He admired her strength of character. It had not been easy for her to walk away from her family, and yet she had done so to thrive.
And now, she was going to give herself to him.
She hadn’t even known how wealthy he was.
Now, as he waited under a spreading yew at the blacksmith’s shop at the center of Gretna Green, the first place over the Scottish border where lovers could marry quickly, he understood why bridegrooms were nervous. It was a heady thing to take a wife, but to claim one who so completely placed her trust in him was a weighted responsibility.
For the first time in his memory, he found himself praying. He hoped he was worthy of her. He was also anxious that no harm come to her. In three very close days of travel, Jenny had become the most important person in his life. He could not imagine going on without her.
So, what if childbirth did take her from him?
Fear of the story she told him about her heart rested heavy on his mind. He would do anything to care for her.
“I’m ready.”
At the sound her voice, he turned, and was immediately taken back to that first moment when he’d seen her on the street and she’d captured his attention. Her blond hair like strands of sunlight flowed loose around her shoulders. Her blue eyes shone with love for him.
She held out her hand. “Are you ready?”
“I am overwhelmed,” he said truthfully. “I will never tire of looking at you, especially when you are smiling as you are now.”
Her laughter was light. “Come, my love.”
With joined hands, they entered the blacksmith’s shop. Paisley waited for them by the door. He was a canny Scotsman, one who expected to be paid well for his services, and once that was done, he took charge.
“Stand here,” he ordered, placing them in front of his anvil with their hands joined on the cold iron. When they were in position, he didn’t waste time. He said to Fyclan, “Do you wed this woman?”
“I do.”
Paisley turned his stern features on Jenny. “And what of you? Will you take this man?”
Jenny tilted her head to Fyclan. They stood so close he could lean forward and kiss her. Her lips curved into an inviting smile. “I do,” she said in her calm, measured voice. “But I have something else to add”
“Carry on,” Paisley said. “It is your wedding.”
She smiled into Fyclan’s eyes, and said, “I love you as I could never love another. You have given me more than just your name. You have given the freedom to be myself. There is no gift more valuable.”
Had any man ever received a greater compliment? And here, only minutes ago, he’d been anxious about the fragile nature of her life. She’d reminded him that one must always live fully and completely.
He kissed her then. This was not the considered, sometimes devouring, kisses of the past days in the post chaise. He’d had a hard time keeping himself at bay.
No, this kiss was his promise to cherish her as she deserved. To hold her close as helpmate. To honor her as she honored him.
“Hey now,” Paisley said. “I’ve not named you husband and wife, yet.”
Fyclan broke the kiss long enough to say, “Then you’d best move on with it.”
“I name you husband and wife,” Paisley said. He brought his hammer down on his anvil, and Fyclan swept Jenny up in his arms.
“You may kiss your bride,” Paisley finished, but Fyclan was already too busy kissing Jenny to pay him much mind.
THEY TOOK A room in Gretna Hall. Fyclan had let her have some privacy before he joined her in the bed.
Jenny was nervous. She had bathed, using the washbowl, and had combed her hair with her fingers. The hour was still early, the sun had not yet set.
If this had been her wedding night in London, she would have been pampered by Mandy and had a nightdress to wear. She had nothing here, so she wore her chemise and petticoats. They were so sheer, she felt practically naked, yet she had a feeling Fyclan would not object.
She hoped he wasn’t disappointed in her for many reasons. She’d overheard her sister Alice complaining with some women friends that fulfilling marital duties was a chore. Jenny hoped not.
Kissing Fyclan was better than breathing. She’d come to yearn for his touch and the scent of his skin. She believed there was nothing finer in the world than to have him by her side. She’d not even realized how lonely she’d been until the day she’d met him in the library and had recognized a kindred soul.
After their letters and traveling with him in the confines of the coach, she understood him very well, and she knew he had some grave concerns. He thought about her heart, about her expectations and fear of death, and she knew she was the only one who could set his worries to rest—or make them worse.
There was a knock on the door.
She’d been sitting on the bed with her legs tucked beneath her. The mattress was lumpy. After nights spent sleeping in Fyclan’s arms, Jenny didn’t know if she wanted wool-stuffed bedding. She unfolded her legs and stood.
“Yes?” she said.
“May I come in?” Fyclan asked. He sounded so formal.
Here was the moment.
She crossed to the door. She could feel his presence on the other side, and she thought of their letters. She placed her hand on the cool wood. They had said so much to each other without the danger of confrontation. She wished she could write him now and tell him not to worry.
The letters had taught her that some things were easier to say in writing . . . or when one didn’t need pretense.
So, she did not open the door. Instead she leaned close to it, and said, “Do you know how deeply I love you?”
He had not been expecting her words. He had been waiting for a door to open.
Another man on his wedding night might demand the door be opened and enough with talking, a man who didn’t care for her or who considered that she had a thought or opinion of her own.
Fyclan was not that man.
She could feel him move closer to her. “If it is half of what I feel for you, then no ocean could hold it.”
Jenny smiled, loving the melodic sound of his voice.
She spoke from her heart. “You have changed my life. I once feared everything, did you know that? I was always conscious of being different. I was more a doll than a woman. I believed them when they told me I was frail, that I had no right to want more.
“And then you came into my life. I’d yet to meet a man who spoke to me as an equal, who valued what I had to say. And we shared a dream together—”
“Jenny, I would die myself if anything happened to you.”
There it was, his fear. “I’m not fragile. I will not break,” she whispered, knowing for the first time in her heart it was true. She wanted to live, to enjoy life fully.
“But what if being with child was too much for you—”
Jenny threw open the door.
He stood there as if lost.
She reached out and placed her hand against his jaw. “So handsome and so sad. I could feel it coming to you. Don’t be afraid, Fyclan. Love me.”
Before he could speak, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with the fullness of her being.
He kissed back, moving her into the room and kicking the door closed. This was what she wanted. All, she realized, she’d ever wanted. A joining, a meshing of two souls.
He broke the kiss, his voice harsh. “If anything happens to you because of my lust.”
She held his face so that he must meet her eye. “You gave me a dream of a child who would become a great woman. This afternoon, you made me a promise that we would be one. I’ll not settle for anything less, Fyclan Morris, than what you pledged to this marriage. Whether I die tomorrow or next year or decades from now, I want to live knowing that I’ve tasted everything life has to offer�
��including loving my husband in a manner that will make the heavens sing. Have no fear,” she urged him, running her palm along the breadth of his shoulder. “The love I feel for you will always be there, even after death. But for today, let us live as lovers.”
She kissed him then, and he responded openly and generously. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed, his hands already untying her lacings. She pushed his jacket down his arms, hampering his efforts. He shook his coat off, anxious to return to her. She pulled his shirt out and slid her hands beneath it, feeling the contours of hard muscles. They were clumsy, they were silly, and yet they had the same goal.
“Jenny,” he whispered, breathing her name as if it were a benediction. He began kissing her nose, her eyes, her hair, and, finally, her mouth.
Live. She wanted to live, and in this moment she was. They were two people hungry for each other. His touch was magic. He knew what pleased her. He kissed the sensitive skin beneath her jaw and tickled a line to her ear.
He had her undressed first. Her fine lawn of her undergarments fell around her on the bed. He kissed the curve of her breasts. His kisses lowered until he touched her nipples—and she caught fire.
Her blood pounded in her veins. She had never realized they were so sensitive. Her heart, that very heart that so concerned everyone in her life, felt ready to burst with joy. Her fingers buried themselves in his thick hair.
At her touch, he started to stir as if alarmed. “Jenny, is this all right—?”
“Don’t stop.” Now it was her turn to sound harsh. What Fyclan was doing with his mouth was the most delicious experience. Had he learned this in some exotic port of India? Or was it what every sensible Irishman knew?
She hoped it was the latter because, because truth be told, she would not want to rob any woman in the world of this pleasure.
And what pleased her even more is when she copied what he was doing to her. He liked when she nibbled his ear or the line of his throat. Her hands smoothed over his chest. His nipples were as tight as hers. She let her hand wander lower.
When he brought his hand down to hers, she thought he was going to stop her. Instead, he began unbuttoning his breeches. She pushed him aside, eager to do it herself as his mouth found hers again. This time, she tasted his tongue. Here was Temptation, especially when the back of her fingers brushed against the hardened length of him.
His shoes dropped to the floor as he kicked them off. She traced the curve of his buttocks as she pushed his breeches down. His hand flowed down to her waist and pulled her intimately to him.
Jenny hadn’t realized her eyes were closed. She’d been too busy enjoying herself, learning him with her other senses. Now she opened them, and the love in his eyes threatened to overwhelm her.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
“You’re beautiful,” she countered. “This is beautiful.”
He grinned as he leaned her back on the bed, the weight of his body upon her. He brushed her hair from her temples. Deep within, she felt a need beginning to build. A pull he’d stirred into wakefulness when he had been teasing her breasts.
His hardness brushed against her, and she knew she undone. She opened her legs to him. “Please,” she whispered, not even certain what she asked.
His mouth covered hers, and she felt him press toward the very core of her being.
For a second, she was startled. His shape was alien, yet her body quickly adjusted. In fact, she was a bit frustrated there wasn’t more.
“Fyclan, if you don’t do this, I fear I’ll ignite from wanting you. I will.”
He rose, and, in one smooth thrust, entered her. There was pain, but the pain was nothing compared to the wonder of understanding. This is what it meant to be joined to a man, to be one with him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice anxious.
She looked him, stunned by the question. “Fyclan, make love to me.”
And he did. He opened a new world to her. She had never dreamed of the bliss that came from this act of joining. How could anyone complain about this? It was joyful, exhilarating. The things he did to her body made her toes curl and her senses sing.
She moved with him. She could not hold back. She loved him so much, and now, this was just the grandest reward, and it seemed as if it would go on forever. She hoped it would go on forever. Her heart pounded in her ears, her brave, loving heart. She’d never been so proud of it.
Suddenly, her desire, her need burst inside her. She was no longer herself. He was all around her, and she was all around him.
Deep inside, she felt his seed fill her.
It was a miracle, she marveled. Their souls had actually become one.
Fyclan fell on the bed beside her. She turned to him, immediately missing his heat and that wickedly hard shaft that knew how to give her so much pleasure.
They were naked in a tumble of clothing. Fyclan shoved it all to the floor and flipped the counterpane to cover them. He moved closer, and she curled up next to him.
He pressed his lips to her temple. “Are you all right?” His tone was anxious.
She took his hand and rested it against her racing heart, right over her breast, the nipple still hard and swollen. “I have never been better.” She lightly touched his crisp, black hair and tested her new name. “Mrs. Fyclan Morris.”
“Are you happy?”
She nodded. “And so very pleased I didn’t marry Lord Stowe. I don’t believe he could have done that.”
He laughed, the sound masculine and full, and she was filled with love for him. “He could never please you the way I can,” he assured her, and she had no doubt that he was right.
She brought hand down to rest on her belly. She didn’t feel a child had been created. Not yet. She thought of the portrait in her dreams. “Someday, I shall be a mother,” she murmured. “I shall not fear the future.”
He took her hand and kissed the back of her fingers. “I shall always protect you. Jenny, we shall see London doctors. They will know more than some country doctor.”
She smiled, content for right now. And then she wondered, “So, do you think we might do that again?”
“You liked it?” There was hope in her husband’s voice.
“I don’t know.” She pretended to frown. “I might need to try another sample.”
Fyclan’s answer was to gladly pull her into his arms and show her that, yes, they could do it as often as they wished.
Happily Ever After
THE COLONEL DISOWNED Jenny.
He was vocal and bombastic about it. His actions did not bother her. What hurt is that her mother and her sisters supported him, even after, once they’d returned from Scotland, Fyclan financed Alice’s husband’s advancement and settled a considerable dowry on Serena. She did not marry the squire’s son but met a respectable barrister in Lansdown who helped her forget Evan. There were no thank-yous.
“Blood money,” Serena had said, and for that, Jenny had no answer.
As for her mother? Well, she had waited years for her colonel husband to return home and could not go against him, or so she told her youngest daughter. Yes, he continued his reckless gambling, but what could a mere wife do? Jenny understood although her family’s greed and choices saddened her.
What she did know is that being Mrs. Fyclan Morris suited her. She now understood the admonishment that when a man and woman married, they left their parents and became one. She was proud to stand beside her husband.
The letters they had once exchanged now served as a good foundation for their marriage. Of course, she had much more she needed to learn about Fyclan, and she delighted in the endeavor. Soon, she could reference his likes and dislikes and found him to be a kind and considerate helpmate, one who also happened to be very rich.
Indeed, apparently few had known how wealthy. “I was a bachelor,” he explained
to Jenny. “My needs were few, and I didn’t want to miss a good investment.”
Of course, Lord Stowe took exception to Fyclan’s eloping with Jenny. He complained bitterly to the directors of the East India Company. They, in turn, let Fyclan go and were surprised when he set up his own firm of offices directly across the street. His friend John Bishard joined him, and together, they became Morris and Bishard.
No one particularly took notice of the new firm, until Jenny and Fyclan began building their house in Mayfair with a library that could one day rival Sir David’s. Astute investors quickly learned that when it came to making money, Fyclan Morris had a gift. Very soon, his clients came only from the elite because he could afford to be selective. Eventually, even the East India Company looked to him for advice.
Jenny was not surprised to discover that, although her elopement caused a bit of a scandal at the time, doors were not closed to them. After all, there were those who sought Fyclan’s attention to their personal fortunes. They didn’t care that Fyclan was Irish. They wanted a sound return on their coin, and he always delivered.
In time, Mr. and Mrs. Morris were added to every guest list, including events at Court. He was one of the few that the king’s advisors called upon regularly for his opinion.
Did it bother Jenny that her family had spurned her? Rarely. She discovered she was more resilient than anyone could have imagined.
She also didn’t think about her heart. Her life was so full of happiness and love, she had no room for fear. She was too busy living each day to its fullest.
Her husband thought differently. Fyclan insisted that she be seen by the best doctors. They examined her coloring, asked if she had trouble breathing, or was tired—and then told him there was no medical way of determining how strong her heart was or wasn’t. She appeared and acted fine. Yes, she rested every afternoon, but that was a reasonable action for a woman as active and busy as Jenny. In time, Fyclan, too, relaxed.
The only disappointment Jenny had was that she’d yet to be with child. It wasn’t for lack of trying. She and her husband enjoyed their marriage bed. She feared the reason they didn’t have children was because of her. Something had to be wrong with her.
A Little Thing Called Love Page 7