What Price Love? (46 page)

“Daft?” He clutched his hair and swung away from her. “Damn it, Pris, you were nearly
raped. Would
have been raped if Rus and I hadn't got there in time—and all because of
me.
Because of my wonderful plan to trap Mr. X, to protect us, to…to do what duty suggested.”

Unyielding before the hearth, Pris frowned at him. “Yes, I know. But you
did
get there in time.” She watched him pace before her, read the agitation in every wild and violent movement. What was this?

He shook his head. His face was set. “Yes, but…none of that was important. I thought it was, and at one level it is, but not at the level that matters most.
You
are important, and you—and what we have, you and I—all of that
I put at risk
.” He halted, met her eyes, his gaze dark, turbulent, a little wild. “Bad enough. That's something I'll have to live with—something I'll never do again. Never risk again.
But
”—his hands fisted at his sides—“then
you
—you risked
yourself
! Trying to save me! Don't you ever do such a foolish thing again!”

She returned his furious glare, opened her mouth—

“Don't think I'm not grateful, but…” He dragged in a breath, spoke through clenched teeth. “You are going to promise me you'll never,
ever
, put yourself at risk again, not for anything. You promised me you never would—”

“Not unless you were with me! You were! That was the point—I
had to save you.”

“I don't
care
! You are going to promise me you'll never, ever, regardless of anything, risk yourself in any way what ever again!”

She narrowed her eyes on his. She let a telling moment tick by. “And if I won't?”

His nostrils flared, his chest swelled; his entire body went rigid. “If you won't, then I'll just have to make sure you never again have the chance…”

She listened, amazed, as he described in inventive detail just how he would restrict her freedom, hem her in and restrict her ability to ever put herself in the way of any risk—no matter how infinitesimal.

How he would make it totally impossible for her to be her.

If it had been anyone but him, she would have screamed her defiance. Instead, she watched him pace, rant, and rave—watched his sophisticated carapace crack and shatter and fall away, leaving him exposed, vulnerable…

Blocking out his words, she concentrated on what he was really saying.

What emotion was riding him, driving him.

You are my life. You mean too much to me.

She saw, understood, and waited.

Eventually, he realized she wasn't reacting. He stopped and looked at her. Frowned. “What?”

She couldn't tell him what she'd seen in him, how it only made her love him more. She met his gaze, and quietly said, “Do you remember, when I asked how much you would surrender…for me, for my love? Do you recall what you replied?”

He studied her for a long moment. His lips thinned. “‘How much do you want.'”

She nodded. “You'll also recall I didn't reply.” He stiffened; before he could speak she continued,
“This”
—she waved between them—“is part of the answer.”

Stepping away from the fire so the flickering light reached his eyes, she held his gaze. “What I want from you in return for my hand is a partnership. A partnership of equals, each with our own strengths, our own weaknesses, maybe, and also our own wills and needs and wants.”

Her gaze locked with his, she tilted her head. “We're alike in many ways—you understand how I feel. However you feel about me, I feel the same about you. So no, I won't sit meekly by when your life is at risk, any more than you would if mine were. I will always claim the right to act, to choose my path.” She let her lips curve. “Just as I chose you—not just now, but in the summer house by the lake. That first time wasn't because of the register, although I allowed you to think so. That time, as with all subsequent times, was simply for you. Just you. You were all and everything I'd ever wanted, ever dreamed could be, so I gave and took, all those nights ago.”

Drawing breath, she spread her hands; speaking truth at this level, this directly, was harder than she'd thought. “And what we have now—you, me, and what's between us—that's created by both of us, and if I lose you, I lose that, too. You can't expect me not to act to protect you, just as you would me. We're wild, we take risks, but we protect what's important to us—that's how we are, how we'll always be.

“I can't change, any more than you can. The price of my love is that you accept me as I am, not as you—or at least some part of you—might prefer me to be. My price is that you acknowledge what you know to be the truth—that I won't be your possession, yours to rule, that I'm as wild and reckless as you, that what ever danger you court, I'll be there, by your side, that what ever comes in the future to threaten us we'll meet it together, defend
us
together.”

She paused. There was no sound in the room bar the crackling of the fire. She continued to hold his gaze, too dark for her to read, and slowly raised her hand—offered it to him. “I'm willing to accept you as you are—exactly as you are,
all
you are.” His fingers closed, tight, about hers. She smiled. “I can't ask if you'll pay the price for my love when you already have it…but will you do the same for me? Will you accept me as me?”

For a long moment, he didn't answer, then he closed his eyes and sighed. “Not willingly.” He opened his eyes; a flame lit the darkness. “But I'll do it. I'll do anything for you.”

Dillon stared into her emerald eyes, and wondered where his violence and the terror behind it had gone. He could only marvel at her ability to cut through to the heart of him, to the soul of his needs, and soothe him. “To night…” He grimaced. “Just now—”

She came into his arms. “To night's behind us, past—and we have more than enough to deal with tomorrow.” She held his gaze for a moment, then laid her hand on his cheek. “Let it go.”

She was right. They were here, together, safe and free. Their future, joint and shared, beckoned. Their partnership for life.

He couldn't argue, didn't want to.

And she knew.

She took his hand and led him to her bed, and he let her. Let her take him in her arms, into her body, and lead him to paradise. To the wild and reckless place that together they could journey to, to the world that was wholly theirs, one of shared pleasures and joys created and embellished by one powerful, undeniable, irresistible force, their shared love.

They gave themselves up and it took them. Lifted them high, filled them with glory, fractured and claimed them, then, like warmed husks tossed on the wind, left them to drift slowly back to earth, to the soft sheets of her bed, to the warmth of each other's arms.

He settled her beside him, within the circle of his arms, felt the power drift like a benedictory hand over them.

She nuzzled his chest, then sighed.

Eyes closed, his arms around her, he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, “Regardless, I'm not letting you near a pistol again.”

She chuckled, then softly humphed.

He smiled, and slept.

 

L
ate the next morning, Dillon stretched beneath the covers, then glanced at Pris, slumped, sated, beside him.

He hadn't left before dawn; he much preferred waking up beside her—he might as well start as he meant to go on.

“You should go,” she mumbled, prodding his side.

The prods were weak; he grinned and remained where he was. From where he lay, all the world seemed rosy…except for one thing.

He glanced at the tumbled jumble of black curls poking above the covers. “This wedding of ours…does it really have to be so large? So involved?”

She stirred; one eye opened and regarded him, then she raised a
brow.

“What I mean…” He sighed, shifted to face her, and confessed, “I'd much rather get a special license, do the deed, and whisk you away, back to Newmarket, so we can make a start on setting up our home together.” He raised his brows back. “What do you think?”

The truth was he was feeling rather desperate, especially after the previous evening. Especially after all he'd felt, all he'd realized. Being married to Pris, getting her married to him, was his most urgent priority.

She studied his eyes, then smiled, raised a hand, and patted his cheek. “I think that's a pleasant dream, but it
is
a dream.”

He managed not to frown, but disgruntlement wasn't far away. “So you really want a huge wedding?” He wouldn't have thought it of her—she was normally as impatient, if not more so, than he.

“Heavens, no! But they do.”

He frowned then, but she shook her head at him. “You can't disappoint them, and, in truth, they're doing it for you.”

“But…” He wheedled, he whined, he tried every argument he could think of, but, finally, he realized she was right; he didn't have it in him to disappoint Flick, Eugenia, Horatia, and all the rest. Especially not after all they'd done to help him.

He pulled a face at her, then inspiration struck. “Perhaps if you ‘persuaded' me?”

She grinned, and did. She put her heart and soul into addling his brain sufficiently for him to smile and accept the inevitable.

A monstrous big wedding, complete with all the associated tortures.

In the blissful end, a quiet voice whispered that it was a small price to pay for this much love.

 

T
hey were married in the church at Newmarket. The event, held just after the end of the racing season, was hailed as the highlight of the social year.

The other members of the Dalloway family and a host of connections traveled from Ireland to be present; still others journeyed from all over england to witness the nuptials of the Earl of Kentland's eldest daughter. The Cynsters and various other Caxton con
nections thronged the town; the gathering outside the church when the bride and groom emerged from the chapel was immense, swelled by hordes of local residents eager to see their hero wed.

Smiling proudly, Dillon refused to let go of Pris's hand as they stopped here and there on their way to the waiting carriage; they'd already weathered a veritable storm of rice. There were many among the crowd they owed a word, a greeting, an acknowledgment, but finally they reached the carriage, and amid rousing cheers, rolled away to the wedding breakfast.

Demon and Flick had insisted on holding the celebration at their home. By the time Dillon and Pris stepped out on the lawn beyond the drawing room, the wide expanse was already dotted with guests.

Dillon's two closest friends, Gerrard Debbington and Charlie Morwellan, had stood as his groomsmen. Gerrard was waiting just beyond the terrace with his wife, Jacqueline; Dillon and Pris joined them. As Gerrard and Jacqueline had wed only a few months before, the four had much in common.

“I'm still struggling to keep all the names and connections straight,” Jacqueline confessed. “And the clan only keeps growing!”

Pris laughed. “And in more ways than one.” She met Jacqueline's bright eyes; Jacqueline had whispered that she was increasing, something anyone seeing her beatific smile would surely guess.

Charlie came up as Gerrard and Jacqueline moved on. “Two down. I'm the last man left standing.”

Dillon clapped him on the shoulder. “Your time will come.”

Pris listened as Dillon and Charlie ribbed each other; when she and Dillon were about to venture on, she murmured, “Just remember—there's no escape.”

Charlie stared at her. She smiled, patted his arm, and let a chuckling Dillon lead her away.

There were so many guests to speak with that her head was soon reeling, but it was a giddy, pleasurable feeling, one she embraced. While she hadn't specifically wished for it, she was now glad she'd listened to older and wiser heads, agreed to the large wedding, and persuaded Dillon to do the same. There was something so special in having everyone there to share the day; she would never forget these moments for as long as she lived—and that felt very right.

Barnaby was waiting amid the crowd. He apologized for broaching the subject before saying, “Stokes told me they pulled Abercrombie-Wallace's body from the Thames a week ago.”

She frowned. “He drowned?”

Barnaby hesitated, but at a nod from Dillon said, “No. His throat was cut…eventually. From what Stokes said, Wallace's death wasn't peaceful.”

All three of them exchanged glances, then, as one, closed the door on the past and turned their minds to thoughts more in keeping with the day.

Dillon was conscious of a heightened sensitivity, an awareness of people and their interactions, that he couldn't recall possessing before. He sensed a connectedness, warm and assured, intangible yet so powerful he felt he could almost touch it, as they chatted to devil and Honoria, to Demon and Flick, to Gabriel and Alathea, and the other Cynster couples who had been a constant in his life over the last decade.

He felt the touch of that intangible force even more personally when he embraced his father, then watched the General beam at Pris, when he was the recipient of backslaps and warm handshakes from Rus and the earl, and when Pris laughed and wildly hugged them both.

He felt it when he saw Rus and Adelaide share a secret smile.

Pris's brother Albert, and her younger brother and sisters, were all present, Albert interested in all around him—in the stud and the town and Dillon's work—while the younger crew ran wild beneath the shade trees, laughing and playing with Nicholas and Prue and the small army of other children present. Dillon saw Pris, Flick, and a host of other ladies smile fondly, not just at their own siblings or offspring, but at others, too.