On his knees, he cupped her face in his hands. “You love me? Are you sure? I’m nothing like the men you met at court or during the London season.”
“I steal away from my father, ride into the night, tearing open my wound, and you question me?”
He rested his forehead to hers. “My girl, my brave girl.”
“You are not like the men... of London... and they... are not like you.”
He brushed his hand over her hair. “Yet I am a coward compared to you.”
“No, no, you are so brave. How proud I am of you.”
“I avoided your father, not wanting to anger him. Sent a line to you through Kitch rather than deliver it myself. Yet you make a great effort to assure me of your love and loyalty.”
She slipped her strong hand about his neck. “Then will you have the courage to speak to me of your heart?”
Hamilton brushed his thumb over her cheeks, gently wrapping her in his arms, at last touching his lips to hers.
He meant for the kiss to last only a moment, but when she pressed her good hand against his neck, he kissed her as a man in love. Hungry. Eager. Willing.
Above them, a door opened and closed. “Hamilton?”
He broke away, rising to his feet, peering toward the stairs. “Aunt Mary, are you awake?”
“I heard voices.”
He crossed over to the staircase. “Esther Longfellow rode over. I’m afraid she’s aggravated her wound. Can you help us?”
“Mercy. Esther?” Aunt Mary descended the stairs with vigor. “Let me get my doctoring kit.” The candle in her hand cast a long, thin shadow over the front room as she passed through. “What possessed ye to come out in the middle of the night, my girl?”
She shivered, unable to answer.
Hamilton slipped his hand into hers. “To assure me she knew I was not the one aiming a pistol at her.”
“I love you,” she whispered again, reaching for his hand.
Hamilton bent toward her ear about to confess the same when Aunt Mary shoved him aside. “Hamilton, light the rest of the candles. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. I’ve clean bandages, but we should get you home. Sassy’s doctoring is far superior to mine.”
Hamilton waited in the kitchen while Aunt Mary tended Esther’s shoulder. She loved him. How simple. How beautiful. All the while he sought to be eloquent—nay, bombastic—but she riveted his heart with a plain and direct, “I love you.”
He was loved. He loved in return. Oh, what a man could accomplish when empowered by such knowledge.
He’d forgive Sir Michael. Lord above, he might even forgive Twimball and every other redcoat.
Aunt Mary returned to the kitchen with a basin of bloody water. “But be gentle. Her wound is still so tender. I couldn’t tell, but it might be infected.”
“I’ll hitch up the cart to drive her home.”
Aunt Mary caught his arm. “Mind yourself. Sir Michael isn’t of a mind to show forbearance and goodwill toward us. If he sees you—”
“Did you know about the farm? That Uncle bought the land while Sir Michael was away?”
“Laurence never intended to undermine Sir Michael.”
“Yet he knew Sir Michael intended to acquire the land for Lord Whatham.”
Aunt Mary nodded. “I received a small inheritance from my great aunt. How could we pass on the opportunity to own our own farm? To not be at the mercy of Sir Michael or the church congregants? We thought he’d forgiven us, but lately he came, demanding we sell to him. Threatening even. Then he had complaints against us because we are Presbyterians and Whigs.However”—she shoved Hamilton toward the door—“it is late and you must get Esther home, but please be careful. Do not let Sir Michael catch you.”
“I can’t very well leave her on the veranda, propped against the wall. Shall I knock and run? I will not be so cowardly. Perhaps when this war is over, we will be at peace with the Longfellows again.”
