To Catch a Bride (45 page)

“Perhaps, but if I am, it’s not because I was starving,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “It’s because I’d lost you.”

She gave a wobbly smile and gestured behind her. “I had food, but I wasn’t hungry for food. Only for you.”

At her words his self-control cracked, and he stepped forward, seized her around the waist, and lifted her off her feet, holding her against him, never to let her run from him again. He held her tightly, exalting in the feel of her in his arms again, breathing in the beloved scent of her, burying his face in the softness of her neck.

Her arms came around him and she hugged him, kissing him on the crown of his head, on his ear, anywhere she could, caressing him with loving urgency. “Oh, Rafe, oh, Rafe,” she murmured.

He slid her slowly down his body until their faces were level, and kissed her deeply. “Never leave me again,” he ordered. His whole body was shaking.

She cupped his face in her hands and stared earnestly at him. “Are you sure about this, Rafe? I don’t want to ruin your life.”

“The only way you could ruin my life is to leave me,” he said forcefully. “I need you. In my arms, in my life.”

She gazed into his eyes a moment, then gave a tremulous little sigh. She tightened her grip on him and whispered, “Then take me now my love, for I need you, more than I can say.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and carried her to where she’d dragged a mattress in front of the fire. He laid her on the mattress, sat down, and pulled off his boots.

She lay quietly, looking up at him. “I’ve missed you so much, Rafe.” She ran her hand lightly up his spine.

He might as well have been naked, the way he could feel her lightest touch, even through several layers of clothing.

He stood to remove his coat. “Don’t ever run away from me again,” he told her, pulling off his shirt.

“It was worst at night.”

“Yes, well, in England it gets cold at night.” He began to unbutton his breeches.

“The temperature wasn’t the problem. I found these wonderful thick, warm nightdresses.”

He gave a choke of laughter as he realized she’d been wearing Mrs. Nat’s enormous flannel nightgowns. “You’ve been wearing—”

She placed her hand around his thigh, and he forgot what he was going to say.

“Did you really miss me, Rafe?” she asked.

He turned, his breeches half undone, and gave her an incredulous look. “Miss you?
Miss you?
” The glow in her eyes completely unmanned him, and he groaned and sank to his knees in front of her. “I’d rather lose an arm or a leg or both my eyes than lose you again. I’ve never felt so . . .” He shook his head. “My heart is too full for words.”

“Then show me,” she said softly, pulling him down to her.

He showed her, loving every inch of her with a tender thoroughness that left her weak and gasping, helpless with love and on the verge of tears—why tears, she could not imagine.

She was his, to do with as he wanted, for now, at least. Nothing was resolved between them, only that she’d missed him desperately and he, apparently, felt the same. For now it was enough.

The flames danced, gilding his skin, caressing every glorious muscle, every masculine angle and plane, her man of gold and shadows. Outside the wind whistled through the trees.

The tiny cottage suited her perfectly, caught between two worlds. On one side was the grand house he owned, and on the other, the wild, wild woods. Was this where she belonged?

No, she belonged in his arms, she thought, as his hands and mouth slowly drove any coherent thought from her mind. No matter where in the world they were, as long as she was in . . . his . . . arms . . .

And then she heard them, the words he’d never spoken, so deep and soft that at first she wasn’t sure she hadn’t dreamed them. “I love you, Ayisha.”

Her eyes flew open. His gaze locked with hers. Frantically she tried to scrape her wits together.

He said it again. “I love you, Ayisha.” His body still moving within hers, scattering every thought but one.

“I love you, Ayisha.”

She wanted to respond, but she had no words, no will. She shattered around him, his words ringing in her ears, as the rhythm pounded through them: “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Afterward she lay in his arms, watching the fire glow and dance. After a time she sighed and sat up. “I shouldn’t have allowed that. I won’t be your mistress, I—” she began.

“Hush,” he said, kissing her. “I love you. I want you for my wife and always have.”

Her eyes filled as she took in that he meant every word. “Oh, Rafe, and I love you, so very, very much. I always have,” she confessed. “I think even in Cairo, though I tried hard not to. But if you are to be an earl . . . My grandm—Lady Cleeve said I would be your social ruin.”

“Stop fretting. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You mean more to me than anyone or anything. I love you and I need you and I’m going to marry you.”

“I won’t give up my children,” she warned.

“Neither will I, though it’s not an issue.” He told her what he’d learned, how his gentle, tragic sister-in-law had almost stolen a baby. And how it had driven his brother to make the bargain that had so enraged Rafe.

“The poor, poor lady,” she whispered. “We must do something about that, Rafe. We must find her a baby to love.”

He looked at her with an unreadable expression. “Ayisha Cleeve Machabeli, if I wasn’t already head over heels in love with you, I would have fallen in love with you again, just now,” he said in a husky voice.

Oh, how his words warmed her. She couldn’t help but show it, and next thing she knew they were making love again.

“Why did you come to Foxcotte?” he asked much later.

“It was the only place I knew,” she told him. “I almost didn’t find it. It was late and pouring with rain, and I was lost and feeling my way in the dark, following the wall, thinking it must lead somewhere. And then I felt a window. And then a door. So I knocked, but nobody answered. And I tried the door and it opened, so . . .” She’d found wood and a tinderbox and soon she had a fire going. It was a heaven-sent refuge for her and Cleo.

“It was only when I went into the village that I learned this was Foxcotte after all. You said you hadn’t been here since you were a boy, so I thought it was the last place you’d think of looking for me. You didn’t come here looking for me, were you?”

“No, not to Foxcotte. I came to visit my agent and make arrangements to rent the place out. He was eating one of your pies . . .”

He kissed her again, then said, “It’s time we dressed. I’d like to return to Cleeveden while there’s still light.”

“Must we?” Ayisha didn’t want to go back to a grandmother who despised her.

“Stop fretting. I think you will find that much has changed since you ran off.”

“What’s changed? Tell me.”

But Rafe wouldn’t explain. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Trust me. Get dressed and come and find out.”

Nothing she could say or do would budge him from that position, so she dressed and gathered her things together, ready to make the journey back to Cleeveden.

“I could have been happy here,” she said, looking around the tiny cottage.

“Happy?”

“Lonely, but content,” she corrected herself. “It’s a dear little cottage. And the countryside is beautiful. And did you know? I started a garden.”

He gave her a surprised look. “I thought you would dislike country life.”

She shook her head. “No indeed. I’ve never lived in the country before, but it’s lovely. I would love to live here.” She laid her hand on his arm. “But if it’s painful for you, we need not.”

He smiled. “No, I’ve laid my ghosts. I couldn’t bear to see this place without my grandmother here, knowing how she died alone. But I loved this place as a boy and I love it now, all the more since it brought you back to me. Grandma would be so happy to have us here. It’s settled then; once we’re married, we’ll live at Foxcotte. And,” he added, “we’ll keep this cottage for our own private place.”

M
y dear Ayisha,” Lady Cleeve came down the stairs to greet them. “I must apologize—” she broke off. “Good heavens, it’s like looking into a mirror fifty years ago.”

Ayisha exchanged a glance with Rafe. “Are you all right, ma’am? You look a little pale,” she said.

Lady Cleeve straightened. “I’m all right, my dear, thank you. Seeing you, seeing your face does me a great deal of good, even though it emphasizes how foolish I’ve been. Come with me.” She led them to the sitting room and pointed to a painting hanging on the wall.

“There,” she said. “Me, just before I married your grandfather. If ever I doubted you, doubted the wisdom of you coming here, this picture is the proof that you were meant to come to me. You are my own flesh and blood, and nothing else matters.” She held out her arms to Ayisha, and Ayisha hugged her.

Later they spoke over tea and cakes.

“I saw your letter to Rafe, my dear—he did not mean me to read it,” Lady Cleeve added with a rueful look, “but I did, and it showed me how badly I’d wronged you. But I cannot wholly blame Mrs. Whittacker; it was my own prejudice that made me cruel. I want to explain why I responded as I did—about St. John’s Wood.”

Ayisha stilled. That hurt was still very tender.

“I didn’t really mean it. I am . . . bitter about mistresses, that’s all.” She twisted a handkerchief in her bony old fingers and began, “You see, my husband kept a mistress all the time we were in India—a local woman, far beneath my notice—but to my shame I was deeply jealous. Not only did she have my husband, you see, she was able to keep her children. There were four.”

She added in a lower voice, “I lost five babies to the Indian climate. Henry was my only child to survive his infancy, but when he turned seven, my husband sent him off to England to school.” Her face quivered. “Such a little boy he was, too. I begged my husband to let him stay with me another few years, or to let me go with him to England, but he said it was bad for a boy to be smothered by a doting mother, and my place was at my husband’s side. And he sent my little boy away.”

The old lady’s face worked as she fought to keep her emotions under control. Ayisha slipped out of her chair and knelt beside her grandmother.

The bony fingers knotted hard around the handkerchief. “Every day I had to see that woman walking down the street past our house with all her healthy, glowing, happy children around her—the children my own husband had given her. While I was left alone. And bitter . . . When I saw my Henry again, he was all grown up and polite, like a stranger.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

She wiped her eyes, took a few deep, shaky breaths, then looked down at Ayisha. “I took out that hurt and anger on you, my dear, and I cannot express my regret deeply enough—”

“Hush, it does not matter,” Ayisha said, stroking the gnarled old hand. “Papa wronged his wife, there’s no denying it, just as his father wronged you.”

She hesitated, then added, “My friend Laila says we should leave the past in the past, because if we take it with us, it will only poison the future.”

“Your friend is a wise woman.”

Just then there was a knock at the door and the butler entered. “Mr. Pilkington, the lawyer, my lady.”

Lady Cleeve brightened. “Send him in, Adams.”

Rafe and Ayisha stood. “We’ll leave you alone,” Rafe said.

Lady Cleeve waved them back with an imperious gesture. “No, stay. I sent for Pilkington last week to have him change my will.” She tossed Rafe a mildly challenging look. “Removing the name of Alicia Cleeve and replacing it with that of Ayisha Machabeli, only daughter of Kati Machabeli and Sir Henry Cleeve, baronet, my granddaughter.”

The lawyer entered. Lady Cleeve performed the introductions but when she came to Ayisha, introducing her as “My granddaughter, Ayisha Machabeli,” the lawyer corrected her. “Ayisha Cleeve, I believe,” he said, with a smile.

He explained, “Last week when your ladyship gave me the instructions for the new will, I was struck by the name Kati Machabeli. It rang a bell, so to speak. So I went through your late son’s papers and sure enough, I found this and this.” He laid a flimsy document on the table.

Lady Cleeve picked it up and glanced at it, stared at the lawyer, and examined the document more carefully. “Is this genuine?” she demanded.

“I believe so,” the lawyer said.

“Would you care to enlighten us of the contents of the document?” Rafe said dryly.

The lawyer started, “Oh, of course, of course, sir.” He passed it to Rafe. “It’s a wedding certificate recording the marriage of Sir Henry Cleeve to Kati Machabeli—it took place a month before Sir Henry’s recorded death.”

“They got married?” Ayisha exclaimed. “When was this?”

The lawyer gave her the date. “I must apologize for not bringing it to anyone’s attention sooner, but I did not realize. My late grandfather dealt with all of this and—” The lawyer hesitated. “There’s no denying it, Grandad was getting rather muddled in his old age. The files were in a shocking mess, and although I managed to get them into rough order after he died, I didn’t read them closely, since all concerned had been dead several years.”