Her Prodigal Passion (20 page)

Growing nervous, she said, "I hope you like the colors that I used. They're meant to match your outfits."

He ran a finger over the monogram on the top handkerchief. Using gold silk thread, she'd sewn the
AF
in a bold, masculine script and set it within a diamond-shaped frame.

"Your handiwork is exquisite. I shall carry these with pride. Thank you, sweetheart."

The appreciation in his eyes made her feel adrift on a warm, blue sea.

"You're welcome," she whispered.

He deposited a small, black velvet box into her palm. "Your turn. It's a belated gift, actually."

With care, she lifted the lid, and ... her breath stopped.

There, on a bed of white satin, lay a ring of unimaginable splendor. A flawless opal cabochon blazed at the center, flames of iridescent green, blue, and gold dancing upon its surface. Surrounding the opal was a circle of pearls, each one snowy and flawless.

Emotion clogged Charity's throat.

"Happy engagement," Paul said, "though I'm afraid it's too late for you now, Mrs. Fines. Would have gotten the ring sooner, but given that our engagement lasted a blink of an eye, and I had to look high and low for something that suited you, I hope I can be forgiven for being late."

She still couldn't find the words.

"And I have another confession to make," he went on. "The ring came from a competitor. No choice, I'm afraid. A first-rate opal is hard to find—never mind one brilliant enough to match your eyes."

A sound finally did escape her: a sob.

"Christ, you don't like it?" He frowned. "Well, there's no need for a leaky bucket, we can find you another ring—"

"I
love
it." She threw her arms around his neck, planting her face against his hard chest. His arms closed instantly around her as she wept, "It's the most b-beautiful ring I've ever s-seen. In the entire
world
."

"Then why the waterworks?"

"Because," she said between sniffles, "you thought
me
 ... worthy of it."

A pause. He drew back, a notch between his brows. "Well, of course you are. You're worth a thousand such baubles. Why would you think otherwise?"

His incredulous tone almost started her tears again. She couldn't convey what the ring meant—to her, the weed, on whom adornment was wasted. For whom nothing but plainness and modesty would do. It was fantastical enough that this beautiful god-like man had given her his name; for him to give her this ring, to say that in his eyes she was worthy of this treasure ... she was overwhelmed.

"This is the most precious gift anyone has given me," she managed. "Thank you, Paul."

He gave her a tender smile. "You're welcome. Let's see it on, shall we?"

Taking her hand, he slid the ring onto her finger above her wedding band. The ring flashed fire and magic, too beautiful to be real. Charity knew that she would cherish it forever.

Her vision grew blurry again. She dabbed desperately at her eyes with the bed sheet. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm never a watering pot."

"It's a wedding night tradition, I'm told. The bride's prerogative after the shock wears off." His expression grew thoughtful, and, winding one of her loose waves around his finger, he said, "Speaking of shock, I was rather astounded myself when I saw this hair of yours in its full glory. Why in blazes do you hide such an asset? Other females pay their
friseurs
a pretty penny to achieve such perfection."

More praise. She didn't know how much more she could take.

"It's unmanageable ... and immodest," she tried to explain.

"Who told you that?"

"My father." Guilt stabbed her at how disloyal that sounded. She hastened to add, "He raised me on his own, after my mama died. It wasn't easy, what with the shop and all his responsibilities. Some fathers might have given up an infant daughter, but not mine." She'd been so lucky, having a papa who let her stay by his side. "He's always done his best by me, and for that I shall forever be grateful."

"He's the one who ought to be grateful to have a daughter like you." Sifting his hands through her hair, Paul said, "No more gunk and nun's knots. Your hair is beautiful, a part of you, and as your husband 'tis my privilege to see it in its natural state."

"I suppose ... I could wear a looser style." The simple twist and fall of her coiffure at the wedding ceremony
had
felt better. It was nice not to have the tautness at her temples and the itchy paste against her scalp.

"That's my girl," he said.

Tension lingered, however, and she knew that more than her hair was at issue. She didn't know how to address the mutual animosity that had sprung up between her father and new husband; she found it difficult to speak up for one without feeling as though she were betraying the other.

Awkwardly, she said, "Please don't think badly of Father. He's just worried about Sparkler's. And, of course, our wedding took him by surprise."

"There's an understatement," Paul said.

"He'll come around, you'll see. The two of you just need to spend time together." She pushed away her unease. Paul was so wonderful—her father had to see it eventually. "And when you help Father make Sparkler's a success, he'll be so pleased."

A shadow fell across Paul's face.

"I meant after the tournament," she said quickly. "Your boxing must come first, of course. I know how important winning the title is to you."

"It isn't that." He hesitated. "I just hope that I'll be able to help make the shop a success."

She looked at him in surprise. "Of course you will."

Over the years, she'd observed that Paul was a man who, once he set his mind and heart to a thing, did not falter. 'Twas why he excelled at pugilism; 'twas why he loved Rosalind Drummond ... she shook away the thought. She wasn't going to ruin the night's happiness.

He cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb following the slope of her cheekbone. "Such a loyal thing, aren't you?" he murmured. "I hope to God I don't disappoint."

"You couldn't," she said. "You won't."

Something drifted through his eyes like clouds over a clear sky. She wondered what he was thinking and would have asked, but his lips were suddenly on hers, banishing further thoughts from her head. When his tongue touched her lips, she opened to him immediately, hungry for the wordless intimacy, hungry again for his kiss.

Laying her back, he murmured, "Sore, sweeting?"

Her head rocked against the pillows.

His eyes were heated. "I'll be gentle. And it'll be even better this time, I promise." He caught the tip of one breast, lightly pinching, and her insides melted like wax.

"Is that even possible?" she managed.

He gave her a rakish grin ... and proceeded to show her that it was.

TWENTY-ONE

The morning after her wedding night, Charity woke at her usual hour just before sunrise. Seeing that Paul's long lashes rested against his lean cheeks, she just lay there admiring him. She loved how boyish he looked with his angelic features relaxed and his hair tousled. She had to restrain herself from brushing back his willful forelock. She didn't want to disturb him. When she tried to slip from the bed, however, his arm snaked around her waist.

"Where are you going?" His drowsy murmur filled her ear.

"To put a kettle on," she said breathlessly. "I'll make your breakfast."

"You've wed a slugabed and one who enjoys company. Now get over here, wench,"—he yanked her playfully against him—"and I'll show you what I want for breakfast."

His wandering hands made her giggle until he brought her bottom flush against his front. Then she wasn't laughing anymore. Clearly, he
was
awake ... a particular part of him fully alert. A hum began in her blood, and what progressed next, whilst still new to her, made a convincing case for lingering in bed.

Afterward, she dozed off and woke, disoriented, to find that it was nearly noon. Paul, freshly shaven and in his shirtsleeves, sauntered into the room with a tray, explaining that the maid from the village had already come and gone. Propping himself next to her on the bed, he began to feed her from the array of foods he'd brought: thickly buttered bread, crisp bacon, juicy slices of tomato. When she protested that she couldn't eat another bite, he handed her a cup of tea—milk and no sugar, the way she preferred—and polished off the food whilst she sipped her beverage with a dazed kind of joy.

What had she done to deserve such a husband?

The days passed with a surreal quality. Charity was used to being busy, but here at the cottage there were no tasks to complete, no chores to do. Nothing on the agenda but getting to know the man she'd loved from afar for so long.

It was remarkable to her, how at ease they were becoming with each other. Or rather, how at ease Paul was with himself—which, in turn, began eroding some of her natural awkwardness. He was undoubtedly a sensual creature and seemed to relish physical contact, touching her often and not just during lovemaking. They spent lazy hours curled up together on the parlor sofa. While she worked on her embroidery, he made a pillow of her lap, reading or napping. When they went to explore the outdoors, he kept a hand on her waist, his stance almost ... possessive, she thought wistfully.

If their lovemaking brought them physically closer, their talking fostered a growing intimacy of another kind. One night, as they lay facing one another in bed, they discussed the topic of their childhoods. She described growing up at Sparkler's, her desire to help her father, who worked so hard despite his ill health. She also admitted to Paul how much she'd missed having a mother and the silly dreams she'd secretly woven about Mary Sparkler someday returning. Surfacing, like a long-lost survivor of a shipwreck.

Paul returned her confidences, sharing his own past.

"I always knew Papa loved me," he said. "In retrospect, I think that made things worse."

She frowned, not understanding. "Worse?"

"Yes, because what did I do to deserve such devotion? Jeremiah Fines started with nothing and earned his successes and the admiration of all. I, on the other hand, was given everything—and look what I've accomplished," he said grimly. "I nearly destroyed my father's company, endangered Percy, and gambled away my accounts. I'm living off the dividends of my father's hard work. He was right: I am a disappointment."

"You're not a disappointment. Far from." She touched his taut jaw. "You've so many talents I don't know where to begin."

"You only say that because you've spent the last three days in bed with me."

"I'm being serious." She was getting to know him, the way he defaulted to wit when matters got difficult or unpleasant. "You've always protected Percy—she looks up to you ever so much, even now." Encouraged by the easing of the lines around his eyes, she said, "You're kind and clever, and people like to be around you. And you're the most honorable, most determined gentleman I've ever met."

"Sweeting, are you certain you have the right fellow?" he murmured.

"I know the man I married," she insisted. "For instance, look how well you've done with boxing: that's a culmination of hard work as well as talent. And when you win the tournament, everyone will see what a champion you are."

He studied her intently. "You won't mind being married to a prizefighter?"

She didn't mind his choice of profession, as long as he didn't get hurt. She wasn't keen, however, on the fact that his training would take him away from her so soon and for so long. She understood why he had to go ... but she would miss him. More so now, after these magical days together. She'd never known that she could feel this close to another. At times, she'd had to bite her lip to prevent imprudent words from spilling out, reminding herself that he didn't want messy emotions in their marriage.

She'd contented herself with learning as much as she could about Paul. As a result, she knew how important winning the championship was to him. She saw, perhaps more than he did, that boxing gave him purpose and a sense of self-worth. She prayed that he would emerge victorious—and was gripped with anxiety when she considered the alternative. If Paul lost ... how would he cope? His entire focus was on winning ...

For the most part, she managed to push her doubts aside. Her husband deserved her faith, so she would give it wholeheartedly.

Hiding her trepidation, she said, "I'll support you in whatever makes you happy."

"After the tournament, your father won't be able to get me out of the shop," he said.

She loved him all the more for keeping his promises to her. "The shop will be there when you return. As will I."

"Now that's a homecoming I'll look forward to." His eyes smiled into hers, and he curled his hand around her nape, drawing her mouth to his.

Over the past days and nights, she'd grown addicted to his kiss. To his masculine flavor, the bold sweep of his tongue. Her initial hesitancy about her wanton response had faded; she'd learned that he
liked
for her to participate in their lovemaking and, in fact, encouraged it with naughty (and rather stimulating) praise. So when he rolled her onto her back, she wound her arms around his neck, kissing him with the desire that flowed more and more freely within her.

Soon kissing wasn't enough.

They separated just long enough for him to drag the chemise over her head and toss his own dressing gown to the floor. Then he lay atop her once more, and she shivered at the hot, hard press of his member against her bare thigh. His lips wandered down her neck and over her bosom.

"I love kissing you here." His breath puffed against her erect nipple, making her shiver. "You've the prettiest tits. They have the pinkest, perkiest tips."

His approval thrilled her, especially since she'd always believed herself lacking in this area. "You don't think they're too small?" she said shyly.

"They're just right, darling. For instance, see how nicely they fit inside my mouth?"

Pleasure swirled in her veins as he mouthed her entire breast, then drew hard on the sensitive peak. He repeated the action on her other breast, and she whimpered, her fingers sliding into his thick, silky locks. He went back and forth until her blood pulsed with need. He peppered kisses over her ribcage, his lips burning down her belly. Before she could grasp the implication of this new direction, his hands clamped upon her thighs, spreading them, his mouth moving lower and ever closer to ...