A shocked chorus of masculine voices pierced the haze surrounding her. She had eyes for only one man, and he was bloody and bruised, wrists and ankles shackled, but she had never seen a more beautiful sight.
“He is dead,” Ludlow pronounced of Mr. Swift.
Which meant she had just killed a man. But it also meant she had saved the lives of five others.
Lucien was at her side, plucking the gun from her numb fingers. “I told you not to follow me. But I am damned glad you did not heed me.”
“Vi!” Griffin cried out then.
“Go to him,” Lucien told her.
She did not hesitate. She ran to her husband, to the man she loved, and she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck and inhaling deeply of his beloved scent. His throat was wet with blood and with her tears, and she was holding him so tightly she feared her arms would snap.
“You are alive,” she breathed between sobs. “Thank God you are alive.”
“You saved me, my love,” he said, nuzzling her hair. “Once again, you saved me.”
“No,” she denied softly, tipping back her head to take in the sight of him. “You saved me. I am sorry I ran from you instead of seeking you out. I love you, Griffin.”
“I am sorry for being too bloody stupid to realize how much I love you until it was almost too late.” His bright gaze scoured hers. The sun had begun to set on the horizon, bathing them in a warm glow. “Will you grant me another chance, Vi? Will you let me prove how much I love you?”
She cupped his face in her hands, careful to avoid his split chin. “For the rest of our lives.”
“Thank you,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on hers, claiming and hard and everything she wanted it to be. He broke the kiss to gaze down at her, all his love so plain for her to see, emanating from him. “We belong together.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “We do.”
And then she set her lips to his once more.
Chapter Twenty-One
Two Days Later
Griffin was finallyhome.
Home where his butler gave him his customary face of stern disapproval. Home where his coffee and his billiards room awaited. It scarcely seemed real he was once more back within the familiar confines of his own chamber now, freed of the frills and pastels and ladylike gewgaws the Duke of Arsehole had forced him to endure in his guest chamber at Lark House.
Very well.He supposed he ought not to think of his brother-in-law, who had offered him a most heartfelt apology for his immense failure to trust in Griffin’s loyalty and innocence, in such terms. But then, he did not particularly like the fellow, and he did not suppose he ever would.
Perhaps, given time.
Half a century at least.
He paced the plush Axminster, barefoot and dressed in nothing more than a dressing gown, belted at his waist. He had already forgiven Arden for the time he had been forced to stay at Lark House as an “honored guest,” for it had brought him the most immeasurably valuable part of his life. After all, it had been during that tenure he had fallen into the lap of the woman he loved.
Felled by crocheting.
Her beauty had distracted him. Her connection to Arden had made her useful to him. But somehow along the way, she had made him love her. It had not just been her selfless belief in him, or her determination to stand by his side at all costs, to defend him however she must. It had not just been her willingness to share the deeply painful facets of her past. It had been all those things and more. It had been everything, all of her. Violet was wonderful. More wonderful than he deserved. And she was the other half of himself. The best half.
She had saved his life.
He would never forget the way she had looked, like the Furies come to earth to do battle for him, a mere mortal. She had been bold and beautiful and fearless. He had been prepared to fight Swift to the death that day, and he had been surrounded by some of the fiercest warriors the League had ever seen.
But in the end, his Violet had rescued them all.
Of course she had. The greatest mistake anyone had ever made was in doubting Lady Violet West, now the Duchess of Strathmore. She was intrepid and original, and thank Christ she was his.
A knock sounded at the door connecting his chamber to the duchess’s apartments. He had told her to come to him when she was ready, and he had been willing to pace the length of his chamber all bloody night long if he needed to, but he was glad she had not required that much time. His chin had been stitched, and his ribs were bruised, but nothing would stop him from making love to his duchess tonight.
