A single tear tracked her cheek, lips tremulous.
“I thought never to marry again. Thought I would never wish to marry again.” Then those lips curved and she seized the flowers. “And now I cannot wait. Yes, Ernest. Yes. I will marry y–”
He kissed his Hebe, his bewitching talented Hebe, till together they fell back amongst the meadow grass and laughed, then sighed as he trailed those cornflowers against the skin of her throat, traced the delicate pulse.
“I must look like a wild woman of the woods,” she said huskily as he tugged at her askew hazel crown of flowers and tossed it behind. Her blond locks splayed on the flattened meadow bed like a nimbus of sunlight.
“You, Hebe Locke, are magnificent.”
Ernest dipped his head, allowed their lips to meet.
Allowed his heart to speak. “Utterly, utterly magnificent.”
BEATRICE FLUNG OPENthe carriage door to be met by Redmond’s confused but affectionate eyes.
“Bea, my love? What…”
With a swish of skirts, she accepted his proffered swollen fingers and descended the steps.
A whack of stick on cobble. “Good to have thee back, Mrs Cassell.”
Beatrice winked. “Good tobeback, Mr Grampy Tom.”
She turned to Redmond, reaching up on tiptoes to savour his stubbled cheek as it rasped her skin.
“I did warn you, my love,” she whispered in his ear, “that I might not be too long.”
AS DAWN TRIMMEDthe Tower bedchamber with its mild rose-hued rays, Hebe stretched and sat up in the vast Tudor bed.
The curtains were parted with the window on a latch, allowing the fresh scent of morn to waft in. Twinkle sat upon the ledge and gazed out, bent tail swishing.
All was halcyon and silent.
Twisting, Hebe ran her fingers over Ernest’s forearm, admiring the lean muscle and scattering of hair. She lightly brushed that burn scar and he snuffled in his sprawled sleep, thrusting out a leg. Hebe grinned. Her beloved was a worse sprawler than herself.
Caressing upwards, she sloped over shoulder and smoothed a palm upon his chest, felt his heart beat steady and strong.
They’d leisurely weaved their return from the meadow yestermorn to greet a sly-looking Mr Grampy Tom – who’d declared it was time to drop the Mr – and then retired to the Tower, where they’d bathed together in that huge bath, partaken of lunch then supper, chatting and laughing, before they’d tumbled into this bed and made love, slow and tender and divine.
Then she’d let him sleep, for her profligate rake needed his rest.
Hebe pushed back the light coverlet and swung her legs to the floor, crossing the room to fill her glass from the pitcher of lemonade on the chest of drawers.
A lustrous reflection caught her eye in that ornate gilded mirror and she drifted towards it.
With a gaze both vivid and shadowed, a woman stared back, lips red and smiling, skin blushed and pale, heart valiant and nervous.
A woman in love.
A woman on a new adventure.
“I see you, Hebe Locke,” she whispered to her reflection. “Be happy now.”
From the darkness, a tender arm curled around her waist, a kiss of adoration at her ear.
“I’ll make damn sure of that.” And Ernest tugged her into his forever embrace.
Safe, beloved and filled with his light.
