by Devon, Eva
He so desperately wished to be the victor over Roxley that he was eager to accept what she said.
He drew in a deep breath, his gaze wandering over her face with a sudden and intense look of triumph. “We shall find you the most beautiful jewelry from Egypt and you shall wear them to the finest balls of the ton. I can tell that you’re a woman who appreciates such things. It will drive Roxley mad.”
She gave no indication that he was an idiot. He was in his cups enough that he clearly had no idea how ridiculous he sounded. Or that she sounded, for that matter.
For a split instant, she wondered how he could be so blinded in his own desire for revenge against Roxley. Jealousy was truly a terrible thing. It ruined men’s minds.
She thought of the various items Roxley kept protected and away from the damage of human touch. Roxley and she would never allow such jewelry to be idly touched, let alone worn to a ball!
Westmore, on the other hand, was willing to give away such treasures to her as if they were but baubles.
She beamed up at him, even as her heart felt heavy. “I’m so glad you understand.”
“You wish for a life of excitement,” he droned. “Not a life tied to a pedantic, self-righteous—”
Growing weary of the charade, she moved towards him and placed her hand upon his chest, slipping it into his coat to rest on his heart. “Tell me what our life shall be like,” she encouraged.
He closed his eyes, and she wondered if he had enough brandy in him that he would not be able to stay awake. She prayed so.
He began to murmur about the pleasures of boating down the Nile, of eating dates while being fanned in the heat.
She murmured her approval as she slid her hand deeper into his waistcoat. Much to her pleasure, she felt the edge of paper in the pocket.
He was so enamored with his own tale, he braced his hands upon her back, holding her close.
Alarm began to build within her. She needed to get the map and make a quick retreat without concerning him. His movements were slightly slow and his breath was uneven, a sign of far too much drink.
“Pippa,” he groaned suddenly, “you shall be mine.”
She knew he did not care about her in the slightest. He only cared that he was stealing her away from Roxley.
Ignoring the heavy feel of his hands upon her waist, she slipped the paper from his coat ever so carefully.
It was folded into a small square and she was glad of it. As she gently trailed it away, he did not seem to notice at all.
She was relieved that his arrogance was such that it likely had not occurred to him that she, a woman, would deceive him.
Many men did not think that they could ever be deceived by a woman. No, they were far too clever, far too important.
So when at last, she tilted her head back, she held the paper carefully in her palm, slid her hand along her skirts, and then placed the paper into the pocket deep within them.
She gazed up at him through half-slitted eyes and said, “I must go, but come for me in the morning.”
He shook his head. “First, a kiss. . .”
Westmore began to lower his lips to hers. But just before his wet mouth could descend upon hers, the coach door ripped open.
Roxley stood in the dark square. “Get your bloody hands off her. Pippa Post is mine.”
Chapter 26
She met the gaze of the man whom she had come to love, relieved that he had come to her aid and thrilled that she had met with success.
Pippa did all that she could to assure Roxley with a glance that she did indeed have the map. That her efforts were not in vain.
He seemed to understand, for he gave a slight rise of his jaw. Roxley stepped back, offering her his arm.
Eagerly, she pushed against Westmore, who was so stunned she was able to extricate herself with ease. She turned her back on him and grabbed the open doorway, ready to descend.
At that moment, Westmore shouted, “You bloody little liar.”
She looked back and took in his furious face. Her heartbeat skittered, even as she replied, “It is not my fault if you think that women are so changeable. You are the fool, not I.”
With that, she bounded down into Roxley’s open arms.
Westmore let out a ferocious growl of rage. “Roxley, you cannot always win.”
Marcus’s eyes flared with panic and she knew something terrible was afoot.
“No!” Marcus roared, grabbing her arms.
White-hot pain pierced her side.
She let out a cry and collapsed against Roxley, who pulled her away from the door.
She slumped against him, stunned that her legs had given way.
The air felt cold and she could scarce make sense of the turn of events.
Marcus’s face was panicked.
Westmore pounded on the roof of his coach and she heard him order, “Drive on.”
Through a strange ringing, she heard the snap of the reins as the coach raced away. The racing vehicle nearly crushed her and Marcus. But Roxley threw them out of the road and onto the pavement, avoiding the heavy turn of the wheel.
Roxley’s hands roved over her. “Pippa,” he called, his voice shaking. “Where have you been harmed?”
Something ached in her back. It throbbed and she gasped for breath. “I do not know.”
The pain of it was harrowing. She held onto him tightly as if that might somehow anchor her and allow her to escape the agony. “Something is wrong,” she stammered.
His hands began to rub all over her. She screamed involuntary when his fingers brushed her side.
He ceased, and she sucked in a shuddering breath before she managed to whisper, “I have the map.”
“I do not give a bloody damn about the map,” he ground out, clutching her to him. His gaze was wild as he searched her face. “I care only about you. Damnation, Pippa. What have we done?”
She didn’t quite understand why he was so upset. They had triumphed. Yes, she felt pain. But surely all would be well.
She would not think of the fact that suddenly her limbs were very tired, very cold, very heavy.
Struggling to keep sight of him, her eyes fluttered shut and all she longed to do was sleep. Surely, when she woke up, they would celebrate. They would be married.
When she woke up. . .
Chapter 27
Roxley paced back and forth across the chamber in his London town house. Desperately, he tried not to make too much noise, lest he wake her. But he could not sit. The terror was too intense. It pumped through him, sending thoughts through his brain that could not be born.
Images of a life without Pippa flashed over and over again through his mind, and it was all he could do not to hang his head in his hands and sob.
Instead, he focused on the slight rise and fall of the counterpane draped over her body.
The fire crackled, sending warmth through the large room.
Even with that warmth, she had been wrapped in blankets after her wound had been cleaned, stitched, and bandaged.
Now, the doctor waited outside as they waited for her to awake or show signs of fever.
Roxley could not leave her. Nothing could tear him from her side. Nothing ever would again.
What had he been thinking? How could he have supported her in her mad scheme? It was all his own damned fault. Why had he ever allowed her to think the map was so important?
It was just a bloody piece of paper. She was important. She was the only thing that was important.
Allow, she had teased.
She was right. It was not his place to allow her anything. She was an independent woman, but it never occurred to him that Westmore could be driven to such violence. Not towards a woman, certainly.
He should have made a stronger argument to stop her. To assure her that all the treasures of the past could never make up for their life together. For her life.
But Westmore had never done anything so rash before. He’d been a thief, nothing more. Not someone who woul
d truly hurt a young lady.
The brandy that Roxley had smelled inside the coach, emanating off his long-ago friend, had not helped.
Now Roxley realized what a mistake he had made, how truly vicious the desire for vengeance was between himself and Westmore.
He ceased his pacing, his heart aching, as looked down at the woman he loved more deeply than any river, country, history, or artifact, asleep on his bed.
She had nearly died this night.
The blood had spilled out of her in a crimson sheet that had not wished to be stemmed.
Westmore had stabbed her with a slender knife. Furious that she had humiliated him, no doubt.
What kind of man did such a thing? Someone who was barely a man at all, Roxley thought to himself.
But what kind of man was he, that he had convinced her that the map was so necessary?
All of the artifacts in history did not match up to the importance of Pippa’s life.
How would he ever be able to face this life without her? He did not care if she ever cataloged another artifact for him or translated another document.
What would he do without her conversation?
Without her witty repartee? Without her banter? Without her willingness to tell him what was what?
Who would dare stand up to his gruff rumblings if she was gone?
She understood him as no one had before. And she liked him as no one had.
He loved her.
Dear God, he loved her for her blunt nature, for her honesty, for the way she saw the world.
He’d almost lost her.
He still might if something went amiss.
Fever was known to strike the victims of such wounds. If she fell to such ill humours, he was not going to be able to survive. Of that, he felt certain.
They had known each other for such a short period of time, and yet he knew it to be true. He loved her with every bit of his heart and soul.
Gently, he eased himself down onto the bed and took her hand into his. “I beg your forgiveness, Pippa,” he whispered. “Please know that you are more important than anything. No jewel, no stone, no map, no piece of history could ever take your place in my heart.”
He waited. Waited for a miracle. But the only sound to fill the room was the crackling of the fire and his own desperate breathing.
Hers was far too shallow to be heard.
Then, at long last, her eyes fluttered as if perhaps she heard him.
For one glorious, hopeful instant, he thought she would open her eyes. But she did not. She stayed in slumber and his heart bled, for he did not know what the future might bring.
But this he did know. Pippa belonged with him no matter what happened, no matter who stood in their way.
And no one was ever going to stand in their way again.
Chapter 28
A shocking pain stabbed Pippa’s side and she tried to wriggle away from it, but she found she could not. Nor could she move adeptly. The weight of her body stunned her.
Sweat beaded her body and she didn’t like it at all.
The blankets were far too hot.
She tried to shove them off but found she was too weak.
A slight moan filled the air. Hers she realized, to her shock.
Someone held her hand tight. That touch soothed her deeply. Instinctively, she focused on it. It was the touch of someone important to her. Someone who cared.
Cool water touched her lips and she drank and drank.
It was delicious. It sluiced down her throat and she lifted her head ever so slightly to take more.
Slowly, she blinked her heavy eyelids and managed to open her eyes.
The hazy room became clear and she met the worried face of Roxley. She’d never seen him so worried. Usually, he looked austere and determined, but now his face was gaunt. His brow was furrowed and his shoulders were bowed.
“What’s happened?” she whispered, her voice raw. “Did he get the map?”
“The map?” he echoed before he leaned forward, holding her hand in both of his. “Someone has tried to take the most important thing away from me, but it is not the map.”
“Whatever is it?” she demanded, horrified that Westmore could prove even more villainous. “Was there something you did not tell me about?”
His face creased and he drew in a breath which shook his shoulders. “There is something that I did not tell you, Pippa, but it is not about a piece in my collection. It is. . . You. You were almost lost to me.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she scoffed. She studied the lines etched in his face and the shimmer in his eyes.
“It is true, Pippa,” he countered. “Westmore stabbed you. You almost died.”
“Ha,” she insisted, though the pain in her body and her exhaustion couldn’t be denied. Still, she refused to allow Westmore to make her suffer further. “He could not kill me. Not a fool like that.”
Marcus laughed. As he did, she noticed that his eyes shone with unshed tears.
His laugh, usually a booming sound, was not one of pure joy, but of relief.
“I should have known no one could get the better of you,” he said, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye. Marcus dashed it away and cleared his throat.
“Exactly,” she said, even as her heart ached for the worry that absorbed him. “Westmore kill me, indeed,” she huffed. “I thought you knew I was made of sterner stuff than that.”
The playful banter vanished from him and he said gravely, “Very few can stand up to a knife blade.”
She winced. “Is that why it hurts so very much?”
He nodded. “Yes, Pippa. That is why it hurts. You’ve been fighting a fever for the last three days and I thought for sure you were going to be gone. I thought you would slip away to a place where I would not be able to follow.”
Her throat tightened. Had she truly nearly died? She’d almost been taken from him. Emotion flooded her as she looked upon the man she loved. Tears filled her eyes as she realized that she had been so close to losing everything.
She gripped his hand fiercely, leveled him with a look that she hoped seared him to his very soul, and declared, “I am not leaving this earth until I have gone to Egypt with you. Nothing shall pry me from this world until I have stood atop the pyramids with you.”
“I shall be with you every step of the way,” he vowed, bringing her hand to rest upon his heart.
She beamed up at him, ignoring the physical pain and focusing on his face. “I cannot think of a better companion.”
“Pippa,” he ventured, his heart beating fast beneath her palm. He paused and leaned towards her.
“Yes,” she prompted.
“I love you,” he declared in his splendid, gravelly voice.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, hardly believing her ears. Had the fever affected her brain?
“I love you,” he repeated firmly. “I need you. Not as my assistant, but my companion in this life. You’re my dearest friend and the only person who understands me. I could not bear to lose you. Be with me always. Not just as my wife of convenience, but as someone who goes through this life with me. Please be the wife of my heart too.”
“You led me to believe that your work would always come first,” she said, stunned at his admission.
“I was a fool,” he growled, clearly castigating himself. “I never should have said something so idiotic. And I never should have allowed you to go after that map.”
She tsked. “You did not allow me, Roxley.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I know. We’ve discussed this. I’ve even discussed it with myself more times than I can count whilst I prayed for you to wake.”
She managed to raise her hand to his beautiful face and cradle his strong cheek. “It was a moment in which I felt independent and full of spirit. Please don’t take that away from me now.”
“Never,” he whispered before he turned his face and kissed her palm.
“And. . .” She drew in a deep breath, daring herself,
daring to live the bold life she had set out upon when she’d gone to The King’s Head Coaching Inn with her friends.
“I love you too,” she professed. “I loved you from the moment you opened your door and growled at me. And from the moment you gave me the position, because you believed in me. You did not care if I was a woman or man, you simply cared if I was capable.”
“My darling,” he replied. “You are far stronger than I.”
And she realized that as he said it, her strong, gruff, brave earl was allowing tears to slip down his cheeks.
She lifted her fingers and soothed them gently away. “All will be well,” she promised. “We will go together?” she asked.
“Yes, my love.”
“I cannot imagine anything better.” She smiled up at him. “I find that I’m tired. Will you lay down with me and rest a while?”
“Of course,” he assured. As he settled himself on the bed and gently tucked her into his arms, he said, “Pippa, I will be with you always. And I will always be there to protect you.”
“And I, you, my love,” she replied. “And I, you.”
Chapter 29
One might have assumed that Marcus would be obsessed with seeking vengeance upon the Earl of Westmore.
They would have been mistaken.
Marcus did not bloody well wish to spend a single moment thinking of that bastard, nor for Westmore to spend another moment in either his or Pippa’s life.
A single thought spent on Westmore was a thought wasted. And he and Pippa would waste none of their future life together. Marcus was determined about that particular point.
The idea that he might spend days, weeks, or months tracking Westmore down to wreak revenge was appalling to him.
But the man had almost stolen their future. He could not be allowed to escape entirely.
Luckily, Marcus was not without powerful friends.
Peterbrooke leveled a hard stare at him across the mahogany desk in Marcus’s London town house and said, “He’s been captured.”