Much Ado About Rogues (27 page)

Her bottom lip trembled, and she sighed on a brief sob. “We’re invincible. Because…because you love me. Because I love you. With all my heart. You stupid, stubborn man…”

“Tess,” he said, daring to get to his feet, gather her into his arms. “That’s the most wonderful thing you’ve ever said to me, except that you still haven’t said yes. Will you let me share your life?”

She nodded, biting her lip, the tears that shone in her eyes now running down her cheeks. “Yes. Yes!”

Jack grinned. He knew it was an unholy grin. “Are you certain? Because I wouldn’t be averse to hearing you say it again.”

“Oh, Jack…”

He caught her mouth in a kiss that told her they’d used up enough words, that it was time for that part of the marriage vows that had contained the words
with my body I thee do worship
—or whatever they were, he’d find out soon enough. Their lips still fused together, he lifted her in his arms, following her down onto the bed.

They had all night, and he was going to love her through every minute of it. Slowly. Thoroughly. Kissing every inch of her,
worshipping
her with his mouth, his hands, with words of love he would make up as he went along. Because it all came easy for him now, the words, the giving, without fear that there would be an ending that would leave him alone once more, on the outside once more; undeserving.

Tess loved him, and that made him what she said they were: invincible. And he was more than that. Humble. Willing to bend, to give, to forgive. No matter how he had come to be, through love or passion, in secret or in betrayal, he was here. He would be the man he made himself. Not the shameful rogue his mother had attempted to create, not the hired assassin the government considered him, not the tool Sinjon had used to his own benefit. No. He would be the man worthy of the love Tess had for him, worthy of the son she’d given him.

He’d kill for her, he’d die for her. But what he wanted, what she needed, was a future for them, one totally divorced from what either of them had lived. A new world, one they would build together, with no lingering shadows from the past.

Tonight, in her arms, he would be born again, into that new world. Clean, and bright, and filled with hope. If that made him vulnerable, then so be it. It was more than time he let go, smashed all his carefully built defenses. He didn’t need them anymore. He had everything he needed.

“I love you, Tess,” he said as he sank between her legs. Coming home. “With everything that’s in me, now and forever, I love you.”

She touched his tear-damp cheek, her own eyes wet, her smile enough to break his heart. “I know,” she said softly. “And it’s enough, Jack. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. All of you…”

He took her then, with passion, with reverence, giving her everything that was in him, glorying in all she offered in return.

It wasn’t finished, there were still remnants of the old world to be dealt with, run down and put to rest. But those were shadows now, not the center of their existence. Never again would anyone else hold the power to destroy them.

“All my life,” Jack whispered against her ear as they lay together, their arms around each other. “All my life, I’ve been waiting for this. I didn’t know what it was I looking for, and certainly didn’t recognize it when it finally arrived. Maybe…maybe I was afraid I wasn’t worthy…deserving. Yet now…now I understand. We have to be willing to give in order to get, don’t we?”

Tess snuggled closer. “Your heart for mine, and mine for yours. It is rather daunting, isn’t it? Which isn’t to say I’m going to give yours back to you.”

“I wouldn’t take it. You’d have to drop it in the dirt and leave it there, broken into small pieces as you ground your dainty heel into it.” He rose up slightly, turning her onto her back against the pillows. “God, that sounds like some asinine thing Puck would spout, and have the ladies swooning when he said it. What have you done to me, woman?”

“Some might say I’ve produced a miracle,” she teased, sliding her arms up and around his neck. “But I know you for who you are, Jack Blackthorn. You’d much rather make love to me than wax poetic.”

“Do you know,” he said, trailing his fingers down her belly, so that she lifted herself to him, “I do believe you’re right…”

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
ESS
PUSHED
BACK
the sheer summer draperies and leaned closer to the window. The sights from her bedchamber included the sweeping west lawn, an artfully planted stand of trees and, in the distance, a partial view of Adelaide’s cottage. “Jack? There’s a pair of what I think are some sort of caravans lined up outside the gate to the cottage.” She turned to look at him as he lingered over the breakfast tray that had been sent to the room. “Clearly, she’s leaving. We have to follow her.”

“We will. But there’s no rush,” he told her, popping one last bit of toast into his mouth. “We know where she’s headed.”

“We do?” Tess asked, already hunting through her clothespress for her shirt and breeches. “How do we know that?”

“We know because, last night, while you were contemplating ways to insult her, she told us. Stoke-on-Trent. Her troupe of players perform there on Friday afternoon. If she’s meeting with Andreas, he already knows that. And if not there, then the next town, or the next.”

His level of calm infuriated her. “If she meets with him at all. How can you be so certain they’re still, well, lovers?”

“They have to be. Otherwise, why would she be so adamant to make me believe he’s dead? She was protecting him, Tess. As difficult as it is to believe, it may be possible that my mother is capable of real affection for someone other than herself and her ambitions.”

Tess returned to her chair. “I agree, that’s difficult to believe. But if that’s true, she must have been devastated when he disappeared. When he was prison in Spain, thanks to Sinjon.” And then she looked at Jack as another thought struck her. “Do you think she even knew he’s back in England? Until you told her, that is. We don’t know exactly when he escaped, do we? Weeks, months, or even just days before the robbery that alerted Sinjon to his return. You may have delivered her quite a shock, or made her very happy.”

“Making Adelaide happy.” He stood up, so she did, as well. Perhaps he was rethinking his decision not to follow after Adelaide immediately. “That hadn’t occurred to me. She’s been at Blackthorn for several weeks. God, he may even have come here one night, for some grand, clandestine reunion in that damned cottage. I wonder if he’ll even dare to meet with her at Stoke-on-Trent, as he has to know I’m still hunting him.”

“Don’t say
hunting him.
You’re in lawful pursuit in the name of the Crown. And with the intent of capture, not execution. Correct? Because you’re the better man, and civilized. This isn’t revenge. It’s justice.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said kissing her cheek. “You can explain that to my mother when she goes for my eyes.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Jack Blackthorn. I’m more than capable of handling your mother.”

“And you’re looking forward to it, aren’t you? My guardian and protector.”

Tess looked at him carefully. “You object?”

His smile eased her fears. “Actually, I rather like it. I may be a very bad man.”

She slipped into his embrace, lifting her mouth for his kiss. After all, if they didn’t have to go haring off to follow Adelaide, there were other, more pleasant ways to occupy their time. “But so very good, at so many, many things. I’m thinking of one in particular just now but, alas, we’re both wearing too many clothes.”

He stilled her hands, as she was in the process of loosing his neck cloth, and lifted her fingers for his kiss. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but not now, Tess. There was a note from Cyril on the breakfast tray. He’d like to see us, all of us, in the music room at eleven. It would seem the discussion I’ve been avoiding for so long is no longer avoidable. What’s interesting is that he’s including you and Chelsea and Regina.”

“Chelsea and Regina told me he’s going to offer you an estate. But you know that, because he’s deeded estates to Beau and Puck in this past year, while you kept avoiding him.” She patted his neck cloth, attempting to smooth it where she’d begun opening it and said sweetly, “You aren’t going to be an ass and refuse him now, are you, the way you’ve always refused his offer of an allowance?”

“Is there anything you women didn’t talk about yesterday?”

“I don’t think so, but how would I know that, if we didn’t discuss it?” she countered as the clock on the mantelpiece began to chime out the hour. “I wasn’t aware of the marquess’s injury, so there is that. A riding accident?”

“Yes. It happened when he was out riding with Adelaide a few weeks ago. I asked Beau about it, and he said they were surprised by a rider who came plunging out of the trees and charged across the riding trail. Cyril’s horse reared, and he was thrown. He was never a strong rider. Surprisingly, perhaps, Adelaide is.”

Tess looked at Jack, wondering if he was testing her. “And you see nothing strange about this?”

“I didn’t want to, no. Cyril was adamant that it was an accident. But Adelaide is here only because he summoned her after Puck told him I’d promised to come…home. That’s getting easier to say. Home. I certainly took the long way, didn’t I? In any case, I’m not looking forward to hearing whatever it is Cyril feels he needs to say to all of us, but riding accident or some sort of plot, I’m fairly certain Adelaide would rather he never get to say it. Whatever it is, he felt all three of his
sons
should hear it at the same time—which I made fairly impossible these past ten years. And now you and Chelsea and Regina are to be included, as well. I admit to being curious.”

They were descending the staircase now, with the butler looking up at them rather reprovingly, as if they were extremely tardy. “The family awaits you in the music room.”

The family.
Just as if the butler knew, the world knew, that Jack was not really a part of the Blackthorn
family.
Tess slipped her hand into Jack’s. “You’ll let him speak without interruption? Without walking out if what he has to say doesn’t suit you?”

“Yes, I will. I’m done with turning my back on unpalatable truths. They only run you to ground anyway, sooner or later.”

“I love you.”

He squeezed her hand as they walked into the music room to see that, indeed, everyone else was already there, waiting for them. Two footmen shut the doors behind them. “Then nothing else matters, does it? Do you see the portrait above the fireplace? That’s Abigail, Cyril’s wife.”

Tess drew in her breath involuntarily. The portrait was huge, the woman captured there life-size. The marchioness had been painted as a fairy sprite, complete with flowing draperies and feathery wings, the innocent delight on her lovely face catching at Tess’s heart. Hair flowing past her shoulders, nearly white it was so light, her small, heart-shaped face filled by her huge, soft eyes. So delicate, even ethereal. Forever beautiful, forever young.

Beau, who had been standing just below the portrait, walked over to them. Tess admired him greatly; he exuded responsibility, honesty, and encouraged trust, even on such short acquaintance; a true eldest son. He spoke quietly. “I don’t like this, Jack. You’d think the man’s on his way to the gallows. Even Puck can’t get a smile out of him. I don’t know that the women should be here, but he insisted.”

“It’s not my place to say this, Beau,” Tess said quietly, “but his lordship must know what he wants to say, and whom he wants to hear it. You might upset him more than he is if you suggest otherwise.”

“I agree,” Jack said, looking past Beau to where Cyril was sitting, quite stiffly, and looking unnaturally pale. “But let’s get this over with, and we should probably only be grateful he didn’t include Adelaide—or she refused him. I thought he wanted her here.”

Beau shot a look over his shoulder at his father, who was just then accepting a glass of wine from Puck. “Wine before noon? Another disturbing sign. But in any case, he stayed at the cottage for hours last night. I’m willing to wager there was an argument. Yes, let’s get this over with.”

Jack nodded his agreement and, still holding tight to Tess’s hand, approached his father. He inclined his head respectfully. “Good morning, sir. I apologize for being the last to arrive.”

“By a decade, at my reckoning,” Puck teased, earning himself a quiet yet forceful verbal warning from Regina.

Tess curtsied and smiled at the marquess encouragingly before Jack indicated she should sit between him and Cyril on the couch, as Puck and the Blackthorn brides already occupied the facing couch, while Beau took up his former position once more, standing in front of the fireplace.

They all looked to the marquess, and Tess found herself feeling protective of the man, and actually had to restrain herself from reaching over to take his hand, to lend him courage.

“Firstly,” the marquess said, his voice rather wavering, “I should like to apologize to the ladies. What I am going to say, must say, is far from fit for feminine ears. But it must be said. I can only remind myself that Adelaide was correct in one thing. My sons, all three, have been blessed to know that you love them, truly love them. For who willingly takes on a bastard son without prospects for any other reason than love? You three ladies are to be commended, and cherished all the days of your lives.”

“Here, here,” Puck said raising his own glass of wine, this time earning himself a reproving jab in the ribs from his wife. “If this is how it’s going to be, Regina, darling, I may go stand by Beau.”

“No, Puck, stay here where, if necessary, I can remind you that you’re here to listen, not speak. Please excuse him, sir. It seems ingrained in my husband to attempt to lighten any mood, an attribute usually pleasing.” She looked sharply at Puck. “Just not right now, dearest.”

“Oh, but it’s fine for Beau to stand over there as if he’s in charge of the proceedings, and Black Jack to sit over there, scowling?”

“Each to his talents,” Chelsea said brightly as she leaned forward to grin at Puck.

Tess bit her lip, trying to hold back her smile. Even the marquess chuckled, proving Puck right. Some of the uncomfortable tension left the room. She looked to the portrait once more. It was calming, just to look at it. Abigail very much resembled her sister, but there was a purity there that Adelaide couldn’t emulate, probably because she had no purity in her. That had all gone to Abigail.

“What I’m going to tell you all is difficult. The most difficult thing I may ever do,” the marquess began quietly. “Your mother is dead-set against the telling, in part because it reflects badly on her and, or so she insists, because it reflects badly on me. In any case, she has steadfastly refused to be here this morning, and is in fact leaving shortly, vowing never to return, which I highly doubt, as she has threatened that for years. Although her visits to the estate have become much less frequent, she always returns.

“In any case, we disagree as to the details, the reasons, so let me say now that you may feel you are hearing only what I wish for you to hear. I hope that isn’t true, for the fault is all mine, at the bottom of it. I’ve waited too long, decades too long, but not too late, I’m told, to attempt to make things right. However, I will need, we will need, Adelaide’s cooperation, which I have thus far failed to win.”

He looked from face to face and shook his head. “And now I’ve completely confused you all. Perhaps it would be best if I told you a story. You’ll recognize some of it, for Adelaide impressed it on all of you when you were younger. With repetition comes belief, I think it is said, and Adelaide can be very convincing. You all adored her.”

“I think I speak for all three of us when I say, yes, we did adore her. She drifted in and out of our lives like an angel,” Puck agreed. “But children grow up, Papa, and what seemed logical to the child is less believable to the man. Tell us your story.”

After that, the marquess spoke for nearly an hour, or so it seemed. Uninterrupted, as there could be no words other than his, not until the telling was done.

He told them something they all knew, about the day his horse had come up lame and he’d stopped at a cottage miles from the estate, and first encountered Adelaide and her sister, Abigail. He had just turned twenty-one, and had come into the title only a few months earlier, when his father and mother had been cruelly snatched from him in a coaching accident. He was still grieving their loss, confined to the country until his year of mourning was past; he was frightened by and unprepared for the heavy responsibility suddenly thrust onto his shoulders. And then, like some sort of miracle, he was looking at the most beautiful creature in the world and instantly tumbling into love.

With Abigail. Sweet, innocent, wholly unsuitable Abigail; not Adelaide. And that was when any resemblance to Adelaide’s romantic fairy tale her sons had heard a dozen times began to unravel.

Cyril’s love for Abigail was pure, and he knew she loved him in return. As she loved her flowers, the lace on her gloves, the pretty colored leaves she pressed between the pages of a book of nursery rhymes…the chaste kisses, which were all he’d dared. Even in his besotted youth, he’d known a true marriage between them would be impossible, unconscionable, yet he could not bear to let her go. She was everything that was pure and gentle in the world. She’d healed his heart. He wanted her in his life, needed her in his life, longed to give her a beautiful life in return.

“And you succeeded,” Puck interrupted. “I’ve never known anyone so completely happy. There wasn’t anyone who knew Abigail who didn’t love her. I’ll always miss her.”