My Saving Grace

by Harmon, Danelle

  “Were you about to say, in order to get you to marry me?”

  “Well, yes, but, that would require your asking me to marry you and of course, that is presumptuous. I mean, you may not wish to marry me. You may think me too impetuous, too flighty, too unsuitable, too seasick. You may not love me. You may think of me as nothing more than a friend. And if that is all you think of me, then... then I will settle for that, because I’d rather have you as a friend than nothing at all, and—”

  Again his mouth claimed hers, silencing her. Her hand came up, a small thing against the broad expanse of his chest with its fine blue cloth and fancy gold buttons, and she pressed her palm against it, felt his heart beating so strong and true beneath.

  He broke the kiss, and she felt him leaning his lips against the top of her head.

  “I am Deadly Dullmore,” he murmured, in the darkness.

  “I am clumsy and impetuous.”

  “I am about to sail away from here, and only God and your uncle know when I’ll be back.”

  “Then I guess we don’t have much time.” She pulled back and looked up at his dear, dear face gazing down at hers, at the hesitant smile on his lips, now spreading into one of confidence, triumph, and stunned realization. Of disbelief. Of joy. “You have been a hero to me, Delmore Lord.”

  “And I cannot believe that I finally... finally... got the very best prize of all. You.” He shook his head, grinning, the years dropping away from his taciturn face and turning it boyish with delight. “Imagine that. Imagine!” And then he sobered, got down on one knee and tenderly took her hand, bringing it to his lips. “I love you, Grace.”

  “I love you, Delmore.”

  “Del. Please. Not Delmore. It’s too stuffy. Always hated it, to be honest.”

  “Del, then.”

  “Grace.”

  “Kiss me again?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  The following morning dawned bright and clear, with a few high cirrus clouds burning off before the sun could even gain momentum on its ascent from the eastern horizon, and the roar that issued from Sir Graham’s cabin at yet another delay preventing his return to his beloved Barbados might’ve been heard all the way to Cornwall.

  “Honest to bloody hell, Del! You should’ve offered for the girl two weeks ago, never let Ponsonby get his anchor flukes into her, now we’ll have to be stuck in this godforsaken country another three weeks while banns are read and a wedding put together and guests invited and oh, I suppose that means going all the way back to my sister’s house and putting up with more frippery from that quarter! What are you trying to do to me, eh?”

  Del, standing there before him with his hat in his hands, shrugged. “Nothing saying we have to stay here in England for three more weeks, sir. We could get a common license. Or marry in Barbados. Or even have the ship’s chaplain conduct the ceremony whilst at sea.”

  But then he saw that Sir Graham’s azure eyes were crinkled at the corners with high amusement, and the thunder in his words was nothing more than good natured rumbling. The admiral grinned and got up to congratulate his flag captain and give him a hearty clap on the back.

  “Damn your eyes, Del, we’ll do it right and proper. Here. In England. Your family and hers. All of us. Barbados can wait.”

  And so, Captain Delmore John Lord and Lady Grace Emily Fairchild found themselves back where it had all started—at a summer wedding (their own, this time) at the same country estate in Sussex where they’d first met, with the same pond and the same high fluffy white cotton-clouds on a similar morning filled with sunshine and a light wind out of the southwest (Grace got it right with no prompting), and guests from all over. Sir Graham’s sisters, including Grace’s four-times-wed mother and her portly and still-besotted new husband. Hannah and Polly. A contingent of naval officers from HMS Orion as well as Portsmouth and even the Admiralty in London, all looking quite dashing in their best uniforms with their gold lace catching the sun. Peers of the realm and Members of Parliament and neighboring gentry, their wives and daughters in summer pastels. Colin and Ariadne Lord were there, with their two boys. Admiral Christian Lord and his Irish wife Deirdre, and their blonde and sunny daughters with their own children.

  The chapel in the village was full to bursting, the rector beaming, and when the ceremony was over and the register signed, Grace found herself walking arm-in-arm out of the church with her new husband, resplendent in his uniform, clutching his sleeve in case she tripped over her hem or slipped in the handfuls of rice being flung at them both and went skidding on her nose.

  But if there was an accident waiting to happen, it would not be today.

  There was dancing on the lawn, the music provided by a group of tars whose smart neckties and coats and naval slops could not conceal the fact that these were tough and salty mariners, all of them hand-selected by Jimmy Thorne, all of them on their best efforts to tone down their language and rough manners. A few tittering young women stepped out on the cordoned-off lawn to dance with some of the young naval officers, and as the wine and rum and beer and not-so-benign punch began to flow, more and more revelers joined them. Inhibitions were dropped, Jimmy Thorne proposed loudly to Polly (she accepted), the rough-language began to reappear and really, nobody cared.

  Nor did anyone care when the newlyweds, eager to begin their lives as man and wife, decided they’d had enough of the revelry.

  Grace’s new stepfather lent them his coach and to the cheers of the guests, and with Grace waving out the window, they wheeled their way out of the long drive. By the time the team reached the road, the horses were trotting smartly.

  And it was beginning to rain.

  Hard.

  The sky outside the window went a dark gray, then charcoal, and a sudden gust of wind hit the coach and rocked it on its axles. A moment later the deluge started, first as a few streaks against the glass, then as a sheeting downpour.

  “Oh, this will be ending things soon enough back at the wedding festivities,” Grace murmured.

  Del rapped on the roof and rapped again, harder, to be heard over the downpour. The coach slowed. “Turn back,” he yelled. “No sense you getting soaked and besides, this is too dangerous. We’ll stay the night back at Ruscombe Hall.” He turned back to Grace with a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry. So much for making our escape!”

  He had to yell to be heard over the sound of rain hitting the roof. Lightning cracked down from the heavens and the very ground seemed to rumble beneath them.

  The driver turned the team around and minutes later, they were racing back toward the manor house. Outside the window, Grace could see the day growing blacker still. The galloping team drew them up the drive. People were scurrying to and fro on the lawn, racing to escape the deluge, servants grabbing china and place settings, the ladies shrieking.

  The coach lurched to a stop and Del had the door open before the driver could even get down from his box. “I’ll take Mrs. Lord inside,” he yelled up. “You, man, go seek shelter! We’ll stay here for the night!”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  He dutifully waited, bent to the rain as Del reached in and helped Grace down from the coach. Hand-in-hand and laughing, they ran toward the house. She slipped in the wet grass and he caught her, and by the time they reached the front doors Grace was soaked through and her hem and satin pumps splattered with mud.

  They slammed into the entrance foyer and stood there, laughing.

  Sir Graham came in, raising his brows. “Back already, are you? I thought you’d left for Portsmouth.”

  “Got caught in the deluge.”

  “Well, get out of here, you two. You’ve got a wedding night to celebrate.”

  Grace caught the humor in his voice, and even her husband grinned at the admiral. And then he caught her hand once more and together, they both ran lightly up the stairs and to the second floor, where Grace headed down the hall until she came to what was to
have been her own apartments.

  She pushed open the door, yanked Del inside.

  He shut it behind her.

  She leaned back against it, breathing hard. Water streamed down her cheeks, and the silk bandeau she’d worn had come partially loose, leaving hanks of damp hair clinging to her cheek.

  Her new husband stilled, looking down at her.

  Grace caught her breath and raised her gaze to his.

  Outside, lightning flashed down, turning the room purple for the briefest of moments before the answering crack of thunder rumbled through the house, shaking the floor beneath their feet.

  His hand came up, tenderly clearing the hair from her cheek, his fingers warm against the little indent under her cheekbone. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch and a moment later, his lips were against hers, seeking, urgent, and delicious.

  She sighed, and a little groan escaped her throat. This... this was what she had pined for, waited for, prayed for... love. Love, with this man. This man. And as he deepened the kiss, his mouth urgent against hers now, his fingers sliding back and into her damp hair, she pushed herself up against him, her hands catching the lapels of his coat, trying to find relief for the sudden hungry ache that started in her belly and fanned up into her nipples, down into that secret space between her legs.

  Again the lightning flickered and a moment later, the answering crash of thunder.

  “I imagine,” she breathed, resting her forehead against his waistcoat, “that is what it must sound like when the guns go off on that insanely huge ship of yours.”

  “Oh, much, much louder.”

  “Del?”

  “Grace?”

  She looked up at him, seeing his face in the flickering violet light that heralded another shaking peal of thunder. “Make me your wife.”

  He picked her up in his arms then, doing so with a deft move that saw her feet on the floor one moment and her legs dangling over his arm the next. The sensation of weightlessness, the delight of being overpowered, overwhelmed by such masculine strength made her shiver a little, and she hooked her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against his waistcoat as he carried her to the bed.

  He set her down with infinite care. Outside, the rain hammered in a thousand pinging drums, streaming down the windows and blurring the gray skies beyond.

  “I love thunder,” she said, running her finger along the line of his jaw.

  “And I,” he returned, “love you.”

  She grinned and caught at his necktie with eager fingers, loosening it.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Destiny?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Do you think I’ll make an admirable sea-officer’s wife?”

  “That,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss the hollow of her throat, “will depend on whether you learn east from west, larboard from starboard, and how to tie a bowline.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  His lips were against the beating pulse in her throat, the sweet clean scent of his hair in her nose, the harsh, wiry curls tickling her cheek. She sighed in bliss and then he pulled back, gazing deeply into her eyes. She reached out and touched his face. His jawline. Felt the emerging bristle there, rough against the pads of her exploring fingertips. Felt his breath against her wrist, saw the desire darkening his steady gray eyes. He caught her fingers then and brushed them along the seam of his lips, holding her gaze with his own. The gesture was wildly erotic, causing sensation to thrum in her belly and between her legs.

  Lightning lit up the room once more, a flickering flash that went on and on before it abruptly stopped and in that expectant silence before the thunder came, he kissed her.

  Hard.

  Her hands were already clawing at his coat when the thunder came, shaking the very walls and the floor beneath them. Any attempts at drawing out the act, of a long lead-up to a climax they both craved were abandoned, the fierce weather outside only adding to their frenzy. Downstairs, drunken revelry echoed through the great ballroom, but neither heard it; she, already beginning to breathe hard, had peeled the coat from her husband’s broad shoulders while he shrugged out of the damp garment entirely, letting it fall to the floor, his waistcoat following. Her hands went to his drop front, fumbling with the buttons, feeling the hard masculine flesh just beneath. His arm banded her, drawing her close, right up against his shirt and the heart she could feel beating hard and fast just beneath.

  “Grace,” he said hoarsely. “We shouldn’t rush this.”

  But she wanted to rush it. Wanted to race headlong into this flight of coming joy, a newly-fledged bird charging toward a cliff, flinging herself off it, spreading her great and newly-formed wings to see if they would carry her, allow her to soar, to fly. She raised her arms, allowed him to pull her gown off over her head, to unlace her stays as she herself kicked off her muddied shoes and his hard, rough fingers found the garters that held up her stockings and peeled the wet silk down over long shapely calves.

  Outside the rain beat harder, and the lightning flashed and thunder rolled over the noble Sussex downs.

  And Grace felt her body melting, going up in steam, puddling in a spreading warmth of desire, as if every cell in her body was screaming its need for him, and him alone. Him. My husband. He loomed over her, the sound of his own breathing lost beneath the fury outside and the deafening tattoo of the rain against the windows, his big body leaning into hers, forcing her down and backward to the bed, his lips buried in the hollow between neck and shoulder, his bristled jaw catching in her damp hair that was already soaking the pillow, warm and wet and all but suffocating him in its cloying warmth.

  He moved over her. She felt small and insignificant and overpowered and delicious, and the fire that had already flared in her body spread until she could not catch her breath.

  He leaned down, cradling her face between his hands, his eyes dark in the gloom, his hair framing his face.

  “I wanted to make this last,” he said roughly. “Wanted to take my time... go slowly... cherish and worship you but God help me, I cannot.”

  “Del—”

  “I cannot,” he repeated, and he lowered his head to her collarbone, pressing, seeking, kissing, his breath hot against her damp skin, kissing her through the thin fabric of her chemise, his great body, so hard, so muscular, so strong and virile, pressing down on her, pressing down against her, pressing her, all of her, down, down, down into the deep feathery embrace of the mattress. She felt the iron brace of his arms, felt the length of his legs heavy along her own, felt his lips, ohhh, his lips, now wandering lower, kissing her on-fire flesh through the thin barrier of her chemise. His hand, cupping her breast. Pushing the soft globe up to his mouth until his lips closed hungrily over the nipple and he sucked it, hard.

  Grace moaned deep in her throat, squirming restlessly as she sought release from the building fire. The long, hard-muscled length of his leg pinned her restless movements, pushing her down into the bed, and then his knee was there, driving her legs apart, his mouth still sucking at her breast through the chemise and his hand now seeking her inner thighs, stroking the silken flesh.

  Behind closed eyelids, she saw flickers of purple, heard the earth trembling in the mighty pulse of thunder that followed, felt it in her body, felt it in his hand as its broad width swept the soft skin of her thighs, found the moist junction between her legs and began to stroke, the thumb finding a hidden part of her that made her gasp and arch and cry out in delight. Oh. Oh, dear Lord, what anguish, what pleasure, what delicious joy! She felt a flood of moisture between herself and his hand, his fingers, as she writhed in helpless abandon, and then he moved over her, his mouth smothering her cries as he parted her, filling her with an unbearable hardness, pushing her wider and wider apart until the searing pain was met with that indescribable building anguish once more. He kissed her. He devoured her mouth, her very senses. His movements came hard and fast now, filling he
r, their damp shirts grinding against each other, their heartbeats melding, until he gave a hoarse cry and she was flung once more out over that same cliff, her wings already spreading to take her on a silent, floating ride as the world unfolded in all its magnificence beneath her.

  She lay there. Tears of joy fell silently from her eyes to wet the pillow beneath her head. Her husband lay atop her, his weight crushing and delicious, his breathing harsh, one leg still thrown possessively over her own. Her arms came up, encircled his broad and muscled back.

  “I love you, Captain Lord.”

  “I love you, Mrs. Lord.”

  Outside, the lightning was coming more slowly, the thunder beginning to move off. Her new husband raised himself on his elbows and slid his arms beneath her own shoulders, and holding her close, rolled over onto his back.

  Together they lay there, listening to the rain beginning to recede. A thin ray of sunshine pierced the fast-moving clouds outside and the room began to brighten.

  “I think,” Grace said, laying her cheek against the broad expanse of his chest and thinking how perfectly her head fit there in the cup between his arm and shoulder, “that I’m going to enjoy being a married woman.”

  “And I think that I should get up and close the drapes.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Aye... I must confess, I’m not inclined to move right now.”

  She moved her lips, seeking the warm wedge of skin at his throat, inhaling his scent, tasting the salt from their exertions. She found the hem of his rucked-up shirt, slid her hand beneath it, brought it up to rest beside her head, only the thin fabric of the shirt itself between it and her cheek.

  “So don’t.”

  He locked his arms around her back, holding her close to him, heart to heart. She felt his manhood stirring once more against the hot, moist part of her that marked their coupling, felt her own flesh responding in kind.

  “Going to be a long night,” he said, with a little laugh.

  “Not long enough.” she replied, and kissed him.