“Am I even alive?” he asked, his voice still hoarse and weak, and she found herself smiling.
She pinched his side, and his eyes flew open. “Bloody hell. What in blazes—”
“Alive.” She beamed. “I was just confirming for you.”
Muttering, he rolled her lightly under him. “Minx,” he breathed against her lips, and then mindful of her bruise, he drew back and lightly probed the tender area around her lump.
She anticipated the question that had formed on his lips. “I’m fine.”
“I shouldn’t have made love to you.” Where there had been desire before, and then sleepiness after, now there was remorse. And she’d have none of that.
Verity jammed a finger into his chest, earning a grunt. “First, I made love to you, Malcom. Second, I assure you, I’m fine. Just a little ache,” she promised.
He smoothed a palm over one of her thighs in soft circles that elicited a moan.
“Now that, however, feels delicious.”
Malcom shifted so she was once more atop him, and proceeded to glide his hands lower to the curve of her back, and she sighed. “And that feels even more wonderful.” He palmed her buttocks, pressing her lightly against his erect shaft.
She giggled. “Behave.”
“Am I to take it that doesn’t feel wonderful?” he murmured teasingly, thrusting lightly against her, and a sharp ache settled at her core.
She bit her lip. “Oh, no.” She was faintly breathless. “It does. You do.” He rotated his hips, and even as he moved, Verity’s eyes closed and words failed.
“What was that, love?” Malcom took her mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss. A teasing one that he broke too soon, dragging a regretful moan from her.
Through the haze of desire, she caught the self-satisfaction in his gaze, and she pinched him again.
“Ouch.”
“Don’t be smug,” she chided. “That isn’t why I’ve awakened you, though we can certainly do more of that after.”
He barked with laughter, his frame shaking under her, and she joined in. This side of Malcom, that clear, honest expression of his amusement, absent of the rage that had been such a part of him, proved contagious. After their mirth had abated, Verity slid off his chest and scooted to the nightstand at the side of her bed.
Leaning over, she pulled the drawer open, and fished out the notebook resting there. Head lowered, she stared at it for a moment, and then pushed the drawer back into place and joined Malcom.
“Here.”
“What is this?” he asked, already taking it from her fingers.
“It’s the story.”
He went still, his gaze locked on the first page, the title there.
“You’re trying to get out of the arrangement,” he said flatly.
“No.” She scrambled onto her knees. “It has nothing to do with that. I’ll stay as promised.” Because she’d sooner sever her arm than give up any time she could steal with him. “But that is the story. The only one I’d tell, Malcom.”
Sitting up, he edged to the side of the mattress, and for a moment, she thought he’d reject the piece. That he’d set it down and lash out as he’d done so many times when the past came up between them.
Only this time, he sat and read. Motionless except for the occasional glide of his fingers as he turned the pages.
Until he reached the end.
Her heart hammered.
She’d often wondered how readers had felt about her work. Even as she’d written the pieces as a requirement from her employer, there’d been the hope that there was someone out there who’d appreciated the words she put to the page.
But those stories, they’d all been empty. Gossip, as Malcom had rightly claimed. And the opinions of those strangers had not mattered at all. Not compared with him. This man before her.
When he sat in silence, Verity wetted her lips. “Well?”
“It is . . . perfect,” he said quietly. “It is perfect.”
And as he took her in his arms a moment later and made love to her all over again, Verity found perfection once more.
“You are going to be the death of me, Verity Lovelace.” He groaned, an arm flung over his eyes.
“If one must die, this would be a preferable way to go,” she teased, giggling when he lightly swatted her buttocks.
“Minx.” He ran a hand in slow, wide circles over her back. That caress so gentle. So soothing.
Sliding her fingers into his, Verity rested her head against his chest, the light mat of curls soft against her face. How . . . right this was. Being in his arms. All her life, she’d only seen acts of intimacy between a man and a woman as folly and weakness. Now, having made love with Malcom, she saw how wrong she’d been. There was beauty in lying in the arms of a person one cared for.
Her sleepy gaze on their interlocked fingers, Verity lightly squeezed Malcom’s in a slow, deliberately rhythmic pulsing.
When she registered Malcom’s absolute stillness.
She abruptly stopped. Propping her chin on his chest, she swept her eyes over his stricken face. Gone was all hint of the earlier desire or teasing; in its place was raw, unbridled emotion. “What is it?”
His mouth moved, but no words were immediately forthcoming. Verity followed his tumultuous stare. His eyes remained locked on their joined palms.
Verity made to release him, but he clung tight, as if her hand were a lifeline, and she gripped him all the harder. “Malcom?”
“I just . . . I . . .”
She waited, allowing him his time.
“My mother . . .” His whisper emerged hoarse and gravelly. Malcom drew in a shuddery breath and began again. “As a boy, I was always running off, seeking and finding mischief, and before I would go, she’d take my hand and . . . squeeze it as you did as she said:
‘I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold
And the stars grow old.’”
His eyes slid closed. “She’d say it whenever we parted, and when she tucked me into bed.” Then his words came quickly. As if he feared in not speaking them, he might lose them and the memory he held dear. “She would press my hand in time to the rhythm of that sonnet. B-because . . .” His voice wavered, and Verity closed her other palm over their joined hands. “‘Because my h-heart beats for you. It always has and it always will, and even after it ceases to beat, my love will live on in you.’” A ragged sob tore from him, and he clung to her fingers, clenching tight.
Tears clogged her throat and blurred her eyes, and Verity just held Malcom. Lying against his chest, she allowed him to weep with the pain of all he’d lost and the memory that had at last come to him. His body shook and trembled from the force of his emotion. Verity held him all the while, with time meaning nothing, and then his crying stopped.
She pressed a kiss to the corner of his temple, and squeezed his hand several more times in that rhythmic beat, and willed him to feel the love she carried for him.
Chapter 28
THE LONDONER
THE MEETING!
Lord Maxwell was seen breaking down the front door of the Baron Bolingbroke. Society was agog, and now salivating for details on the fight that undoubtedly erupted between the Lost Heir and his nemesis, Lord B.