He could scarcely wait to take her home—to call her his—to claim and cherish her.
When the services ended, he escorted her from the church, kissing her hand before helping her into her family carriage. He stole every moment he could with her while waiting for their wedding day.
To his dismay, Emma’s mother kept her so busy with wedding planning that he was often turned away when he came to call. Not that it stopped him from trying. They shared a few afternoon teas, two family dinners, and an engagement party, but moments alone proved impossible.
Having had enough by the second week, Archer determined to spend some time alone with his bride-to-be. He waited for night to fall, then made his way to her family estate. Pebbles in hand, he located her bedchamber window.
To his elation, the window was open. A light breeze stirred the frothy pink curtains as the glow of candlelight cast her silhouette against the far wall. His blood heated at the sight, and for long minutes he simply stood there and stared at the shadowy figure of Emma.
This was a whole new form of torture—a delightful, bone-jarring, self-induced form of torture. God, he could watch her forever. But he would rather see her face than her shadow. Archer moved closer, fidgeting with the pebbles in his hand as he sized up the distance to her windowpane.
He drew in a deep breath, then launched the first pebble. It pinged off the wood edging her window and fell to the grass below. He watched for a long moment to see if her shadow would react. Nothing…
Archer launched three more pebbles in quick succession, then waited again. Emma still failed to notice. He considered calling up to her but had no wish to alert the entire household to his presence. He blew out a breath as he looked at the remaining pebbles in his hand.
Frustrated and near desperation, he took aim. All seven pebbles flew toward the window. His heart sank when they fell short, dropping to the grass without even reaching the house. He clearly needed to practice his aim.
Archer pressed her lips into a tight line as he studied the house. His gaze landed on a trellis to the left of Emma’s window. The criss-cross woodwork clung to the side of the house but ended halfway between the ground and Emma’s window. There was a precarious-looking ledge running in a horizontal line along the side of the house, just above the trellis. A sturdy tree stood off to the right.
“Now or never,” he mumbled to himself as he started up the trellis. Archer made his way to the ledge with careful, controlled movements, then hoisted himself onto it. He stood with his back pressed to the house and drew in a deep, steadying breath.
This was the hard part. Four inches of ornamentation separated him from a precarious fall of at least eight feet. He pinned his gaze to the horizon and inched little by little toward the tree. His foot slipped, sending his heart into his throat. He wobbled, then corrected himself and froze in place.
If only that bloody tree had lower branches! This would be far easier if he could simply climb the tree. Alas, none of the branches could be reached from the ground. He’d wager the earl crafted it in such a way to keep gentlemen from doing precisely this—climbing up to Emma’s window.
Archer did not blame the earl, but neither would he be dissuaded from his current path. The ledge creaked as he inched further across it. Another few feet, and he would reach the tree. With several slow slides of his feet, he, at last, came in reach of the tree.
Victory, he thought as he took hold of the nearest branch and swung his feet toward the rough, bark-covered surface. Then a loud crack rang out, and he closed his eyes as he sailed toward the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs as pain radiated through him.
Archer lay on the cool grass, staring up at the star-lit sky as he worked to catch his breath, and wondered how many bones he’d broken.
“Good Heavens! Are you hurt?” Emma called out from her window.
He turned his head toward her voice but did not move his body. He tried to tell her he was fine, but still lacked the breath to speak. Instead, he shook his head back and forth.
“Stay where you are. I’m coming,” she yelled down.
The words were wholly unnecessary, as Archer could not move if he wished to. Leastwise not until he regained his breath. Closing his eyes, he ignored his pounding heart and pulled in a breath. Letting it out slowly, he attempted to wiggle his fingers, then his toes.
When everything moved as it should, he pulled in another slow breath, then stretched his entire body. Relief swamped him. He was not injured, leastwise not physically. But his pride had suffered a great deal.
Emma reached him and sank onto her knees beside him. “What on earth were you doing, Archer? You could have killed yourself. Are you hurt?” She said as she leaned over him.
“Only my pride,” Archer said with a slight grin. “As for the rest of it…” he gazed at her, his words trailing off. “I missed you.”
“You could have called on me rather than attempting to scale the house.” She rested her hand on his back.
He turned to her, their gazes meeting. “Doing so would have resulted in tea with your parents. I wanted to spend time alone with you.”
Emma smiled sweetly, her violet eyes softening. “You risked your life to be alone with me?”
He nodded. “I would do anything to be with you, Emma.”
She threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. “Oh, Archer. You foolish, reckless man! I cannot believe you did this.” Pulling back, she stared into his eyes and said, “Soon, you will see more of me than you wish to.”
He shook his head. “Never, my love. I will never get my fill of you.” He pulled her down onto the grass beside him and collected her into his arms. “I want you beside me every day—every night—for the rest of my life.”
She rubbed the back of her hand across his jaw. “I want that too, but you must promise me you will not attempt any more dangerous stunts. It would break my heart to lose you before we are old and gray.” She pressed her lips to his in a shy, chaste kiss. “Promise me?”
