It's Marriage Or Ruin

by Liz Tyner

  The kiss sealed both their lips, until he pulled away.

  ‘And we must leave, because I am through with waiting. Leave the bottle and start back. I’ll catch up with you.’

  ‘Now?’ She reached behind herself to hold the hooks in place.

  ‘Go. Put some distance between us.’

  ‘I may want to stay here longer.’

  ‘Em, do you consent to return to the house with torn clothing?’

  She laughed. ‘If it were dark, I might aspire to return with no clothing at all.’

  ‘Get your shoes and go. And, when I get there, I would like you in my bed.’

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Get your slippers.’

  ‘But you like my feet.’

  He lifted the bag and swung it in a circle. ‘Go. Now.’

  She carried her slippers and ran ahead.

  Grabbing the bottle, he waited as she outpaced him.

  Then he rushed to catch up with her. He was surprised at her speed with no slippers on her feet and her free hand holding up her skirt.

  She dropped one slipper along the way and he sped up, and she stopped and he slowed. The other slipper passed by him and she turned to pull up her skirt with both hands, and took off again.

  He took another sip of wine and started after her.

  He let her stay in front and didn’t catch her until she arrived at the outside of the house, then he pulled her next to his heart.

  She could scarcely stand upright and the race had helped tame his desires somewhat.

  Her face had a sheen of moisture over it and he gave her a chaste kiss. At the doorway, he caught her arm, stopping her, and he lifted her, carrying her over the threshold, kicking the door shut and taking her up the stairs.

  He placed her on her feet so he could open the door and she slipped inside his room.

  He shut and locked the door and led her to the side of the bed. His shirt slid away with even more ease than he’d removed it on the night in London and the rest of their clothing followed just as easily, slowing only for kisses that couldn’t be denied.

  He tossed back the covers and lowered her on to them, following, holding her close to savour all that was Emilie.

  He spoke, lips against her skin. ‘You maintained that our marriage would allow us to go our separate ways. For you to paint and me to forget about you.’

  She moved aside, but remained so close he could only view the outline of her face, and their caresses didn’t stop. ‘I said nothing about another woman seeing this, or touching you. Ever. We are married and any ideas I might have had before that vanished when we said the vows.’

  ‘Do you really feel that, Emilie?’ Marcus whispered against her neck and her agreement faded away underneath his lips.

  He rose on his elbows to study her. ‘I made myself a promise. Not anyone else. But myself. That I would be faithful in my marriage, whether anyone else noticed or not.’

  ‘I will notice. And it will mean more than the stars and the earth to me.’

  He pressed a gentle kiss of promise against her lips and the kiss deepened into something more.

  He backed away, as intent on her whole body as she’d been on his shoulders.

  When he felt her skin the length of him, he took his fingertip and began at the hollow of her neck, exploring from the curve of her chin to the hollow below, aware of the skin so much more delicate than his own. Then he traced down, between breasts that peaked for his touch, and continued to the softness of her belly. She interrupted him, pulling him closer, hugging him tight, and he let himself move into her clasp.

  But he understood what she waited for and he kissed her as he found the tip of her pleasure, moist from her desire, and he began to work his finger over the tip.

  She reached out, fingers gripping him closer.

  He pulled her as closely as he could, held her, buried his face in her hair and listened as she gasped and thrust her hips up into his hand. She called out his name and then he let her rest, but not long enough to let her regain her senses completely.

  He pushed the sheet away, not wanting any part of her hidden. Resting his lips at her breasts, her heartbeats pounded into him as he scented her skin against his tongue.

  He moved over her and held one of her legs as he positioned himself above her. Gazing into eyes flecked with light.

  He lowered himself into her.

  She was his wife and the love that completed him.

  He’d fallen in love with her when he didn’t know what love was, and he had waited, and waited and waited.

  He released inside her, sealing the memory he would cherish the rest of his life. For a moment the world faded into nothingness and only the two of them remained, embracing, and deep in each other’s heart.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Might we do that again?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, curling her in an embrace.

  He held her on his shoulder and interlaced his fingers in her hair. He kissed her forehead.

  ‘When did you fall in love with me?’ he asked.

  The Emilie that appraised him was not the girl from the trees, but a woman.

  ‘I didn’t love you when I married you,’ she said. ‘But when you brought me here and gave me the forest, and gave me all that I could ever want, and watched and didn’t try to take it from me, but tried to give me more, then I knew that if I loved, it could only be you. And, even then I do not know if I loved you for sure, but I drew you and could barely sleep because I couldn’t stop examining the likeness of you... Each night before I fall asleep and each morning, the first and last things I must do is to study the drawing of you. I don’t know if I can let you be.’

  ‘I am fine with that, Emilie. I plan to be a man you can’t leave alone. But I may have the same problem with you. Show me the sketchbook of drawings.’

  ‘My watercolours?’ she asked, hazy, as his arms captured her.

  ‘No,’ he whispered, moving closer. ‘The portfolio. The other one. The last one you purchased in London.’

  ‘It’s for me only.’ She tensed. ‘No one else. No one.’ She curled against him. ‘Lying here with you is so peaceful.’

  ‘Go and get me the sketchbook, Em,’ he whispered.

  She ignored him and he moved and began to gently push her out of bed. ‘Book,’ he insisted.

  Groaning, she pulled herself up, found her chemise, donned it and explained, ‘You mustn’t be angry. Or sensitive... To natural beauty.’

  Then she slipped away.

  Marcus accepted that Emilie might bring the wrong portfolio. He pushed himself out of bed with a sigh and followed her, pulling a sheet snug to cover himself. He knew the kitchen woman or the maid would not come upstairs if they had heard him arrive, but he didn’t want to be surprised.

  She retrieved the portfolio from behind her washstand and he found he had lost interest in it temporarily, and pulled it from her hands to toss it to the floor. He enveloped the sheet around the two of them and eased her, with a slight stumble, back on to the bed.

  When she lay beside him, he rolled to the edge of the bed and, while on his stomach, reached to the floor and pulled the sketchbook closer. The pages were sturdy and he had to pull the thing almost against the bed before he could get the cover open.

  The first drawing, his face half in shadow, half out. The mischievous face of a rake.

  He hesitated. The person he didn’t want to be.

  Several more sketches followed. Some more like musings on the same page.

  Then, one gripped him.

  He was perched aloft on the rooftop. Viewing the drawing, if she had captured him accurately, he didn’t comprehend how he kept from falling.

  ‘Is this a true representation?’

  ‘My heart was in my throat. I had to turn away. I couldn
’t bear to watch you so close to the precipice.’

  ‘I remember nothing like that.’

  ‘I gave Mary direction to tell Jonas privately that he was to take greater care because he would receive no payment if you were damaged in any way.’

  Marcus remembered the sly laughter of Jonas one day when he’d asked Marcus to leave the edge work to him as he’d not want Lady Grayson to be a widow.

  He flipped the page over and felt as she turned to raise above him enough to press her body against his back. He felt her chin between his shoulder blades and her arm at his side.

  Another image captured his chest, contoured with muscle.

  The next drawing, himself at a distance, jesting with one of the crew members.

  One of him shoving a timber into place, finishing the job. The dirt on his trousers had been sketched and the tension in his back.

  Then, he opened to the next page and his face stared back at him, life-sized. A man’s likeness—not a youth’s or a reckless spirit. But a representation of determination and strength. He touched the page, aware of the intensity in the portrait.

  This was no rake, but a man he’d hesitate to anger.

  The next drawing didn’t take the whole of the page, but portrayed him laughing. He’d never seen himself that way.

  He leafed forward. His head darted back and he examined the page in front of him. Naked.

  One of her fingers trailed along his side. ‘I said I wouldn’t paint you naked. I didn’t say anything about not sketching you. For myself. To calm me. To help me relax at night.’

  The next drawing captured him asleep, his torso draped by a sheet. Another one. Without the sheet.

  He continued through the book and each page was of him, none alike. One more sketch of his hand holding a glove.

  She’d made a drawing of the back of his head, lifted to the sky, his hair curling at his collar. With each flip of paper, he saw a part of himself captured.

  These were no drawings of a boy. This was a person who understood the road he travelled. He viewed the countenance of a man following the journey he had planned. A man he would be proud to know and a man who would lead his children into adulthood.

  Emilie might some day paint the portraits of their children, but she would not place her own existence on the other side of the room. She would be in the middle, next to him, and surrounded by family.

  He closed the book and could not move without dislodging the woman using him as a bed.

  ‘You draw well. Even the naked ones. You’ve a good memory.’

  ‘I need another portfolio. That one is almost full. You are my muse, Marc.’

  ‘Move, then,’ he said, wriggling so that she would, ‘and I will try to give you more inspiration.’

  When he had her back safely in his arms, he hugged her tight. ‘And you are my muse and Stormhaven is my artwork. You inspired me to return to a place of happy childhood memories and live in a way that I had not fully imagined and did not believe possible.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Emilie rushed to greet the carriage bringing Robert. Marcus waited, keeping her in his vision to see what she was about. This enthusiasm for Robert’s return shook him.

  As Robert carried his portmanteau from the carriage, Emilie’s smile turned to a frown.

  Robert returned her gaze. ‘Lady Grayson,’ he said, with a tilt of his head.

  ‘Robert,’ she greeted him formally. ‘I have a drawing of a gentle flock of brandy bottles to show you later.’

  ‘Spare me the agony.’ Robert put a hand to his head. ‘I’m sure some day I’ll die from a grievous pencil wound, possibly self-inflicted.’

  Emilie moved to the other side of the carriage, dismissing Robert. The carriage drivers unloaded the supplies.

  Marcus clasped his hand on Robert’s shoulder, stopping him.

  ‘And, how was your trip?’

  ‘Wonderful. Not a single walk into the wilderness. I would not have returned except this is where I am needed most.’ His lips firmed. ‘Even though you try to poison me with tea.’

  ‘I still laugh when I imagine you choking after that first sip from my wine bottle.’

  ‘I nearly expired and have learned my lesson of pouring liquids first into a glass for my own safety. If not for the wine you provided that night to take the taste out of my mouth, I might have died instantly. And then, even that became contaminated.’ His lips pinched.

  ‘You should delve into your occupation more than you delve into drink,’ Marcus said and he scowled at Robert. ‘And do not be telling any limericks to Emilie.’

  ‘Only the ones suitable for youngsters have I shared.’ Robert’s cheeks brightened. ‘Some things are sacred.’

  ‘You’d best not forget that.’

  ‘I won’t. Now, I’m ready to get back to my duties,’ he admitted. ‘I just don’t know if I return as your long-suffering uncle who is a guest, or your dedicated valet.’ He sniffed in Marcus’s direction. ‘Your clothes are rumpled.’

  ‘You are no longer needed as a valet. Emilie has taken to awakening me in the morning. I’m promoting you to butler.’

  ‘Save us all.’ He stumbled backwards. ‘My obligations have multiplied, but I will continue as your butler, your valet and your uncle. And, of course, Lady Grayson forces me into a maid’s job.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I shall expect an increase in wages for the three jobs and you receive the uncle advice gratis.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Robert groaned and coughed. ‘I should have an increase, given all the heart pitter-pats I will likely have to listen to bouncing from the walls. I can’t bear to be near either of you when you are together. I will study to be elsewhere.’

  ‘You will keep Emilie safe when she is painting. The men have missed my help. And her landscapes are good. She plans to place some in a shop in London when she finishes a few more.’

  ‘You have walked in the woods with her?’

  ‘The task is not as onerous as you make it out to be.’

  Robert sniffed. ‘True. The trees are shady. The water is cool. The food is pleasant. The company is annoying, but diverting.’ He peered around to make sure no one listened. ‘Do not tell her, but I have brought back some watercolours for me.’

  Marcus laughed.

  ‘And have you seen the flower book?’

  ‘Certainly. Exceptionally good work there.’

  ‘Even the ones of you naked as the day you were born?’ Robert said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yes,’ Marcus answered smugly. ‘She has made a new drawing.’ Marcus savoured the words. He exhaled slowly. ‘The new sketch is more accurate. Suitably so.’

  ‘I will be sure to never get near that book again,’ Robert snarled, as he stalked away.

  ‘Robert,’ Marcus insisted, calling after the other man. ‘Do not let anything happen to that book. It is one I’ll covet in my old age.’

  Marcus could not keep the laughter from his lips. And he whistled a tune so that Robert might hear.

  Marcus kept whistling as he turned to the barn where Emilie had disappeared.

  She had lost some of her interest in watercolours and some of her interest in the forest. She had gained a new way to occupy herself and he didn’t mind. She claimed love made painting better and she had not known how she had managed without it.

  He could tell that she had been holding something back from him. He had realised he could nearly read her mind. No artifice concealed Emilie.

  He recognised she had a plan now and she would tell him. He could have discovered it already, if he had chosen, in their bedchamber, but he hadn’t wanted to talk.

  He saw her directing the men with one crate. She had her hand inside the box, clucking. More chickens, he supposed. That always pleased her.

  A few moments later, the men returned to their tasks
and she came running out, holding her skirts with both hands and beaming with happiness.

  ‘I have a surprise for you, Marc.’

  All things considered, he would have to learn to be comfortable when he heard those words from her. He stared carefully at her.

  She led him to a pen that had been empty.

  A small brown puppy bounded inside it and she opened the pen and took the feisty mongrel in her arms and handed it to him.

  ‘This is to replace the one who ran away and upset you.’ She held out the dog to him, ignoring the squirming paws and wet nose.

  He smiled at her and took the tan little beast. ‘Gus was my dog, but he became fonder of Nathaniel. He used to snap at me and follow Nate. I was near twelve and didn’t like that.’

  He held the dog carefully tucked under one arm and bent to touch the back of his own leg. ‘The scar was a present from Gus.’

  He straightened and tried to give the dog a genial pat. If it made her happy, he would try to show some friendship for the animal. ‘After he bit me for knocking Nathaniel about, I gave Gus to a little boy where Nathaniel would not discover him and my brother decided he’d run away.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve not mentioned that to anyone, although Mother guessed what had happened.’

  Emilie snatched the dog back from him with a growl of her own. ‘He is mine, then. And he will be very loving.’

  ‘I felt badly afterwards, but it was too late.’ He shrugged and gave her a grin. ‘And the boy seemed pleased to have a pet. He had no brothers. And I could not buy him back. The lad did not know a pound from a teacake, yet no amount would induce him to return Gus, and he would not trade him for another dog. I wanted...that caring. I’d never seen such devotion before.’

  ‘You are a blackguard.’ She hugged the puppy close as if Marcus would steal him.

  ‘I was a lad. His teeth were like knives. He growled each time he saw me. One day he lunged for me, caught my trousers and I’d had enough.’