“I was just moments from stopping the coach and returning to ye,” he murmured against her lips. “But I’m liking your own thinking much better. Please tell me ye gave Charswood his walking papers and have come tae steal me away.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Yes?” Ethan said incredulously, pulling his head back. “To both my requests?”
That seemed almost too much joy to encompass.
And yet, she nodded in agreement. “I had a conversation this morning with Lord Charswood and politely informed him that I would not be accepting his offer of marriage. He was gracious and understanding and waxed eloquent about his great love for his previous wife.”
Relief—sweet and liberating—washed through Ethan.
“And . . . myself?”
“I wrote you a poem.”
Ethan paused, blinking at her.
“Ye wrotemea poem?”
“Yes.” She reached into her pocket and produced a sheet of foolscap, flapping it for him to see. “It took me hours, so I expect you to properly appreciate it.”
Unable to stop a sultry grin, he pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m verra good at appreciating things, lass.”
“No, you cannot distract me.” She braced a palm against his torso, waving the paper with her other hand. “The poem took me the better part of the night and—hey now!”
Allie’s horse snatched the paper from her hand, chewing and swallowing it in one gulp.
“That was my poem!” Allie stared up at the mare, aghast.
Ethan was torn between laughing uproariously and cuddling hisladrain consolation.
“It was tae be the best love poem I ever received,” he said.
She swiveled back to him, her eyes narrowing. “Something tells me it was to be theonlylove poem you’ve ever received.”
“Well, that too.” Ethan kissed her cheek. “Tell me what it said, lass.”
“First, you must know it was absolutely brilliant.” She clasped her arms around his neck, sagging her weight back into the cradle of his hands.
“I don’t doubt it.”
“That smirk on your face, Mr. Penn-Leith, says that perhaps youdodoubt it.”
“Nae. This smile declares I’mfouwith happiness that ye be here, talking with me in my arms. What did the poem say? Did it start, ‘There once was a Scot named Penn-Leith’?”
Her brows lifted. “Are you truly suggesting I composed you alimerickas a love poem? Perhaps it is for the best that the horse ate my poem. My tastes are certainly more sophisticated than that.”
He laughed.
“If you must know,” she continued, “the poem—nota limerick—spoke of my lonely existence before finding yourself and even rhymedstrifewithlifeto explain how brilliant the world has become now that we have found one another.”
“Did ye profess your undying love for myself?”
“Naturally. It was the most beautiful poem. You would have been jealous.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“And the masses would not have clamored to know who my true love is, since I wrote it outright in the title—‘To Ethan, My Love.’ Because as you said yesterday, we belong together, you and I.”
