Stephanie Laurens - The Brazen Bride

Before he could interrupt, she hurried on, “You know I didn’t believe before-not your commitment itself, but that it would prove sufficient to trump the problems I could see. I kept focusing on the practical difficulties. I didn’t, at that time, understand-appreciate-that love isn’t about such things. That love takes no notice, makes no allowance, for such things. Such minor impediments. Love is”-with one hand, she gestured broadly-“all emotion. It’s need and want and desire.” She trapped his eyes. “It’s a hunger like no other, and once in love, there is no other choice but to own it and go forward.”

Shifting closer, she brought her hands to frame his face, looked deep into his midnight eyes. “I knew I’d fallen in love with you, but I didn’t realize, not until this morning in that little yard, all that loving you meant. If I underestimated your love for me, I barely saw my love for you-I had no appreciation of love’s strength and power. I didn’t realize that because I loved you, my heart had already made up its mind, given itself to you and would remain yours regardless of anything and everything. I didn’t realize that I am now, already, inextricably linked with you, no matter what I say or do-that you are, now, forever and always, all I want, all I need. All I will ever desire.”

The next breath she drew shook, yet buoyed by the hope, the understanding, the love shining in his eyes, she smiled mistily and went on, “So yes, Logan Monteith, I’ll marry you and gladly. I’m not yet sure how our lives will work, how we’ll deal with my practical difficulties, but I understand now that I have to trust in our love, put my hand in yours, and go forward together so we can find the answers.”

She searched his eyes, let her love color her own. “You’ll want to live in Scotland, and I accept that, but you’ll understand that I can’t leave Mon Coeur completely, not for all of the year. I’ll have to return for at least a few months-”

“Stop.” Logan grasped her hand, squeezed, then gentled his hold. He knew his expression had turned serious, sober-how could it not? She’d just offered to give up her life-her virgin queen’s crown-to be with him. To be his wife. “I…” He searched her green eyes. “You humble me with your courage. Stagger me with your love. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you-but on Guernsey. At Mon Coeur.”

When she blinked, surprised, he let his lips twist. “I love you-beyond words. I need you more than I can say. And I don’t want to live in Scotland.”

“But…?” She looked thoroughly confused.

“My turn to explain.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts, calm his heart, order his revelations. “From the beginning would be easiest, I suppose.”

One brown brow arched, faintly haughty, and he fleetingly grinned. He tugged her down so she sat on the hearth rug before him, so they were face-to-face… He drew in a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m a bastard. Yes, I’m an earl’s son, and my mother was of good family, too, but I’m bastard-born, born out of wedlock, however you want to put it. I’m”-it suddenly struck him; his lips twisted-“just like Thurgood in that respect.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are not like Thurgood in any way. Regardless of your birth, you’ve lived a life that shows how little that distinction matters-and he did the opposite. He lived up to the worst possible expectations of his birth in every way.” She shifted closer. Looked into his eyes. “So?”

He searched the clear green eyes gazing up at him, then let his lids fall. Felt an incredible weight, an unvoiced fear, lift from his shoulders. Felt giddy with relief. Opening his eyes, he met hers. “You don’t care.”

She flung up her hands. “Of course I don’t care. You’re still you, aren’t you? The circumstances of your birth don’t matter. The kind of man you are does. And if I’ve learned anything over the past weeks, ever since you washed up in my cove, it’s what sort of man Logan Monteith is.”

He blew out a breath. “Well, that was the point of my campaign. Good to know it was successful.”

Her brows rose, haughty again. “You had a campaign?”

He grinned. “From the moment I decided I had to persuade you to have me as your consort. The virgin queen’s consort. That was the position I wanted, but before I declared myself-before I told you of my birth and formally offered for your hand-I wanted to show you what manner of man I was so, when it came to this moment, you would know me so well that my birth wouldn’t matter.”

Reaching out, he caught a lock of her hair, flaming like fire and glinting like gold in the flickering firelight. “I wanted to show you at least enough for you to get some idea of what I’d made myself into. I started life as the bastard son of the Earl of Kirkcowan. He acknowledged me from the first, sent me to school, to Hexham, then later bought me my commission in the Guards. Beyond that, however, I have nothing from him-I have no estate, no house. No home.”

He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “I fought for years in the Peninsula campaigns. Made friends like Del, Gareth, and Rafe, and later James, and the Cynsters. Then we five went to India. With the other four, aside from our pay as officers, we learned about trade, went into various ventures, and ended as nabobs. I’m wealthy, well able to afford a wife and family. Yet as I set sail for England, I knew I had no one-no family and no home-to come back to.

“Then I was washed up on Guernsey, and saved by an angel. And I found a family, and a home-one I wanted to be a part of. One I wanted to join.” Raising his hands, he gently framed her face, looked into her eyes. “I never intended to ask you to leave-just to let me stay. To let me be your virgin queen’s consort. To live by your side and protect you and yours. I don’t even care if you’d rather we didn’t formally marry-if you feel that would make things difficult for you in the community, on Guernsey, with the shipping company. I don’t really care how-I just want to live the rest of my life with you.” His lips twitched. “I’ll even herd your donkeys.”

Her face didn’t just light up; her features glowed with transcendent joy. She laughed, an exuberant, glorious sound, then flung her arms about his shoulders and kissed him.

A kiss that lengthened, lingered, that unexpectedly didn’t lead to a frenzy of urgent need but slid smoothly, seamlessly, into a long exchange of hopes and wishes, of shared wants and needs.

Of love.

It was she who bore him back onto the rug. He let her, smiled and helped her divest him of his clothes, then she flung away her towel and rose up and took him in, and loved him.

He held her, supported her, marveled at the way the firelight gilded her curves, shadowed her hollows. Marveled that he was there, that she was with him, that they were alive and free and able to grasp this, the future they both wanted.

Passion was there, but it no longer possessed the giddy, urgent need of a newfound, newly birthed emotion. What bound them now had grown, matured into a river that was infinitely deeper, infinitely slower, and infinitely more powerful.

The desire it fed still caught them, its ultimate need still wracked them, but now, fingers linked, gazes locked, when ecstasy shattered them and flung them into the void, they were aware to their souls of their deep and abiding union.

The togetherness. The closeness.

The reality that linked two hearts and forged a unified soul.

Later, after, when she’d collapsed upon him, her hair a warm veil spread over them both as they lay boneless and gloried, waiting for their breathing to even, their pounding hearts to slow, he shifted his head and pressed a kiss to her temple.