She screamed his name as she clung and fell.
He smothered a roar in the curve of her throat as he followed.
They spiralled back to earth through the fading brightness, to the comfort of that familiar golden sea, to satiation and completeness.
And, he suspected-he hoped-to a deeper understanding.
Never had he felt so utterly wracked with pleasure.
Never had the act been so deeply fulfilling.
Never had he felt so vulnerable-as if he’d placed his heart and his soul in her hands.
Deliah didn’t immediately sink into sated slumber. Sated she was, to her toes, yet…curiosity niggled. What had changed? And, more importantly, why?
He’d dropped his guard completely, lowered all inner shields, and given her honesty-emotional honesty. With a compelling sincerity he’d shown her what he felt.
But why? Or rather, why now?
From the depths of her mind surfaced the thought that tomorrow might well see the end of his mission. If, as she suspected he would, he decided to stay in Cambridgeshire to wait for his friends to reach safety, he might well send her north with an escort.
Once his mission was over, there would no longer be any further danger to her, no further need to keep her with him.
Was this-tonight-their last time? The last night they would share?
A species of dark panic bloomed inside; she felt it grip her throat, black and strangling.
His fingers touched, traced her forehead, her temple, her cheek.
She opened her eyes, and fell into his.
Searched them frantically. Waited, breath bated, for him to tell her their time together was over.
His gaze remained unwavering, rock-steady and sure.
“I want you to marry me.”
She opened her mouth, arguments jostling on her tongue-then his words registered.
And her world spun.
She blinked at him. “W-what?”
He frowned, then tried, not entirely successfully, to banish the expression. “You heard me. You can hardly be surprised…” His frown deepened as he studied her face, her eyes. His jaw firmed. “I want to offer for your hand-whatever the correct form of words is, consider it said.”
She gaped at him.
Del gave up trying to lighten his frown. “Why the devil are you so surprised?”
Surprise, shock-utter astonishment-were writ large in her eyes and invested every line of her face.
“Ah…” Finally she found her tongue enough to say, “I wasn’t expecting you to propose-that’s all.”
“All?” He blinked at her. If she hadn’t been expecting…his frown turned to a scowl, and he came up on one elbow so he could glare down at her. “We’ve been sharing a bed for nearly a week. What sort of gentleman do you take me for?”
“The usual sort.”
He stiffened, but then she waved as if to erase the words. “No-wait. Let me explain.”
“Please. Do.” He bit off the words.
He felt almost insulted when, wriggling up on the pillows the better to meet his glare, she vaguely patted his chest as if to calm him.
She stared down the bed, unseeing for a moment, then slanted him a glance-one filled with such uncertainty, such vulnerability, that he nearly weakened and gathered her to him to comfort her.
But he needed to hear what she was going to say. Needed an explanation. Needed her answer to his offer.
Needed to make sure she accepted.
“What?” he prompted.
She bit her lower lip-such an un-Deliahlike action that he nearly broke. “Are you really…I mean, did you really mean…what you just said? That you want me as your wife?”
There was some problem; he could see it in her eyes. Feeling grimmer by the second, he nodded. “I wouldn’t have uttered the words if I didn’t. Why?”
She drew in a breath. Held it for a second, then in a rush said, “Are you sure?”
“Deliah-” He held on to his frustration with an effort. Nodded again. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Oh.”
When she stared at him, perplexed, he drew patience to him. “Earlier, you said you thought I was the usual sort of gentleman-implying that the usual sort of gentleman wouldn’t want to marry you. Why did you say that?”
“Because they don’t. Gentlemen-the usual sort-never marry ladies like me. I’ve been told that more times than I can count. And-”
“Who told you? Your parents?” Her parents, as he recalled, were strict and highly conservative-and she’d been the bane of her mother’s life.
“My parents, my aunts, my cousins-everyone.”
“Meaning everyone in a tiny pocket of the Wolds north of the Humber.” He caught her eyes. “That’s a very small, isolated, and, in this regard, narrow-minded part of the world.”
She held his gaze, then her lashes flickered and she looked away. “There’s more.”
She was already married. She was a convicted murderess. She…clinging to patience, he asked, “What?”
Looking down, she picked at the coverlet lying over her breasts. “You know I wasn’t a virgin.”
He’d noticed, in passing as it were, and been cravenly thankful he hadn’t had to mute his lust, or hers, to ease her through her first time. “You’re what? Twenty-nine? I would have been more surprised if you had been.”
She flicked him a frown. “It was only a few times with one young man, when I was twenty-one.” Her gaze grew distant; then she looked down. “He was the younger son of a viscount, on a repairing lease, although I didn’t know that until later. He was dashing, and charming, and I thought…”
“You thought he loved you?”
She nodded. “And I thought I loved him. I didn’t-I know that now-but I was young and naïve and I thought…so when he wanted me, I agreed. I thought it was all part of our courtship.”
“Only it wasn’t?”
“No. A week later-after quarter day had come-I heard he was leaving, going south again.” She dragged in a tight breath. “I asked him about us-what would happen. He laughed.” Her voice grew bleaker. “He told me I was a fool-that no gentleman in his right mind would ever marry a lady like me. I was a Long Meg, I was too sharp-tongued, too headstrong, too independent. I was too everything-no one would ever have me.”
“He was wrong.” Del made the statement unequivocally. She’d lived with that judgment, that belief, for eight long years. A species of fury boiled up inside him. “What is this younger son of a viscount’s name?”
“The Honorable Melvin Griffiths. But he’s dead now-he died at Waterloo.”
Sparing Del the need to beat the bastard bloody. “Good.”
Her lips twisted; she glanced at him. “That’s what I thought, too.”
He nodded. When she said nothing more, he asked, “Is that all?”
She met his gaze, surprise in hers. “Isn’t that enough?”
“To make me change my mind about marrying you?” He shook his head. “So, will you marry me, Deliah Duncannon?”
She held his gaze for a long moment. Hope and uncertainty warred in her eyes. Then, in a small voice she asked, “Why do you want to marry me?”
He could see all sorts of reasons, surmises, hovering in her mind-waiting for him to confirm them. That he felt he should because he’d ruined her in the eyes of his friends by sharing her bed. That he felt he owed it to her parents-and his aunts-to make an honest woman of her. That…there were dozens of reasons she would consider more likely than the simple truth.
Some part of him was horrified, but he didn’t hesitate.
“I want to marry you because I love you.” Cupping her face in one palm, he looked into her eyes, held her gaze steadily. “I love you, and want you and only you as my wife precisely because you’re not the common sort of lady. You’re more. You’re everything I need, everything I want, everything I must have to build the future I want-a future I couldn’t even see until we met.”
He paused, watched dawning belief lift the clouds from her jade eyes. “We belong together, you and I. Marry me, and together we’ll create a future that’s ours, that’s rich and vibrant, exciting and fulfilling.”