The real man, the adult Christian, a chameleon of light and dark, had proposed to her, perhaps more out of duty than desire, but what kind of fool would she be to let pride stand in the way of her happiness? Even half a loaf of life with Christian would be better than none, far better than what she had once thought her heart’s desire. For without him her carefully planned existence was empty, certainly better than the long years she had spent with her godmother, but lacking in love, excitement, passion… and adventure.
Blushing, Abigail recalled the night in her bed that had, to her disappointment, put no child in her belly. She wanted that child. And others. She wanted a home that was filled with a family, not empty rooms that ensured a stultifying solitude. And, most of all, she wanted Christian Reade, Viscount Moreland, a scholar who wasn’t studious, a pirate who wasn’t a cutthroat, a wonderful, reckless, caring, witty, glorious man who had broken her heart once only to piece it back together, reviving her dreams and breathing life into her weary existence.
Drawing in a deep breath, Abigail wiped the stain of long unshed tears from her face and squared her shoulders. She knew what she must do.
Christian strode into the house, looking for his grandfather. Having just returned from London, he wanted to assure himself that all was well—and to check the post, of course. He had been to the City for a meeting with his architect, but the afternoon had not gone well. Although he had tried to resume his previous life upon his return from Sibel Hall, nothing felt the same. Oh, his interest in building was still there, but he kept thinking he should ask Abigail’s opinion.
Christian laughed, a humorless sound, at that notion. Abigail was happily ensconced in the cottage he had chosen, unbeknownst to her. No doubt she was living her dream and never even thought of him, except to rue the night she had let him into her bedroom. Christian knew that. He recognized it as fact, and yet, try as he might, he could not dismiss that evening or the woman he loved so easily.
And so he went through the motions, studying plans and drawings, making halfhearted decisions, and spending time with his grandfather, with whom he shared a new bond. Now, the highlight of the day for both of them was the arrival of the post. Christian just couldn’t stop hoping for a letter from Devon.
“There you are! Where have you been?” the earl said, an expression of such expectation on his face that Christian hated to disappoint him by complaining about his architect.
“Just talking with Bramley,” he replied. “Where’s the post?”
“Forget the post,” his grandfather said, with a wicked grin. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Christian started, his heart lurching in his chest, before reason overcame his hopes. More than likely it was some designer or builder, seeking his business.
“Out in the garden,” his grandfather said. “By the old lilacs. I ought to have Thompson plant some new ones. We need more of them about the place. Perhaps a whole line of them.”
The minute he heard lilacs, Christian was on his way. Hurrying to the tall doors that led out onto the elaborate grounds, he ran down the stone steps of the terrace, past the carefully tended beds to where the countryside encroached and several enormous lilac bushes basked in the fading sunlight. There was Abigail, poised before them.
When Christian saw her standing there, a memory came back to him slowly, like a dream, a memory of his younger self, visiting his grandfather’s house with his parents. Adults were coming that day, and he was admonished to behave himself, but he tugged at his neckcloth and hoped the couple would bring sons with them.
To his disappointment, their only child, though about his own age, was a girl. Since he was going through his pirate phase at the time, Christian had no intention of sitting still for any tea and cakes. Brandishing a wooden sword, he had yelled something like, “I’m Black Jack Reade, and you’re my prisoner.”
To his surprise and delight, she had responded with, “You’ll have to catch me first.” And then she ran away. Naturally, Christian gave chase, but she was fast, for a girl. He finally found her under the massive lilac bushes at the back of the gardens, one of his own favorite spots. Impressed with her daring and her hiding skills and her good taste, nevertheless he dashed in, sword in hand, and claimed her.
“And what do you do with your prisoners, my lord pirate?” she had asked, not one bit intimidated by his swagger.
“Why, I usually make them walk the plank,” Christian had replied. “But you being a girl and all, I expect I shall have to ravish you!”
“And how do you do that?” she asked.
“Why, I kiss you, of course,” Christian replied, laughing his bold pirate laugh. But it had faded away as he looked at her, cheeks flushed, hair like spun chocolate, silky bits flying away from her face, and her eyes… They were the color of the lilacs themselves, soft and sweet and bluer than blue. And in that moment she was the first girl he had ever really noticed, ever really looked at, certainly the first one who made his pulse pound.
Surprisingly, she did not demur as he leaned close, but only watched him with rather wide-eyed fascination. And so he had kissed her. His first kiss. It was just a brush of the lips, but he thought his heart would fly from his chest. He pulled back slowly, reluctantly, and saw that she had closed her eyes. Watching her open them had been what he now recognized as an erotic experience of the first order. Of course, he didn’t know it at the time; he knew only that she suddenly was beautiful and he wanted to give her the world.
And, then, startled at the discovery of his vulnerability, he had reverted back to the game. “You’re my wench now!” he had shouted, standing up to brandish his sword.
Christian half winced, half smiled at the memory of his young bravado. He had turned round and round and collapsed in a heap beneath the lilacs, their fragrance heady and sweet. Her voice, low and pleasing, followed him down. “Very well, my lord pirate,” she said. And she, too, lay back, and they looked up into the branches above, locked in their own world until her parents called for her.
When she left, Christian had darted into the house, taking a place at one of the long windows, where he watched their carriage move away. His parents were outside, tendering farewells, but his grandfather was seated by the fire, and Christian remembered with startling clarity how he had turned toward the earl with utmost seriousness and announced, “I’m going to marry that girl.”
“Who? Parkinson’s daughter?” his grandfather had said, never for one moment dismissing Christian’s youthful determination.
“Yes,” Christian replied.
“Good choice,” his grandfather had said, nodding.
The poignancy of the memory washed over him, catching at his throat and squeezing at his chest. That was why she was familiar. Those eyes! Who could ever mistake them? And, abruptly, he realized why his grandfather had sent him to Sibel Hall. The earl had remembered her name. The old man wasn’t growing senile at all, but was sharper than ever.
And now, the child Christian had once kissed stood before him, a woman full grown, and he cursed himself for not recognizing her the moment he’d seen her, for letting years of wary bachelorhood make him too blind to see that he had found her again at last.
“I’ve been talking to your grandfather, and apparently I owe you my thanks,” she said, presumably driven to speech by Christian’s long silence. “He says you scoured the countryside before settling on the cottage that Mr. Smythe conveniently offered me.”
Was she angry? Christian shrugged. “I had to give you the choice. I didn’t want you settling for me because you had no other options.”
Her lips quirked. “Would I settle for anyone? Only the most intelligent, most clever, most resourceful man could tempt me to wed.”
Christian lifted his brows. “Do I know him?”
Abigail shook her head. “No, you don’t realize all that you are, but luckily I appreciate every single one of your talents,” she said, pausing to tick off these supposed attributes on her fingers.
“Your knowledge of architecture, your quick thinking, your ability to unravel the most complex of mysteries, your love of adventure, your boldness in the face of danger, your bravery, your strength, your cleverness, your skill with locks, your physical prowess, your passion. You think you aren’t a man of learning, but you know things you don’t even know you know,” she said in a breathless rush.
Christian blinked at that cryptic remark, but she went on. “Truly, you are a man of many talents, far too many to list. And I love you in all your guises, ghost router, scholar… and scoundrel.”
Christian felt his pulse pick up its pace. “And I love you, not only the Governess, the woman who served as a companion, the most reasonable and practical of females who had the courage to call me an idiot to my face, but Abigail as well, the lady who longs for adventure and sword fights… and passion. And let’s not forget Abby, who stole my childish heart and held it in her keeping all these years.”
She smiled, so softly and sweetly that Christian felt a hitch in his chest. “You remembered.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Maybe deep in my heart, I still harbor a yearning to be swept off my feet and overwhelmed by a pirate in gentleman’s breeches. Or out of them,” she said, her lips quirking.
Christian laughed. “I am that pirate, and as I recall, you were once a pirate’s wench. My wench.” And with that, he stepped toward her and did what he had always wanted to do. He tossed her over his shoulder and carried her back to the house, where he lay claim, at last, to the woman who would be his wife. And his wench.
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A Man Of Many Talents Page 31