by Anne Gracie
“No.”
Lily paused, and turned. There was a strange, almost arrested look on his face. “What do you mean, ‘no’? You said Edward was worried. I must—”
“I wrote to him a couple of days ago, told him you were with me, said how much I was enjoying your visit. He’ll have that letter by now. Sit down and finish your eggs.”
She sat reluctantly, as much for good manners as anything else. “Very well, but I must leave as soon as possible.”
“No. I want you to stay here. Please.” There was a peculiar intensity in the old man’s expression.
“But I can’t. This was only meant to be a short vis—”
“I’ve been trying for more than ten years to get that boy to come here.” He picked up the letter and showed it to her. “Look at that writing, all loops and scrawls—an absolute disgrace of a hand.”
“I don’t understand.”
He looked up, his eyes gleaming. “His writing is normally neat, precise, every i dotted and every t crossed. This is the worst scrawl I’ve seen from him since he first picked up a pen.” He laughed. “Don’t you see, girl, he’s half out of his mind with worry.”
“About me? But that’s terrible.”
“No, it’s wonderful.” He poured himself another coffee and explained. “For years that boy has been writing to me, and oh, the letters are entertaining enough, but there’s never any, any feeling in them. Nothing ever worries him, nothing excites him; he’s never frightened or angry or delirious with joy. Have some toast.” He pushed the toast rack toward her. Lily had not the slightest interest in toast.
“Ned went through years of war, and all he could write about was socks, or a tasty meal, or send an account of some foreign place that read like a damned guidebook. And we know that all the time he was risking his life like a madman, courting danger at every turn. Remember what his commanding officer told me? That Ned didn’t much care whether he lived or died.
“And then came that letter about you falling off your horse, and now”—he patted the letter happily—“now he’s half off his head with worry—about you.”
“I don’t understand,” Lily said. “Are you happy because he’s worried?”
“I’m happy because he’s feeling something at last.” He reached out and took her hand. “So I want you to stay here. As bait.”
“Bait?”
“I haven’t been able to get the boy to come home, not for years, but I have a feeling he might come for you. I hope so anyway. I believe he cares for you more than you realize—more than the young fool himself realizes.” His faded old eyes gleamed with hope. “He’ll only realize he loves you if he’s provoked out of this, this slough of despond he’s been in for years, where nothing touches him. Because he won’t let it.”
How often had Lily thought the same, that Edward didn’t want to feel?
He sat back and gave her a challenging look. “Well, girl, don’t you want to find out?”
Oh, but she did. “But what if he doesn’t come?”
He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Then we’re no worse off, are we?”
Lily bit her lip. It was one thing to live in hope that her husband might care for her, might even love her one day, but quite another to have those hopes shattered.
Still, she needed to know, one way or the other. She ached to know.
Lord Galbraith must have seen something in her eyes, for he leaned forward with a hopeful expression. “I’ll write to Ned at once, tell him he must come here to collect you, that I won’t let you leave otherwise.”
“I’m not so spineless,” Lily objected. “If I wanted to leave, I would.”
“If he’s angry at being forced to come here, he’ll blame me, not you. Better to blame me, I think.” He patted her hand. “So will you do it, my dear? For an old man?”
She swallowed. There was no choice, really. And wasn’t it worth the risk? If there was the smallest hope of Edward loving her . . .
“Very well, I’ll do it.” For a young man as well as an old one. Whether he came because he loved her or to free her from his grandfather’s custody, Lily believed with every instinct she owned that Edward needed to come home, to his grandfather, to Shields, and to the people who loved him.
Which included Lily, who loved him quite desperately.
* * *
• • •
Three nights later Edward arrived. It was dusk. Lily saw the hired carriage bowling down the drive and knew who it would be. She flew down the stairs and out the front door to greet him.
He looked tired and scruffy and unshaven—Edward was never scruffy. He leapt from the carriage, swept her into his arms and held her hard against him for an endless, shattering moment. His body was trembling.
As was hers. She’d never dreamed of such a greeting from her normally so controlled husband. She clung to him fiercely, not wanting the moment to end.
Eventually he released her, letting her slide slowly down his body until her feet touched ground again. He cupped her face in his hands. His eyes, winter-green and glittering with emotion, bore into her. “Never, never do that to me again.” And he kissed her, a long, hard, shattering, possessive kiss.
“I thought you were taken, lost to me, dead,” he said. She could barely stand. He kissed her again. Kisses that were hard. Tender. Desperate. Kisses that wrenched her heart right out of her body.
“I’m so sorry, Edward, I didn’t mean to—”
But she couldn’t finish because he pulled her hard against him, as if he’d never let her go. “Why,” he murmured against her skin. “Why flee? And why here, of all places?”
“I wasn’t fleeing.” She planted kisses wherever she could reach him. “It was just, there was chicken pox at Aunt Dottie’s . . . and I didn’t want to go back to London, not if you weren’t there.”
He kissed her again, and when she had breath to go on, she added, “And I wanted to see the place where you grew up. And since your grandfather had invited me—”
He stiffened, and Lily realized he was looking over her shoulder. She glanced back. Lord Galbraith stood at the top of the steps leading to the house. “You!” Edward’s voice grated. “You had to trick her into coming here—”
“No!” She pulled on his arm to get his attention. “Don’t blame your grandfather. He had no idea I was coming. It was an impulse on my part. Please don’t be angry with him.”
Edward gave her a long glance, then nodded wearily. He walked toward the old man, his expression stony. “Grandfather,” he said tersely, and held out his hand.
Lord Galbraith ignored it. Half blind with tears, the old man embraced his grandson. “My boy, my dear, dear boy, you’ve come home at last.” His voice was choked.
Edward stood stiffly in his embrace, his eyes blank and shuttered as if the contact were somehow painful. Enduring it. He said nothing, but his throat was working.
Lily’s eyes filled.
After a moment, Edward gently released himself from the old man’s embrace and stepped back. Lord Galbraith pulled out a large white handkerchief and blew into it loudly. “Well, come in, come in, no need to stand about in the wind,” he muttered.
Lily started toward the house, but Edward caught her hand and stopped her. “We’ll be in in a minute, Grandfather.”
Lord Galbraith’s gaze dropped to where their hands were joined. “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about, but Lily’s not dressed for the outdoors.” He turned and stumped away. Edward glanced at Lily’s dress and followed.
He led her to the library—it would always be the library for Galbraith men, she realized glumly. Once inside, he drew her close.
“I was beside myself with worry—why didn’t you write or leave a note? I can’t tell you how I felt—” He broke off, his gaze somber. “Yes. I can. I’ve been a coward for so long—”
“
You’re not a coward.”
“I am.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, Lily. I think I loved you from the first, only I was too cowardly to admit it.”
“No.” Lily pressed her hands against his chest and stepped back. It was time. She was done with evasions and pretense. “Don’t say any more. First I need to tell you something, a terrible secret I’ve been keeping from you all this time.”
He paled. His grip tightened. “What? What is it?”
She held him off. “I didn’t write to you”—she swallowed—“because . . . because . . .” She closed her eyes, unable to face the intensity of his gaze, and forced the words out in a rush. “I didn’t write to you because I can’t write. Or read. It’s some defect in me, nobody knows why. I just can’t.”
She waited. The silence stretched. She could feel his heart beating under her palms.
The waiting was unbearable. She opened her eyes a crack.
“And?” he said.
She opened her eyes all the way. “And what?”
“The terrible thing?”
“That’s it.”
He stared down at her. “You’re not ill, or dying?”
“No.”
He pulled her hard against him. “Thank God! I thought it was something terrible. That there was something really wrong with you.”
“There is. Don’t you understand? I can’t read or write.”
He finally seemed to take it in. He frowned. “You can’t read or write?”
“No.” She felt like an egg about to be smashed, all smooth, brittle shell outside, a mess of yolk and white within.
“Not a word?”
“Not a w-word.” Her voice trembled as she said it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why do you think, you silly young chub?” His grandfather stood in the doorway. His voice was gruff. “Think what she must have been through all these years, what people have said to her—think of the number of fools there are in this world and then try not to add yourself to their number.”
Edward’s arm tightened around her, but there was a smile in his voice when he said, “I don’t need you or anyone to tell me what to think of my wife, Grandfather. She’s a treasure.” He turned to her, his voice deepening. “She’s my treasure, whose value to me is above rubies and pearls—and letters.”
Lily’s sight blurred at the tender sincerity in his voice.
He cupped her face in his hands. “You stopped me from saying this before, so I’ll say it now. I love you, Lily Rutherford Galbraith, with all my heart. It doesn’t matter to me what you can or can’t do. Don’t ever think it does. Whatever life throws at us, we’ll manage it together.” It was a vow, and Edward Galbraith never broke his vows.
“Oh, Edward.”
The old man beamed. “She’s a grand girl, Ned, you couldn’t have done better.”
“I know it. Now, Grandfather, are you going to give me a drink or not?”
* * *
• • •
Lily sat beside her husband on the leather sofa, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder as he and his grandfather talked. She wasn’t really listening. Her heart and mind were too full.
He loved her. Edward Galbraith loved her. He’d said it, and he’d demonstrated it. He loved her despite her flaws.
She couldn’t quite believe it; her dream had come true. But . . . she realized slowly, something wasn’t quite right. She was practically boneless with relief and happiness, but although Edward was acting relaxed, his muscles were still tense and hard.
Underneath the nonchalant attitude, he was wound up as tight as a spring.
The door opened and she felt him stiffen. A servant entered with a tray of refreshments and after a swift glance at the man’s face, he ignored him.
The same thing happened when they went upstairs to wash before dinner. Lord Galbraith had sent a man to attend his grandson. Edward had objected, but his grandfather waved the objections off.
Edward went upstairs, wary as a feral cat. But when he saw the manservant, the tension left him. It was the same at dinner. Each new servant who appeared received a hard, appraising glance, then her husband relaxed.
He seemed almost frightened, but surely that couldn’t be right.
* * *
• • •
She tackled him about it that night, after they’d retreated to her bedroom. He was prowling back and forth. If he’d been a cat he’d be lashing his tail.
“You’re imagining things. What on earth would I be frightened of, here in my grandfather’s house?”
“Then what is the problem?”
“Nothing. It’s just this place. I don’t want to be here. I can’t stand it.”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
He made an impatient gesture. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter, Edward, can’t you see—?”
“I said, it doesn’t matter.” It wasn’t like him to snap. He sighed. “I’m sorry. Let’s not quarrel. Come to bed. First thing in the morning we leave this place and I take you home.”
No, they wouldn’t, Lily thought, but she wasn’t going to argue. She hadn’t had her husband in bed with her for ages, and he’d told her today that he loved her. She wasn’t going to spoil things by arguing. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that.
Tonight she had things to say for herself. She dropped her wrapper on a chair. She was naked underneath. She slipped into bed.
“I didn’t tell you this afternoon,” she began. “I didn’t get time.”
In the process of ripping off his clothes, he froze. “What? Another secret?”
She nodded. “I love you too. I think it started when—oof!”
He lay on top of her, naked, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. “What did you say?”
She wound her arms around him. “Only that I love you, Edward Galbraith, with all my heart and soul and body.”
His heat soaked into her and he kissed her like a man starved. “You waited all this time to tell me? God, but I’ve missed you.” His fingers slid between her thighs, and finding her slick and hot and more than ready, he plunged into her, taking her fast and hard, driving into her with a smooth, relentless rhythm that built rapidly into a crescendo of such power that she shot straight over the top. She screamed and spasmed around him and he let out a triumphant shout as they shattered together.
Afterward, murmuring soft words of love, he lavished kisses all over her body. “Tell me again.”
“I love you.”
Between kisses they talked, but soon the caresses grew more and more feverish and they made love again. And again she shattered into a million pieces.
She waited then, for him to slip out of the bed—there were plenty of beds here, and he’d been given his own room, adjoining hers. But he made no move to leave her. Cautiously, not wanting to disturb him, she snuggled up against him, cuddling up against his chest. He grunted, half asleep, and wrapped a hard arm around her waist, pulling her closer, curving his body possessively around her as his breathing slowed and he slipped into heavy, exhausted sleep.
Lily kissed him softly, breathing in the scent of his skin, and followed him into oblivion. They were home. He just didn’t know it yet.
* * *
• • •
Where was Lily? Ned had told her they were leaving immediately after breakfast. It was almost ten, and where was she? He’d looked in her bedchamber and found a maidservant making up the bed—not anyone he recognized, and she didn’t seem to know him, thank God. “Leave that and pack Mrs. Galbraith’s things,” he told her.
He couldn’t wait to get away. There was an itch between his shoulder blades, as if everywhere he went there were snipers lurking in the shadows. He needed to grab Lily and go. But where the hell was she?
He found her, of all
places, in the kitchen, packing food into a large wicker basket. “What are you doing here?” he said irritably.
“Packing food into a basket.”
“I can see that.” He supposed it was common sense to take food for the journey. “Hurry along, then, will you? Walton will be bringing the coach around in a few minutes. I told a maid to pack your things.”
“There was no need.” She continued flitting around the kitchen, collecting things for the wretched basket. She picked up a large jar of pickled onions and put it in the basket.
“There was every need. You hadn’t even started packing. I don’t like pickled onions, by the way.”
She gave him a quick smile. “I know. There’s plenty of time for me to pack.” She didn’t remove the jar of onions.
“There isn’t. I told you last night that we would leave first thing this morning.”
“Yes, you did.” She wrapped two large wedges of cheese and added them to the basket. “You didn’t ask me whether it suited me or not.”
Whether it suited her or not? Blasted female pride. He mustn’t order, he must ask. “If it suits you, my dear, I wish to leave this morning.” His voice dripped with ironic courtesy. She was driving him wild, and not the way she had in bed last night.
It was this blasted place. He needed to get away.
“I know”—she gave him a blithe smile—“but I’m not ready to leave yet.”
He blinked at her in stupefaction. “You’re not ready to leave?” The itch between his shoulder blades deepened.
“No, not yet.” She folded a cloth and tucked it over the contents of the basket. “There’s a ruined abbey with a mineral spring—well, of course you must know of it. Twice now your grandfather and I planned to visit it, but our plans had to be canceled. I want to see it before I leave.”
“Well, you can’t!” he snapped. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. If you’re not in the carriage I’ll leave without you.” It was a bluff. He wasn’t going anywhere without her. He’d missed her damnably in the past few weeks and then, when he thought she’d been taken . . . the nameless terror he’d felt . . .