Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

Charles grunted. He lingered a moment longer, looking down at the crumpled form, then he looked at Dalziel. “He isn’t the one you seek, is he?”

Dalziel looked up, met his eyes, his dark gaze cold, saber-sharp and incisive. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. But he was, in his fashion, efficient—he was dangerous, and he was young. I’m grateful we had the chance to remove him—who knows what the future holds?”

Charles murmured an agreement, then turned away, and walked out of the central court, back toward the house.

He was halfway across the lawn when Penny came out of the music room. She paused on the terrace, her gaze racing over him, then, somewhat to his surprise, she picked up her skirts, rushed down the steps, and flew across the lawn to him.

She flung herself at him; he caught her, staggered back a step before he got his balance. Arms around him, she hugged him ferociously. “Thank God you’re all right!”

For a frozen moment, he simply stood as the world about him tilted and swung, then he closed his arms more definitely around her, tightened them. Laying his cheek against her hair, he closed his eyes and breathed in, let the subtle fragrance of her slide through him. Let the feel of her in his arms claim him. With all his other missions, he’d never had anyone waiting for him, anyone eager to see him, to anchor him and welcome him back into the normal world—to reassure him that he still belonged.

They stood locked tight, then, releasing him, she pushed back, reached up and framed his face, looked deep into his eyes, then stretched up and kissed him. Hard. Lips to lips, then she parted hers and drew him in; for uncounted heartbeats, they drowned—then she pulled back, and simply looked at him, her gaze devouring his face.

Penny sighed, reassured, relieved and so much more. Stepping back, she looked toward the maze. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Charles nodded. He took her hand and drew her on, back toward the house. “He’s been stopped.”

She glanced at him. “So no one else will die.”

He met her gaze, then nodded. He tightened his hold on her hand, she tightened her hold on his; looking ahead, they walked on.

Amberly was relieved; so were the staff. Dalziel disappeared, but was back in time for dinner; he was talking quietly to Amberly when Penny and Charles joined them in the drawing room.

Later, after a meal that, courtesy of Amberly and Penny, verged on the celebratory, Amberly invited them to view his secret collection. They’d earlier refused so if things had gone wrong, he would be protected by virtue of being the only one who knew how to open the priest hole.

It was similar to the one at Wallingham Hall, just a few feet larger. And filled with snuffboxes the like of which the three of them had never seen. Sitting in a chair while they admired the craftsmanship of the various styles represented, Amberly related how their “game” had started, how he and Penny’s father had worked out the mechanism of the scheme that had run for so long.

“But now he’s gone, and so is Granville.” As they left the priest hole, he nodded toward the contents. “I’ve been thinking, now it’s all over, that those should be put in a museum somewhere, perhaps with the pillboxes.”

He looked inquiringly at Penny.

She nodded. “I don’t think they should remain in the priest holes, either here or at Wallingham.”

Amberly smiled wryly. “I know Nicholas will agree with you—poor boy, this has all been such a worry to him.” He looked at Dalziel. “Do you think it might be possible to create a story to account for them that people would believe?”

Dalziel smiled. “I’m sure, if we put our minds to it, we’ll be able to come up with something. And”—he glanced at the snuffboxes—“I doubt any curator you offer the ‘Selborne collection’ to is going to ask too many questions.”

“Do you think so?”

Charles tugged Penny’s arm. They left Dalziel and Amberly discussing potential tales with which to allay any public concern.

“Without having to explain the whole unlikely past.” Charles shook his head. “He must have been a formidable adversary on the diplomatic front.”

Penny smiled and led the way down the corridor. They reached her room and went in. On arriving at the Grange, she’d puzzled the housekeeper by insisting she did not wish the maid assigned to her to wait on her at night; as Charles had yet to sleep in the bed in the room he’d been given, she assumed the housekeeper would by now have guessed why.

Undressing in the same room, being physically close, had come very easily to them both. Standing before the dressing table unpinning, then brushing out her long hair, she watched Charles in the mirror, watched him strip off his coat, then unknot and unwind his cravat. Unbuttoning his shirt, unlacing the cuffs, he drew it off over his head; clad only in trousers, he prowled absentmindedly to come up behind her—he looked up, and met her gaze. She felt the tug as he undid her laces.

She held his gaze as he did; her senses still alert, very much alive, she considered all she saw. He was taller than she by half a head—his hair was dark, black as the night, while in the faint candlelight hers held the silver of moonlight.

His shoulders and chest were broader than hers; she could see his body on either side of hers, a visual promise of his strength, of his ability to surround her with it.

Raising his hands, he pushed her loosened gown off her shoulders; she withdrew her arms and let it fall to the floor with a soft swoosh . The sound focused her mind, her eyes, on the contrasts revealed, on the steely muscles that flexed in his arms as he ran his palms down her arms—over the delicate skin, the subtle feminine curves.

She was slender, delicate, where he was broad, heavily muscled; she was pale to his dark, weak to his strong, yet she didn’t, never had, feared his strength; instead, she reveled in it.

Complementary, well matched. Equals, but not the same.

A pair, perfect foils each for the other.

Reaching out, she placed her brush on the table, quelled a shiver of anticipation as he shifted closer, as his hands slid around her and she felt his strength slowly, carefully engulf her. Easing back in his arms, she watched as he lowered his head, as he nuzzled her throat, then nudged her head aside so he could fasten his lips over the point where her pulse raced.

A smile curved her lips. She knew beyond question that she was the only woman who had ever interacted with him as she did, as she always had—close with no barriers, inside his mask, dealing with the real man rather than the persona he showed to the world. Seeing his vulnerabilities as well as his strengths, being allowed to know of them and ease them.

There was no other man she had ever wanted, ever needed to be with. Only him.

She could feel the tension still thrumming through him, not so much the aftermath of the day’s events as a sense the episode had yet to be laid to rest.

Her smile deepening, she turned into his arms.

Charles had no idea what she meant to do when she insisted on taking the reins. But he yielded, let her do as she wished with his body, with his heart, with his soul. He’d given her all three long ago; it was a relief to be able to consign them so simply into her keeping. Into her care.

Hours later, lying on his back, sated, exhausted, and at peace beside her in the rumpled bed, he acknowledged how different this was to the end of any previous mission. This time, thanks to her, he’d reached a completion that had never before been his; he’d traveled full circle from initiating protectiveness to final conclusion, and she’d welcomed him back, guided him back—absolved him. She’d acted as his anchor, his guardian and mentor in the personal sense; he’d never before had that connection, had someone not just acknowledging but personifying the link between his mission and those he sought to protect.