The Lover (34 page)

The groom looked up at him. "Miss Aimes said that I should take your horse, sir."

Tossing the reins to the groom, Michael dismounted and swung open the carriage door.

Anne sat with her feet firmly together. She wore a black wool cloak and a plain black bonnet. A picnic basket sat on her lap.

There was no condemnation in her eyes. "Is he dead?"

He stiffened his knees to keep them from buckling. "Yes."

"I thought you would like transportation back to London." Her voice was more husky than usual, polite as it had been in the night house. She clutched the woven handle of the basket. "This is not my best coach, but it is comfortable."

"Are you accompanying me?"

"Yes." She tilted her chin, as if afraid that he would object. "We do have a contract."

He didn't want her because of a goddamn contract.

He would take what he could get.

Before she could change her mind, he jumped into the carriage and slammed shut the door. The coach lurched, moved backward, forward, slowly turned in a creaking circle.

Michael stared at the dark leather interior opposite him. Anne's hip pressed against his.

He would not lie again.

"I didn't kill him."

"You said he was dead."

"Gabriel killed him."

He could feel her thoughts cataloging the sequence of events.

"Did he push me?"

"No."

"He loves you."

Scalding tears pricked his eyelids. "I know." And for want of anything else to say, he asked, "What's in the basket?"

"Chocolate bars and bananas," she said stiltedly. "It's a long journey by coach. I thought you might get hungry."

Emotion welled deep inside his chest.

Laughter. Tears.

He wanted to snicker like the eleven-year-old boy he had once been. He wanted to weep the tears he had been unable to cry these past twenty-nine years.

It was truly over.

The man was dead and Michael was alive. A sudden throb inside his groin reminded him of just how alive he was.

Reaching out, he scooped Anne up and deposited her onto his lap. The basket went flying. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Underneath the harsh benzene cleaning agent that permeated her clothes, her skin faintly smelled of chocolate, of her passion, of his passion. "You were right. It's time for breakfast."