Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (38 page)

Their marriage
.

The weight of the idea sunk in
while Ackermann mumbled words over them in broken English. Whatever God or Fate
or the designs of man had in wait for them, he and Olivia would face it all as
one.

There was a pause; Ty realized he
had been watching her, lost in his thoughts and not listening. The minister
cleared his throat, holding something out. A ring. It was his ring, Ty
realized, as the fire's light sparkled off of its green stone. He took it and
waited while Olivia tugged off her glove, and then grasped her hand, her bare
skin touching his for the first time in weeks, and he slipped the band over her
knuckle.

Something like a tiny sigh escaped
her lips.

He said the words he’d waited weeks
to utter. “My arm to protect you, my breast to comfort you, my heart to cherish
you.”

Olivia's eyes widened. “Snake in
the grass,” she whispered, lips twitching, pressing his hand with reassuring
warmth.

“Let's hear what you've got that's
better.” He struggled out his challenge, caught between laughter and a fit of
nerves churning in his guts.

Her eyes danced with mystery and
humor, and she held out her hand to the reverend and claimed a wide gold band
from him.

Olivia lifted her shoulders,
shrugging. “I cast my heart in with your lot.” Her vow was plain-spoken, as if
the idea were a foregone conclusion, and it was filled with bone-deep
sincerity.

An ache behind his ribs bloomed as
she spoke them, and they could not have been more perfect. The ring slid into
place on his finger with satisfying weight, and Ty held up his hand to study
the effect.

Ackermann stepped back, closing the
bible and gesturing them together with a sweep of his fingers. Not the least
bit interested in titillating their unwelcome guests, who were staring
gape-mouthed beside the minister, Ty leaned in and pressed a kiss at the corner
of Olivia's mouth. He fought back a laugh when she swayed into him and then
sighed at his quick retreat.

From the back of his wagon,
Ackermann produced a small wooden writing box which housed a quill and ink. He
scrawled his signature and some strange symbol beside it. Ty signed and passed
the quill to Olivia, and in a moment they were done. All that remained was to
shoo off the three interlopers, two of whom were looking more keen by the
moment to stay and see what could be had.

Against his better judgment, Ty
clasped each man's hand, hastily enough that only Ackermann, who came last, had
a chance to return any pressure. “Thank you, and thank you. Good night.” He
turned to Olivia. “We should be heading in,” he announced loudly. She only
stared. “Don't wish to draw unwanted attention from the garrison.”

Understanding replaced the
confusion on her face while their witnesses only looked disappointed.
Thankfully, Reverend Ackermann, clearly unwilling to be put out any longer than
necessary, began shooing them toward his wagon. Ty made a great show of fussing
with Alvanley's bridle and reins as the rickety conveyance tottered over the
clearing's uneven terrain, rumbling off into the darkness of the old road. When
he was confident that no one planned to circle back with their hand out, he
dropped the reins.

He grabbed Olivia under the arms,
his hands racing over the satin to press at the small of her back. She must
have had the same thought as he, as their lips met with enough force to jar her
bonnet free. Their teeth banged together, catching the skin of his lip with a
sting. Ignoring it, he crushed her to his chest while her arms twined around
his neck with a pressure that bordered on painful. “How long?” She whispered
into his neck, embracing him as fiercely as before.

“Thirty-eight days.” He had counted
every single one of them.

To his disappointment, Olivia
pulled away. “Thirty-eight agonizing days.”

“Mmm. Some more painful than
others.”

“And yet, you've muddled through.”

“Barely!” he protested, making a
grab for her and failing as she danced away. She turned and gave him a winning
smile.

“Get the lamp,” she pointed toward
the stump, “And let's go in.”

“Go in?”

“Yes.” She glanced around, brows
drawn together. “You didn't think we would just sit about out here all night
...”

“I did not think that far in
advance.”

“Liar,” Olivia laughed. She shook
her head, bouncing her poor displaced bonnet. “Lamp.”

He made her a little bow. “I am the
lady's to command.”

*          *          *

Ty stepped over the threshold of
the farmhouse and set her down, restoring some of the pride she’d lost at being
lumbered in like a sack of grain. He was very sweet about it, but Olivia was
happy to put both feet on the floor.

Eyeing her handiwork, Olivia worried
for the first time that it was not enough. She had only dared two trips, afraid
that any more baggage or the hiring of a wagon for a third time would raise
suspicion. Ty's sharp
‘oh’
from the doorway behind put her fears to
rest.

“Olivia, did you do all of this?”

She nodded, giving the room another
glance. They could do worse, as honeymoons went. The house afforded them one
good-sized room with no furnishings, protected from time and elements between
two now dilapidated wings. Stone walls boasted just a few holes high up, and a
mostly intact slat door caught most of the draft. The old farmhouse's fireplace
crackled cheerfully; she’d been thrilled to find it in working order the day
before. Their dinner basket waited on a small cloth beside the hearth with two
good bottles of port. And, of course, a plush stack of quilts beside...

Ty's whistle cut in, and he stepped
up beside her. “You've managed brilliantly.” The pride in his voice warmed her
head to toe. He laced their fingers, meeting her eyes, and his face was somber
in the firelight. “You deserve Westminster, Olivia. A tour of the Continent. A
true London wedding.”

She shrugged. “Those things are
nice, but they're not important.” She pressed a finger to his chest. “This is
what’s important.” Then she laughed at herself. “Cliché? Perhaps. But we are
together. That's enough for me.”

They stood together for a long
moment, Olivia taking him in while Ty did the same, with only the pop and hiss
of logs in the grate breaking the contented silence.

Her husband
.

As if reading her mind, Ty broke
the silence. “Our first night together as husband and wife,” he murmured. “What
would please you most?”

She shivered at the idea as much as
his smoky tone. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” Ty admitted, looking
slightly relieved.

“Thank God. I'm famished. Do
something with the port while I find napkins.”

Ty chuckled, snatching at her
skirts was they passed one another. “Needs of the body before needs of the
spirit.”

She swatted his hand. “I cannot
fathom that
any
of your needs just now are spiritual.”

While she picked through a small
crate, Ty moved beside the fire and opened the basket.

“What is this, chicken? I'd give my
right arm to eat it, on the smell alone.”

Shaking her head, Olivia threw the
napkins onto the hearth and settled on the cloth. “Not my doing. I don't cook.”

Ty, stripped down to his shirt and
breeches, planted himself directly across from her and braced the bottle
between his knees, slipping the cork free with an easy pop. “Thank goodness I
married you for reasons other than domestic prowess.”

“Like love?” she offered.

He filled her glass and handed it
over, eyeing her suggestively. “That too.”

“Cad.”

“Far too late, now. You are saddled
with me. 'In full times, and in poor', remember.”

“The same holds true for you,” she
threatened, stabbing an unoffending piece of chicken and dropping it onto Ty's
plate.

He leaned over and inhaled. “Does
it smell like almonds?”

She scoffed. “What do you take me
for, some amateur? Anyway, I prefer the element of surprise when poisoning.”

Ty sniffed the meat, pretended to
inspect it, then tapped the ceramic plate with a finger. “What do you intend to
do with all this, come morning?”

“Burn it, I suppose.” She enjoyed
his momentary look of shock and the way his bite of food hung frozen between
his mouth and the plate.

He recovered quickly enough and
nodded. “Ah. Your signature method.”

“Are you referring to the drape
again?” She took a good mouthful of Port. “I only lit it on fire to get your
attention.”

“So you could kill me!”

“Hmm.” She nodded slowly, fixing
what she hoped was a thoughtful expression. “Eventually.”

“I might have gotten to you first,”
he warned, leaning back and propping one boot on the hearth.

“I doubt it.” She licked her lip
slowly. “You didn't put up much of a fight.”

Ty swallowed, then clutched his
chest. “I had to retrench. You'd removed my mask, seen my identity.”

“You
let
me.”

He raised his chin an inch or so,
scowling a little in what she guessed was meant to be his impression of
Grayfield. “Whenever possible, attempt to convert an adversary into an asset.”

“I've read the manual.” She snagged
his glass and emptied the last of the port between them. “Who converted whom?”

“In the end, I'm not certain it
matters.
I
was the last one with the letters in my possession.”

“Were you?” Olivia relished the
moment, smiling hard enough that her cheeks ached at what was surely coming.

His brow furrowed, as if sensing a
trap. “I was. They were claimed from my hand by our mysterious opponent.”

Laughing in earnest, Olivia fell
back against the floorboards, clutching her stomach. “You simply took what
I
gave you. Did you ever look, to see if they were truly Fouche's letters?”

Ty yanked his boot from the hearth
and sat forward, head shaking, mouth working in absolute shock.

“You never looked!” She laughed
again, and emptied her glass, nearly choking in her prone position. “They were.
I cannot go so far as to let you believe otherwise. But I
could
have.”

Shaking his head, Ty laughed,
relaxing again. “True of many things that night.”

“Such as?”

“You could have got the better of
me in the garden, had you not been so damned smug. Truly, Olivia? You
kicked
me in the head!
Twice
!”

“Oof!” She clutched her chest,
mock-wounded. “Hurtful, but fair. I'll grant you that one.”

“You could have entirely had your
way with me in the hall, if not for our amorous intruders.”

Her face burned, and not just from
the Port. Olivia fixed eyes on her glass as it rested on her belly. “A
dangerous admission.”

His voice held a rare, sharp,
serious edge. “It was a dangerous encounter. I allowed you to get the better of
me, for no reason I shall ever manage to quantify.”

Olivia's pulse hammered in her
throat. She could recall that night's every sensation, as though it were taking
place now, and not four months earlier. The grip of his wool coat on her bare
arms, the warm slip of black silk when his mask pulled free. Pressure, his lips
on hers, his body holding her against the wall. She worked up the courage to
meet his eyes. “Perhaps the very same thing that is happening now?”

Ty nodded slowly, gazing down at
her, unblinking. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Saved by six pewter buttons.”

She thought back for a moment.
“Your breeches had eight...”

“Advance preparations.” Pushing
aside the basket and his plate, Ty scooted across the space between them,
facing her and nearly hip to hip. He brought the bottle along and refilled her
glass.

Tilting it, Olivia tipped its dark
residue from side to side, fiddling with the stem. His leg pressed insistently
against hers, heat seeping through layers of clothing. He leaned over, tucking
a lock of hair behind her ear, filling her nose with his distinctive scent. His
finger brushed from her crown, between her curls, fanning them out above her on
the floor. Eyes closed, she shut out everything but the warmth of his hands.

“Nearly every man must believe
himself among the luckiest on his wedding day.” A finger trailed down her
forehead, tracing her nose, brushing her lips. “But today, I am king among
those men, Olivia.”

Opening her eyes, Olivia studied
his face, his broad forehead, and the proud line of his nose framed by blue
eyes. They gazed at her, and nothing else existed in the world but him. “I love
you.”

“I know.” He nodded, claiming the
glass from her trembling fingers. “I can have no doubt of it, not with the way
you are looking at me now.”

She watched the easy fit of their
hands, not able to bring herself to meet his gaze. Silence stretched between
them, pulled along by anticipation. They both knew what was coming, ironically
both hesitant at the prospect. After all the times they’d shared kisses, the
moments when their bodies had touched with the intimacy of lovers, the fact
that they could do and be whatever they wanted felt impossible to her.

“Shy?” he asked, after a few
minutes.

Relief nearly dissolved into
laughter. “Yes,” she admitted, scraping up enough courage to look at him.

He blushed, and she loved him for
it. “We're alike in that respect.”

“Truly?”

“I was being entirely honest when I
said I have never had anything like this before.” He shrugged, features pulled
into earnest lines.

Love
. They were in uncharted
territory together. The idea calmed her nerves. She raised his hand to her belt
and rested it on the buckle, confident of what she wanted.

He hooked the sash, tugging it free
with a sound yank, pushing her to a tipping point between anxiety and
anticipation. His fingers hovered at each button, pausing, then deftly popping
them in turn from throat to waist. It was clear revenge for every time she'd
teased him about the hasty removal of clothing. There was a confidence in Ty’s
hands born of experience, a capable ease in the way he seduced her now. A voice
whispered for her to close her eyes and feel, the way she would with a virtuoso
musician.