She tightened her hand on his. ‘And then?’
‘Then I felt a strong pain, and that jolted me into consciousness. I opened my eyes and saw a strange man bent over me, poking me in the ribs.’
‘Dr. Peel.’
‘He asked me how I felt, looked into my eyes, and then called Jack in, to see if I recognised him. Of course I did, at once. Jack said, ‘I am so happy to see you alive, Your Grace—when they brought you in I thought you were dead already. And I have good news. Your fiancée is here to see you. She came last night.’
Marguerite giggled a little. ‘And?’
‘I said, ‘Which fiancée?’ They both looked at me as though I was brain-damaged, and then Jack said, ‘I will just fetch her, Your Grace, shall I?’ I thought he had gone mad, then you walked in. When I saw you, I still thought I was imagining you.’
‘You glared at me.’
‘I so wanted you to be real. But when you said you loved me, it was as if a boulder had been lifted from my heart.’
‘Oh, Thomas, that is so romantic!’
He laughed. ‘No one has ever called me romantic before.’
* * *
And there was kissing—Marguerite had got her wish in that, too. When they were alone, they kissed—fiercely, passionately, sensually, but also tenderly, lightly, and in fun. She bustled about him and dropped a kiss on his hair, if he was sitting up in the armchair, or on his forehead, his nose, or his lips, if he was lying on the sofa.
After a few of those butterfly kisses he would pull her down, his arm surprisingly strong, and growl, ‘For God’s sake, woman, kiss me properly.’ But if she leaned against his chest, he still winced. Sometimes his eyes darkened with desire, and his hands strayed beneath her skirts. Sometimes he pulled the fichu away from her throat and put his mouth on the tops of her breasts, and his fingers edged beneath her neckline.
She put a stop to it, saying, with mock severity, ‘Doctor’s orders.’
She smiled at him, and he mumbled, ‘This is torture.’ And, ‘I want you.’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t you want me, too?’
‘Of course I do.’ It was torture for her also—she still burned at his touch.
‘Then how can you be so calm?’
‘Because I know I have you. Be patient. You are not well enough yet.’
He knew she was right but still laughed at her look of serene wisdom. She had found out he did have a sense of humour, and that delighted her, because she loved to tease him. She was determined to teach him to laugh at himself.
Sometimes his ironical take on things veered into his habitual sneering, but she scowled at him so ferociously that he had started taking care to avoid it.
Only once did he revert to his old manner. She came into his room to find he had dozed off in bed, half sitting up. She bent over him to straighten his pillows, and he opened his eyes and pulled her roughly to him, holding her face in a vice-like grip. He kissed her, open-mouthed, a hand on her throat, and said, ‘You are mine, do you hear me? Mine.’
She looked into his dark, hooded eyes and said calmly, ‘I am.’
‘Do you swear it?’
‘I do. And you are mine.’ She smiled at him, and said, ‘Mind your ribs.’ She had kissed the corner of his mouth quickly, and he had smiled too, and relaxed the tension in his shoulders.
He said, ‘I dreamt you were marrying Barnfield.’
‘I still might, if you do not behave yourself,’ Marguerite said, frowning at him. He shrugged and gave a joyous bark of laughter.
* * *
They were peaceful in their private parlour, a large and comfortable room at the back of the building, with beams on the ceiling and a stone fireplace with a picture of a hunting scene above the mantlepiece, and a window looking out into the orchard; but the inn was busy with passing trade and could be noisy at times.
