He knew instinctively that she would not, that she couldn’tresist him any more than he could her. It was there in her eyes. She was at theedge of a cliff, needing just another tiny nudge to throw her off balance. Hehad to win her back, by God. There could be no losing her. And how better towin Maggie the poet than with words?
“‘Ask nothing more of me, sweet’,” he murmured, reciting thelines of the poem that had been plaguing him for days. “‘All I can give you Igive. Heart of my heart, were it more, more would be laid at your feet’.”
Unshed tears glistened in her vivid eyes. “‘Love that shouldhelp you to live, song that should spur you to soar’,” she returned, her voicerather shaky. “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”
He inclined his head, a small smile quirking his lips. Hewas aware he’d never possessed a great deal of levity. But Maggie had changedhim. She made him smile, made him laugh, brightened his dreary life with herfiery hair and stubborn nature, her beautiful body and equally beautiful soul.
“You know the poem as well,” he remarked, shaken by thepowerful emotions churning through him. He had never expected to feel so much,to be moved by the simple act of a poem’s recitation.
A small, answering smile blossomed on her luscious mouth. “Ido.”
“I’m giving you all I can,” he told her. “I’m not an angelby any man’s standards, but I do love you. I want to make amends foreverything.” He didn’t know what else to do, save drag her from the bath andtake her to bed. That particular idea held increasing appeal. He shifted as thethought of a naked, wet Maggie beneath him sent a wave of hunger to his rigidcock. No, this time was different. As much as he wanted to seduce her, he alsowanted her to believe him. While their passion was undeniable, she meant farmore to him than lovemaking ever could. She had become a necessary part of hislife, and he’d be damned to hell rather than give her over to some slobberingrake like Tobin.
Maggie’s mind was as jumbled as a seamstress’s back roomafter a fire. She thought of another of Swinburne’s poems, this one decidedlydark.Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark.She felt stark, caughtbetween the equal thralls of protecting herself and giving herself to Simon.She stared at him, his handsome face so unbearably near to hers, falling intothe compelling green of his eyes. She wanted him with a fervency that shook hereven now.
“You can make amends by ringing for my lady’s maid,” shetold him, clinging to her battle defenses as best she could.
“Damn it, woman,” he growled, “why must you insist on beingso bloody stubborn?”
He was difficult to resist ordinarily, but for some reason,when he grew blustery, he melted her heart. She loved him, after all. Had neverstopped. “I’m afraid,” she admitted quietly, aware that her bath had long sincegrown cold and that she was naked and vulnerable before him. He could veryeasily whisk her from the tub, lay her on the bed and persuade her with hisclever hands and mouth. But he had not, and she rather admired his restraint.
“Afraid?” He appeared genuinely puzzled at her response.“Afraid of what, darling?”
She hesitated, fearing she was about to reveal too much tohim and yet unwilling not to say the words clamoring to be heard. “Afraid thatyou shall leave me again.”
“I’m not leaving,” he vowed. “Not today or ever again.You’re bloody well stuck with me, my girl.”
His girl. Was she? She thought back over the short butwonderful time they’d had together. He had indulged her whims, had comfortedher, listened to her, had shown her pleasure. He had chased after her thatfateful day too. She realized suddenly that she had to know something nowbefore she could proceed any further.
“I must know something, Simon,” she said, almost hating toask for what the answer might be.
He caressed her cheek with the pad of his thumb, warming herwith the simple touch. “What is it?”
“You told me that you regretted chasing after me the dayLady Billingsley died.” Perhaps it was selfish of her to even broach the topic.Certainly, it was selfish of her to need to know. But she couldn’t help it. Shewas ever in for a penny, in for a pound with Simon. “Do you still? Do you wishyou had allowed me to leave you had it meant sparing Lady Billingsley?”
He stared at her, and she knew he had not expected thequestion. His expression was unreadable. She wished at once that she could redothe moment, that she had not dared to ask when she likely didn’t want to hearthe answer. And then came the deep rumble of his voice, one word only.
“No.”
She blinked, certain at first that she’d misheard him. Herfoolish heart swelled with hope. “You don’t?”
“No,” he said again. “Eleanor made her choice, and I’ve mademine. ’Tis you, Maggie. It will always be you.”
Always.
The admission was precisely what she needed to hear fromhim, and once again she supposed it was down to the poet in her. Words wereever the most potent lure. Perhaps she was a fool for believing in him, but shedid. His expression was unguarded, his feelings for her worn on his expensivesleeve. There was no doubt he meant what he said. After all, Simon wasn’t adevil-tongued charmer. He was serious, blunt to a fault, and hopelesslyarrogant.
But he could humble himself before the wife he’d neverwanted. He had loved her enough to return to her, even after the horrors ofLady Billingsley’s death. He had followed her, again and again. And she lovedhim all the more for it.
Before she could contemplate the wisdom of her actions, shethrew her arms around his neck and pulled him to her for a kiss. Water sloshedall over his riding clothes, splashing on his boots and the floor about him.She didn’t care. His mouth on hers was heaven.
It had been far too long, and this unfettered embrace waslike coming home after a difficult journey. She melted into him with a sigh,opening to his claiming tongue. He broke their kiss to scoop her from the tubwith an unabashed whoop. She was nude and dripping, completely soaking hisriding clothes. He didn’t seem to mind as he stalked back into her chamber tolower her gently to the bed.
She waited for him, watching as he hastily discarded his wetgarments. How she loved him, she thought as her gaze traveled over his darkhair to his beautifully masculine face to his broad chest. She almost didn’tdare believe that this time he was well and truly hers. That he loved her.
But it was there in the glittering brilliance of his gaze,and the realization quite took her breath. As impossible as it seemed, theMarquis of Sandhurst, the man whose heart had infamously belonged to another,was lovestruck again.
By her.
