Owen grunted. “Go to sleep before ye hurt yerself again. D’you need help getting up there?”
The windows on the second floor of his office-turned-flat were dark, and something shifted and died in his chest. He didn’t know why he’d allowed himself to hope someone—hell, notsomeone,but Marigold—would be waiting for him upon his return. But the streets were deserted, the hour long past midnight, and why would she be there? She had her children, her life to attend to. He’d never even given her a key.
Because what were they? He was her barrister, and she was the woman he had fallen in love with, against all logic and sound advice. Shared pleasure was all they could ask of each other, all they would ever have.
But she’d been at the match, a vision in that yellow dress, like a bolt of sunlight that put the actual heavens to shame. He had wanted to take her hand, introduce her to Owen and the team, claim her proudly and boldly.
Instead, he settled for a wave.
Days ago, he’d been satisfied with having her kisses, with bringing her to climax on his desk and taking his own in return. But now?
It wasn’t enough. But nothing was ever enough for him, was it?
“I’ll be fine getting in,” he said finally, and Owen gave a gruff nod.
Archie shuffled out, cringing as an ache rattled through him when he extended himself to his full height after being contained in the carriage for so long. With a last wave, Owen’s hack departed, and Archie made his way to the door, fumbling with his keys before unlocking it.
“Archie?”
He spun, and there she was, turning the corner and walking towards him, eyes wide and searching.
He must still be unconscious, because only in his wildest dreams or deepest hallucinations could Marigold be here, at night, her long hair tied back in a plait and a dark cloak around her shoulders. “Were you waiting? It’s not safe here at night.”
“I was in my carriage around the corner,” she interrupted, her gaze settling on the bandage across his temple. “Can I come inside?”
He led her past the shadows of Jasper’s desk and the closed door to his private office, up the rickety stairs to the second floor where he spent his nights dreaming of her. Imagining her at the simple range where he prepared his meals, in the winged chair in front of the cold coal stove. Leading her towards the humble bed, a castoff he’d purchased for a pittance from the previous owners and barely fit his rangy frame.
After lighting the gas lamp on his nightstand, he sat on the edge, propped his elbows on his knees, but didn’t break eye contact withMarigold. She stood several paces before him, still examining him without touch.
“Why are you here?” he asked again, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.
Her eyes shimmered in the low light. “I hated t-today.”
His chuckle lacked mirth as he touched the bandage. “So did I.”
She shook her head, stepped closer, reached out her hand as though she meant to touch him, but retreated. “I was so frightened that you could have b-b-been…”
When she trailed off, he nodded, let his head drop. “I know.”
“You were alone.”
He was still looking at the floor between his feet when he spoke. “I had Owen.”
“I d-don’t know who Owen is, but he doesn’t love you like I do.”
He lifted his head, far too quickly, because the change in elevation sent blood rushing to his ears and head, making his wound throb. He winced and groaned, and Marigold caught his hands before he could reach the source of his agony.
“Don’t touch it,” she said. Her fingertips grazed the bruised skin of his temple as she brushed around the bandage, soothed the abraded flesh around the wound. “Where else?”
He hesitated, unsure of her objective. He raised his right arm and indicated the side of his ribcage. “Here.”
“I can’t see. Will you stand?”
He did, and he towered over her, aware of the difference in their sizes but utterly cowed by her. There was something in her stance, about the determination in her eyes, that stayed him while sendingfire racing through his veins. She radiated conviction,power, and he wanted to be drunk on it, onher, give her whatever she needed in this moment.
In one move, he gripped the collar of his blood-stained jersey and tugged it over his head, then tossed it to the floor. The movement shifted his ribs, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning, but her eyes widened, watched the play of muscles across his arms and chest.
Well worth the pain.
