good.”

  Reins snapped. The coach heaved, rumbling away to the music of jingling harnesses.

  “Gen, the coach… It’s leaving.”

  Her head rested under his chin. “It’s about time. We need to go home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Being with you is freedom,” she said, kissing his neck.

  He chuckled. “Should I brace myself for a new list of requirements?”

  “I’ll have a few over the years.”

  He kissed her full on the mouth, and she tasted cider on his lips. “We’ll have to leave your chest here, collect it tomorrow.”

  Laughter bubbled inside her. “Or leave it. Clothes are so unnecessary.”

  He laughed, and she’d swear a touch of the satyr was in the sound. Her heart wanted to burst, this goodness so new and welcome. Their breaths mingled quietly and peacefully. Neither wanted to leave the northern road. They held tight to each other, standing for a long time, keeping the cold at bay.

  A gentle breeze tickled her ears. Northumberland wind.

  “Do you feel that?” he asked above her ear.

  “Feel what?”

  “The wind. It pushed me north. To you.” He held her tighter.

  She kissed his neck. “Take me home.”

  Home. Pallinsburn. Their cottage.

  It was time to get on with the rest of their lives.

  Epilogue

  They sat on straw at midnight, waiting. Birth, like life, had a way of doing that. Teaching patience and love.

  Genevieve wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees. “How is she?”

  Marcus sat on the ground, stroking the old mare’s neck. The old, nameless mare was giving birth.

  “She’s fine. It’ll be a long night, I’m afraid.” He glanced up. “If you want to go to bed, I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

  “And miss a second of this? Certainly not. I like watching you with the horses.”

  He was in his element. Mud on his boots. Dirt on his unshaved jaw. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, the horse tattoo flexing on his skin. And his smile as bright as ever.

  They’d settled into marriage, a real marriage, not born of necessity or convenience. Instead a partnership had slipped into place, the blending that had already begun with their awkward arrangement.

  Love begat freedom, and freedom begat understanding.

  “With other men, I always wondered why they asked me questions. I felt like the more I said, the less they understood.”

  “You mean, they were trying to get under your skirts?” he jested, speaking softly for the horse.

  “Oh, Marcus.” Her laughter trilled, disturbing the sleepy barn.

  Horses stirred, the mare chortled, and he raised a hushing finger to his mouth.

  “Forgive me.” Voice hushed, she went on, “I mean, with you… You see me.”

  “That’s it. No more books for you, Lady Bowles,” he teased, his voice low. “Too much understanding, and we’re liable to burst.”

  “A fate I accept.”

  Shifting to his knees, Marcus examined the mare, running his hand along her belly. “If we go by my brother’s letters, we’re bound for failure.”

  His tone was grim. News of their hasty marriage had been met with a barrage of upset letters full of admonishments to stay north. Their scandal had caused North enough trouble in his bride quest. Then came delivery of the Pallinsburn deed, a gift from the marchioness. She celebrated her second son’s choice to wed the woman he loved and his pursuit of a life with horses.

  The unexpected boon meant their coffers overflowed, enough to build a second barn. The ache of Khan’s loss lingered, and Genevieve was determined that someday the proud gray would come home. She hadn’t worked out how yet.

  A letter crinkled in Genevieve’s apron pocket. “Speaking of letters, we have another one from your brother today.”

  Marcus, still on his knees, scooted beside the mare’s spine, his capable hands checking movement. “No doubt to inform me of my erroneous ways. Again. Read it to me, please.”

  She broke the Northampton seal and opened the letter. Her mouth formed the words, her skill at reading blossoming from nightly reading with Marcus. Only the slightest hesitation marked her as a fledgling reader.

  Dear Marcus,

  This letter is hard to write. My accusations of late have been harsh. The news I must share will shock you, but I…

  She gasped, covering her mouth.

  “Bad news?” Marcus’s head snapped up. “Is the marchioness well?”

  Genevieve shook her head, scanning the letter. “Not bad news. Your brother says your mother is well. So is he. Quite well.” She checked the words again, her jaw dropping. “It’s your brother. He’s in love.”

  “About time,” Marcus said drily. “May the sainted woman soften his stodgy edges.”

  “There’s more.” She got up and held out the letter. “You’d better read it for yourself.”

  He read the letter, his brows snapping together.

  “I’ll pack a few of your things. You’ll want to leave come daylight, I’m sure.”

  “Pack some things for yourself. You’re going with me.”

  “To Northampton? But the horses—”

  “Will be fine with Samuel and the new lad he hired.” He crumpled the letter and tossed it in a metal bin where a fire burned, giving light and warmth.

  She stood with her back to the stall’s fence. Marcus gripped her shoulders, a sheen on his forehead from his labors. He dropped a kiss on her lips. “There’s no other woman I want by my side.”

  Her hand rested on his chest, finding his heartbeat. “We’ll do this. Together.”

  About the Author

  Gina Conkle loves history, books, and romance…the perfect recipe for a historical romance writer. Her passion for castles and old places (the older and moldier the better!) means interesting family vacations. Good thing her husband and two sons share similar passions, except for romance… That’s where she gets the eye roll. When not visiting fascinating places, she can be found delving into the latest adventures in cooking, gardening, and chauffeuring her sons. Find her at ginaconkle.com.

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