Ellen dropped her forehead to his throat. “I disobeyed my husband when I terminated those pregnancies, and therein lies a crime. Then too, by virtue of the use of pennyroyal, I am demonstrated to be familiar with poisons, and Freddy will harp on that to have the investigation reopened. He will ruin me and anybody associated with me, and enjoy doing it.”
“He cannot ruin you if you are my wife, Ellen. I won’t allow it, and I flatter myself my family has the influence to send Freddy packing.”
“I will not allow you to put it to the test. He has killed babies, Val, and I have every suspicion he killed Francis, as well.”
“Was he not investigated?” Val asked, mental wheels turning in all manner of directions.
“He had not yet reached his majority and did a very convincing job of being the bewildered youth bereft of his mentor and his only real relation on this earth. He wailed at great length he wasn’t ready to be the baron and did not want to be the baron, and if only one of my children had lived, he would be spared the awful task of filling Francis’s shoes.”
“Then he turned around and promptly drained the income from all three of your estates.”
Ellen’s head came up. “You know about the other two?”
“Francis loved you very much,” Val said gently, “and you told me he’d had two weeks to set his affairs in order. This estate was hardly habitable, so I concluded there were others. Maybe Francis had some inkling Freddy would not deal well with you, or maybe he just wanted you to have all you were due.”
“But you knew.” Ellen cocked her head. “And you said nothing?”
“I just found out recently.” Val tucked her against him again. “I wouldn’t have, except the Markham solicitors were told to keep an eye on you even if you insisted they leave you in peace.”
“Told by whom?”
“Your late husband.” Val kissed her cheek. “They continue to hold him in great respect. As long as you insisted they keep their noses out of your affairs, they could only watch the income come into Freddy’s pockets through the back door. Someday, I’d like to see these estates of yours, Ellen Markham.”
“But you cannot, Valentine. If Freddy knew I’d told you all this, he would feel excused in killing you outright.”
“Why hasn’t he killed you?”
“The life estate here,” Ellen explained. “I get the rents here only as long as I am alive, and these rents are substantial enough I am worth more to Freddy alive than dead. Francis set it up so if I die without issue, the other two estates go his distant relative, Mr. Grey, while this one reverts to a trust Freddy can’t touch for years.”
“Mr. Grey is the theoretical cousin?”
“Unless I remarry and produce children, in which case the properties will pass to them or can be sold by them on my death for equal division—hence Freddy’s reluctance to see me married to anyone before my dotage.”
“This is a lot to consider, Ellen,” Val said, feeling the effects of sitting too long on one hard, little piano bench—which was odd. A year ago, he would never have considered any piano bench too hard. “Shall we discuss it further while we make our way home?”
“Yes.” She let Val draw her to her feet. He settled her shawl around her and drew her unbound hair over her shoulders, then took her hand and led her down the stairs.
The moon had risen, illuminating the deserted green, while laughter and the sound of a harmonica came from the Rooster.
Val and Ellen passed along the lane through the soft summer night, the air fragrant with the scents of honeysuckle growing along the hedgerows. It wasn’t a long walk, not nearly long enough in some regards. When they got to Ellen’s cottage, Val unlocked the door and lifted Ellen into his arms, carrying her across the threshold.
She smiled, probably at the gallantry and symbolism of it, but it was a sad smile. When Val laid her down on the bed and moved off to shed his clothes, she made no protest, though. He undressed her, as well, and tugged her to a sitting position so he might assist her with her nighttime ablutions, then tucked her under the sheet and managed his own washing up with swift dispatch.
He wanted to argue with her, wanted to ravish her, wanted to keep her safe and never leave her side.
In what Ellen no doubt believed to be their final hours together, what Val wanted most, though, was to cherish his lady. He put aside his misgivings, doubts, schemes, and arguments, pulled her into his arms, and stroked his hand over her back until at last, sleep claimed them both.
When he next came to awareness, it was to hear the pretty, fluting morning carol of the birds—an incongruously optimistic sound given what the day held. The cottage was still dark, but dawn was just minutes away.
“You’re still here.” Ellen, sleepy, warm, and precious, burrowed into his embrace.
In the cocoon of drowsiness and trust enveloping them, it occurred to Val to lay his plans before the woman he loved, except she would not agree with the course he’d chosen. They’d argue, and then they’d part in anger.
They’d talked enough, at least for the present, so when Val settled his length over her, he offered her one heartfelt, “I love you,” before allowing his hands and mouth and body to express for him what words could only approximate.
“I love you, too,” Ellen replied, lifting her hips to receive him and closing her arms around him. “I always will.”
He joined them slowly, memorizing every sensation and sound: Ellen’s sighs; the way her body welcomed his into sweet, female heat; the feel of her foot gliding up his calf; the hot glow of pleasure simmering in his groin. He kissed her, grazed his mouth over her every feature, and held still while she returned his explorations. When he moved again, it was with less restraint and more desperation.
“Stay with me.”
Val heard Ellen’s words whispered against his shoulder and understood what she was asking—and what she wasn’t. Not, “Don’t ride away today,” which would have had him singing hallelujahs for the whole shire to hear, but rather, “Share bodily pleasure with me, intimately, completely, one last time.”
A gentleman with any sense wouldn’t. A smart man, out of consideration for the woman and for his own future might not. A wise man certainly couldn’t even entertain the notion, given the timing of the lady’s request.
But Val was her lover, and binding Ellen to him through any means was entirely consistent with his hopes, his dreams, and his heartfelt needs. Even that might not have allowed him to comply with her plea, but he knew her and took it upon himself to know her dreams and needs, as well.
When Ellen locked her ankles at the small of his back, when she was making an odd little keening sound against his shoulder, when slow, deep strokes into her body had Val’s entire being aflame with the pleasure of their joining, he allowed himself to stay with her. He deluged her with pleasure and submerged himself in the same flood, until passion was spent, and the time to part was inexorably upon them.
By the time he rose from the bed, the cottage was growing light, and the birds had gone quiet.
“Valentine?” Ellen struggled up against the pillows banking the headboard.
“Love?”
“Thank you—for everything. And I do love you.”
He offered her a smile, realizing that even in giving him the words, she was confirming her belief that they needed to part. He heard the farewell in her words, though he didn’t want to. The same farewell had been in her smile when he’d carried her over the threshold; the same farewell had been in her entire story when he’d held her on the piano bench in the assembly room, and in her loving just moments earlier.
So he’d leave her and let her—and Freddy—think the game was over. Lord Valentine Windham, musical artist and virtuoso without portfolio, had things to do if he was going to ensure his lady’s peace of mind and safety. If Ellen had to remain here, he’d trust friends, Almighty God, contingency plans, and the good luck he was long overdue to keep her safe until Val himself was once again at her side.