Julia London (28 page)

“Really? Where are we going?” She grinned, clearly pleased.

“To the sea. There is a cove I would show you.”

“Oh, how perfectly wonderful! I truly miss the sea, don’t you?” she asked, already turning to leave. Oddly, he really did not miss the sea anymore. Not since she had come into his life.

“I must change—”

“No, go as you are,” he said huskily.

Abbey glanced curiously over her shoulder, her violet eyes sparkling. “At least my hat, then. Will you wait for me, Michael? I shall be but a moment,” she called over her shoulder, and disappeared through the door. Michael pushed off the desk and walked over to examine the azalea.
Yes, Abbey, I will wait for you. I think I shall always wait for you
, he responded silently.

The sun was bright, but there was a lingering frost in the air. As Michael tossed a few shillings to the coachmen and pointed them in the direction of the nearest public house, Abbey ran ahead, easily climbing down the thickly wooded hill to the cove. When Michael finally emerged through the brush, she was standing on the small beach with her feet braced apart and her hands fisted on her hips.

“Michael Evan Ingram, why have you kept this place hidden from me?” she demanded.

He laughed, dropping the basket he was carrying. “In truth, darling, I haven’t been here since I was a lad.” He glanced around the little cove in which he had spent many summer afternoons as a child. Afternoons when he and Mariah would escape the drunken tirades of his father. He strolled toward a tree that protruded from the natural tree line and checked the trunk. Running his fingers over the smooth bark, he found what he was looking for: the carved initials M.E.I. and, next to them, M.A.I.

“Whose are those?” Abbey asked.

“Mariah,” he said as he ran his fingers over her initials.

“Do you miss her?”

Michael shrugged. “I miss her from time to time, but she’s been gone a long while. She just had a son, her second child. I received a letter from her just a few days ago, admonishing me for not having told her about you before now,” he said as he stepped away from the tree.

“She knows about me?” Abbey asked, surprised.

“Of course she does. Do you think I would not tell my sister about my own marriage?” Michael put an arm around
her shoulder and pulled her into his side to lead her to the small beach.

“Did you tell her why?” Abbey asked.

“Why?”

There were times, Abbey thought, that Michael could be a little dense. “Did you tell her you were forced?”

Michael squeezed her shoulders. “I told her I had married, but I did not think to bore her with the details,” he said reassuringly.

“Or astound her with them,” Abbey muttered under her breath.

Michael playfully pinched her cheek and wisely ignored the remark. He retrieved the basket and rummaged inside, producing a blanket, which he spread on the sand.

“I’m going to gather some firewood. Don’t wander off,” he said, and headed back into the woods. By the time he returned with an armload, Abbey had spread out the small feast Cook had prepared. He requested laughingly that she save some for him before returning to the thicket for more wood. The second time he emerged, he was surprised to find a small fire. Abbey was sitting next to it, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Who lit that fire?” he asked in genuine surprise and dropped the armload of wood. Abbey laughed. “I don’t see any evidence of an intruder. There are no footprints in the sand save the small ones there,” he said, pointing to her prints. “Madam, am I to understand that you lit this fire?”

“Of course I did!” Abbey giggled.

“How on earth—”

“With a flint and some kindling, of course.” She frowned laughingly.

Michael slowly shook his head. “Good God, woman, is there no end to what you know?”

I don’t know if you love me
, she thought, but smiled up at him and said nothing.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

Michael smiled sardonically. “Aye, I am hungry,” he muttered, and dropped next to her. In one fluid movement, he
pulled her onto his lap and sought her mouth. Abbey’s hands instantly swept up his chest and around his neck. Michael groaned against her mouth as her tongue darted between his lips. She was aware of being lowered onto the blanket, of his hand moving deftly over the buttons of her blouse.

“Michael, you aren’t thinking—”

“Oh, yes I am,” he said, and covered her mouth before she could protest again.

In the cool afternoon sun, with a small fire to warm them, Michael made gentle love to her. It was exquisite, Abbey thought, as he thrust deeply within her, the muscles of his arms quivering next to her as he held himself above her. The sun was behind his head and blinded her to his face. But she could hear him, smell him, and when she ran her tongue across his nipple, she could taste him. As his strokes grew more insistent, he reached between them and stroked her, and after a few richly agonizing moments she imploded into a thousand dots of light. With one last powerful surge, Michael groaned and shuddered, spilling his seed deep within her, then he slowly lowered himself to her, resting his forehead on her shoulder.

“I love you, Michael,” she whispered in his ear. He snaked his arms around her and squeezed her tightly to him in response. Neither of them said a word for a long while, and finally Michael sighed and withdrew. He made a show of rearranging her blouse before jumping to his feet and fastening his breeches. She lowered her skirt and sat up, then tried to rearrange her hair. Michael kissed the mess.

“I think you will find some ale in that flagon,” he said, and moved to tend the fire. Abbey found two wooden cups and poured them ale, then filled a plate of food for him. Satisfied with the small, roaring fire, Michael settled next to her and regaled her with his youthful adventures in the cove with Mariah. After they finished their languid meal, Michael propped himself up against a tree. Abbey’s lids were growing heavy, and she laid her head on his lap.

“Who were you speaking with in the garden this morning?” he murmured.

Abbey’s lashes fluttered and a moment passed before she answered. Several things went through her mind, not the least of which was surprise that he had seen them. But that was followed quickly by the memory of Galen’s warning to keep his secret. In the space of a moment, she decided her cousin was right. When he had a legitimate post, she would tell Michael everything. Michael had said very clearly he did not want to be burdened with her relatives, and she was not about to let him think he was burdened with Galen. Nor was she willing to do anything that might sour the intimate bond they seemed to have established and strengthened this afternoon.

“He was a hand aboard the
Dancing Maiden
a few years ago, from Pemberheath. Withers and the lads know him,” she said softly. Michael watched her, looking for a sign of deceit, and slowly, reluctantly, accepted her explanation. He really could not believe she would lie to him; not when he could easily confirm anything she said with Withers. Given that she would embrace an old dairy cow if so moved, it seemed almost plausible she would greet an old friend thus.
Almost
plausible. He could not quite shake a feeling of doubt.

She made a small sound and snuggled closer to him. With the ever-present strand of silken hair drifted across one eye, she looked so young and innocent in her slumber. He tenderly brushed the tress from her face, and with a protective arm around her, he sat, staring out at the sea. He savored the contentment he had not known was achievable, and he marveled at the budding realization of how important it was to him.

Abbey slowly became aware that something was tickling her, and she grumpily batted the thing away. What felt like a feather next drifted across her face. She swatted at it again, then slowly opened her eyes. She was still lying with her head on Michael’s lap, and when she looked up, he was smiling down at her, holding a feather in his hand.

“Wake up, sweetheart. You have slept the afternoon away,” he murmured, and brought her hand to his lips.

“No, I only closed my eyes for a moment,” she insisted, and pushed herself to a sitting position.

“I assure you it was more than a moment,” he chuckled. He watched as she sleepily brushed the hair from her face, then glanced, bewildered, around the cove.

“There is something I want to ask you,” he said. Abbey nodded and crossed her legs beneath her voluminous skirt.

“A few months ago, we played billiards, do you recall?” he asked, a smile playing on his lips.

“I remember very well.”

“And do you recall the wager?”

“Better still,” Abbey said slowly. Like a flash of light, it suddenly occurred to her that the three months was over. She blanched visibly; Michael’s smile faded.

“Is something wrong?” he asked softly. Abbey swallowed and shook her head.

“Today is the three-month mark of our wager,” he said, and impulsively covered her hands with one of his.

Abbey’s throat parched; what did he want her to say? She felt uncomfortably exposed; the facts today were no different from what they had been that night three months ago. Michael had been forced into a marriage against his will and deserved to be released. But God, did he
want
to be released? Her breathing grew constricted. She could not bear to hear him say he wanted out of this marriage, but she owed him the opportunity. She closed her eyes; Michael’s hand gripped hers tightly.

“Abbey, I would have your answer,” he insisted. Abbey flinched. “But before you do, I think you should know that I will be sorely displeased if I must rescind my favorable reply to the Delacorte Ball next month.” Abbey’s eyes flew open and she started to shake her head. He came quickly to his knees and grabbed her shoulders; his gray gaze pierced hers with brutal intensity. She did not want to go, but she could not deny the very real truth of their marriage.

“It’s … it’s not
fair
! You deserve—”

“I deserve to have my wife on my arm in London. I deserve to have you in my bed at night. I deserve to see that devastating smile of yours every day, and I would have sworn
on my mother’s grave that you did not
want
to go!” he said gruffly.

“I
don’t
want to go!” she cried.

“Then why in the devil do you look as if you could be ill at any moment?” he roared.

“I’d rather die than be without you, don’t you know that? But I can’t ask it of you, Michael! Papa
lied
to you!” she cried.

Something flicked across his gray eyes and he smiled ruefully. “Abbey, listen to me. That is past history and has nothing to do with us now. I would prefer you not go.”

Shocked by the words she had so longed to hear, she suddenly threw herself at Michael, knocking him to his back. “Oh, Michael!” she cried, and covered his face with fierce kisses until her elation managed to manifest itself in a burst of tears.

“Good God,” he murmured, and with his thumbs, wiped her tears away.

“Darfield, you d-don’t know how happy you’ve m-made me!” she cried.

Made
her
happy? He had only managed to convey very awkwardly that he wanted her to stay. He crushed her to him in a bruising kiss, to which Abbey responded with abandon. He quickly rolled her onto her back and grabbed the hem of her skirt, pushing it up to her waist. He growled, fumbling with the buttons of his breeches, then thrust into her with such strength that Abbey cried out in ecstasy, lifting her hips to meet the next powerful surge. And as Abbey found fulfillment, she whispered her love, over and over again in glorious elation.

When at last they lay spent in each other’s arms, Michael chuckled against her neck.

“What’s so funny?” she asked lazily as she stared up at the pinkening sky.

“Have I your word that you will not cause me bodily harm?”

“Of course!” she said very seriously.

“Then I have a confession to make,” he said cheerfully. “The wager was four balls, remember?”

“Yes.”

“You turned your back, do you recall?” he asked, and swept a finger across her swollen lips.

“I could not bear to watch. I was afraid you would miss,” she added sheepishly.

“I did miss. I made only three. I helped the fourth ball into the pocket,” he said casually.

“You
what
?” She gasped.

“I cheated. Blatantly. I even threatened Anderson with his employment if he dared breathe a word,” he grinned.

Abbey’s eyes narrowed. “Michael Ingram, how despicable,” she began. He nodded in cheerful agreement. “But I suppose I am hardly in a position to censure you.”

Michael’s brows rose slightly. “And why is that?”

“I only won one hundred pounds, not a thousand,” she said sweetly.

Michael threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Abbey tapped the dry quill against the desktop and stared through the window at a branch dancing in the spring breeze. It was hard for her to believe she was actually in London; harder still to believe the town no longer held the same attraction for her as it had once. When Michael had first announced they were to go, she had told him she never wanted to leave Blessing Park. The time they had spent there had been idyllic; the most fulfilling, blissful days she had ever known. He had argued it was impractical to remain forever there, and the sooner she was introduced to the
ton
, the sooner the interest in her would ebb. She did not care a whit about being presented to the
ton
, but it was obvious he did, and Sam had not helped matters by agreeing with Michael. She smiled inwardly as she recalled how he had once threatened to leave her at Blessing Park. Sitting in the huge study at his London town house and going through the hundreds of invitations they had received, she wished that she had demanded those words in writing.

She had not yet really ventured out, other than to go to the exclusive modiste where Michael had insisted—no, demanded—on paying a small fortune to have her outfitted in
the finest haute couture. Her cousin Victoria would have been awed by the fabrics and styles, just as she was. Her only other outing had been to accompany Michael’s elderly great aunt to a tearoom one afternoon.