Wicked at Heart (38 page)

Chapter
24

Damon felt well
enough to exercise his intentions the following afternoon.

He secretly
ordered Britwell to have a picnic lunch made up and brought, together with a
blanket, to the edge of what he'd heard Gwyneth refer to as the Poppy Field. 
He spent the morning closeted in his mother's bedchamber, putting the last
ghosts to rest and going through the ancestral jewelry until he found what he
was looking for.  Then, feeling boyishly excited, he went looking for Gwyneth.

As he was
heading down the stairs, he encountered Rhiannon, along with her dog Mattie.

"Lord
Morninghall!"  Her face lit up at sight of him.  "Oh, it is good to
see you up and about!  We were all so very worried about you, you know." 

She was not just
happy, but positively beaming, and Damon felt something catch in his heart at
this evidence of yet another person who had cared enough to be worried about
him.

"Ah, Miss
Evans, your worries were for naught.  You see, I was in the best of hands." 
He smiled.  "The very best.  And where is my delightful nurse?"

"Outside in
the rose garden, my lord.  Be warned, though, she'll likely scold you for being
out of bed, as should I, but . . ."

"But?"
he challenged, teasing her.

She blushed. 
"Oh, never mind.  Don't keep her waiting!"

He laughed, gave
the old dog a friendly scratch behind the ears, and moments later, was outside. 
He wasn't surprised to find Gwyneth in the garden, surrounded by blossoms and
hard at work with a pair of pruning shears.  He leaned against the warm, yellow
stone of the house, a lazy smile flitting across his face as he silently
observed her.  She wore a flounced muslin walking dress of pale lilac, and a
small, round straw hat, tied under her chin with a violet ribbon, shaded her
face from the sun.  She was humming, and she was happy.  The sight of her, with
her shining curls trailing down her back, was enough to set his blood to
simmering.

She looked up
and her face immediately brightened.

"Good
afternoon, my lord."

"Greetings,
madam."

"You should
be in bed, resting!"

"You're
absolutely correct.  I
should
be in bed."  He plucked a stray piece
of grass and chewed absently on the stem, his gaze never leaving hers. 
"But not resting."

She snapped to
her full height and tried to glare at him, but laughter played in her eyes and
around her mouth.

"You are a
very wicked man, Damon."

"Yes,
wicked at heart.  Tell me you would have me any other way."

"I would
not."

"Hold that
thought then.  I have a surprise for you, and I shan't have it spoiled."

She made a
helpless noise, grinned, and placed her shears in a nearby basket.  "Look
at me!  Here I've been intimate with you, silently dreamed of you in the
private darkness of my bedroom, and nursed you through a life-threatening
injury — you'd think I could stop blushing," she said, putting her palms
to her cheeks.

"Pray,
don't," he returned, straightening up and tossing the grass aside.  He
came forward and stretched out his hand toward her.  "I find it most
charming.  Come.  I have something to show you."

Mindful of her
skirts, she stepped free of the rose bushes and grinned up at him.  Her hand
was small and warm in his, and he felt a fierce protectiveness toward her that
was alien and wonderful all at once as he escorted her across the emerald
expanse of manicured lawn and out past the stables, empty save for a few
workhorses and an aged hunter.  He moved slowly, still a bit painfully, content
to enjoy the moment, the anticipation, the hazy sunshine, the company of this
woman beside him.  He noted the tenseness with which she gripped his hand, the
faint pucker of her brow, the question in her lovely eyes.  She was anxious,
expectant, perhaps even faintly nervous — as was he.  But oh, he knew something
she didn't! 
He
had a surprise, and he couldn't wait to give it to her!

Out over the
fields they walked, where daisies, dandelions and clover grew in wild abandon
amongst the grasses.  Some of the dandelions had gone to seed, their fuzzy
heads scattered, their empty, balding stumps long since ravaged by the wind. 
To Damon, the day smelled like childhood memories; fresh, sun-scented, and
alive.  The sky above was a milky blue and the air pleasantly warm, cloaking
the surrounding hills of the magnificent Cotswolds in a pearly haze.

"How lovely
it is out here," Gwyneth said, pausing.  "You can see for miles and
miles and miles in nearly every direction."

He looked down
at her face and saw the same serene, heady exultation he felt reflected in her
shining eyes, her wind-kissed cheeks, her smiling lips.

Yes.  She
will make a wonderful marchioness.

He grinned,
bursting inside with the anticipation of what he would soon ask her.

She lifted her
face to the breeze.  "I can imagine you standing here as a young boy,
looking out over this magnificent vista and knowing it would all belong to you
some day . . ."

"Indeed. 
This is where I used to come to get away from
her
."

She squeezed his
hand, but he had said the words with no heat, no resentment, determined never
to let Mama and the bad memories interfere in his life again.  Wrapping his arm
around Gwyneth's waist, he pulled her up close against his side.

"Do you
know, I used to sit up here for hours," he continued with a winsome smile.
 "I would imagine myself a great, soaring hawk, floating free on the wind
high above this land, all-seeing and all-knowing as my shadow fell across the
acres of golden wheat and barley below."

She leaned her
head against his shoulder.  "I imagined that same thing myself when I
first saw these hills."

"Did
you?"

She tilted her
head to gaze up at him.  "I did."

He smiled and
gently stroked her ribs through the light muslin of her gown before looking out
once more over the magnificent, rolling vista.  "You were right, you
know."

"About
what?"

"About me. 
About the things I've kept locked within myself, about my dread of getting
close to anyone, about everything.  I thought you were talking a load of
rubbish, but somewhere, somehow, I ended up looking deep inside myself and
found that you spoke the truth.  You saw something I didn't.  Something I
didn't want to see.  And you've made me realize that allowing oneself to love
and be loved isn't so frightening, after all."

"Indeed,"
she said, softly.  "It is more frightening
not
to allow yourself to
love and be loved."  She looked up at him, the sunlight spraying across
her nose and making the shadows of her eyelashes fall across her violet
irises.  "I love you, Damon."

"I know you
do."  He bent down and, cradling her upturned face in his hands, very
gently, very tenderly, kissed her brow, letting his lips rest there for a long
moment.  "And I love you too, Gwyneth."

Hand in hand,
they stood on the brow of this high hill, gazing out over the miles spread
before them.  Nothing here had changed over the years, Damon thought.  And yet
everything
had changed, because the woman he loved stood beside him, and nothing on earth
could have made him appreciate this spectacular beauty more.  The distant,
combed pastures, with their fringes of trees, hedgerows and yellow stone, had
never looked so beautiful; the ripening fields of barley, oats, and wheat, the
perfect brown rectangles of freshly tilled earth bordering the emerald and
silver-green ones had never looked so brilliant.  He closed his eyes and
inhaled the clean wind.

And this hill on
which he stood had never felt higher.

He had
sacrificed so much to fear, resentment, and vengeance.  But oh, had they been
worth sacrificing
this
?

No.  Never.

The self-imposed
exile, the hatred and envy, his vendetta against Bolton and the navy — he was
through with all of it.

"Come,"
he said and led her along the brow of the hill toward the sun-bleached wooden
fence that bordered the far edge of the east field.  There, beside a post, the
wicker lunch basket sat atop a folded blanket, just as he'd instructed.  He
picked them both up, feigning surprise.

"Well,
well.  Would you look at this!"

"Oh, Damon,
you've planned a picnic!  What a lovely surprise!"

Smiling in
anticipation of his
real
surprise, he merely laid a finger across her
lips and opened the gate.  There, spread in glorious color before them, was the
Poppy Field.

Her eyes filled
up at sight of it, and his heart sang inside his chest.

Around them,
thousands of the scarlet-orange flowers nodded and bobbed in the wind.  Close up
they were sparsely scattered amongst the purple thistles, but further out,
across the field and toward its edge, they seemed to grow closer and closer
together, until they finally merged into blazing sheets of crimson against a
brilliant green backdrop.

He watched her
face.  "I used to come here, too."

She only looked
at him, love and understanding in her eyes.  Then, still grasping her hand, he
moved ahead of her, carefully tramping a path through the thigh-high thistles
and poppies so she would not tear her dress.

Deep within the
waving field of brilliant flowers, he paused and looked over his shoulder at
her.

"Is this a
good spot, my dear?"

"It is
lovely, Damon."

His skin tingled
with excitement.  What he had planned was far more than a
picnic
.

He carefully
stamped out an area among the tall, waving stalks, and together they spread the
blanket over the little clearing.  Damon set the lunch basket on its edge and
sat down, tugging Gwyneth down alongside him.  She pulled off her hat and
tossed it aside, and together they lay back on the blanket, hand in hand and
side by side, the forest of poppies and thistles nodding in the wind several
feet above their heads and enclosing them in walls of privacy and beauty.

Gwyneth smiled
up at the milky blue sky.  How blissfully happy she felt to be out here with
the man she loved, amid such tranquil beauty.  She turned her head and looked
into his eyes.

"Is this
your surprise?" she asked.

"Part of
it."

Turning on his
side, he propped his head on the heel of his hand and gazed lazily at her. 
Gwyneth's blood ignited.  God help her, every cell in her body melted when he
looked at her like that.

"Let me
guess the other part.  You're going to ravish me."

"I don't
think that either of us would consider that a surprise."

"I suppose
not.  We both know it's going to happen . . ."

"But it
need not happen now, if you do not wish it."

"Of course
I wish it."  She blushed and tried to smooth a lump in the blanket. 
"Besides, if you do not ravish me today, when
will
you?"

"Difficult
as it would be, I
could
wait until after we are wed."

Gwyneth froze,
unsure she'd heard him correctly.  Yet the charming, rakish smile was still there,
brighter now if anything, and one wicked eyebrow was lifted in query.

"Well?"

"Is that —
a proposal?"

"It is
trying to be a proposal.  I can rephrase it, if you wish."

She could only
stare at him.  "Oh, Damon!"

"Shall I
rephrase it?  I can bow over your hand like a rakish young buck and say, 'My
dear Lady Simms, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?'  That is the
dandy's approach.  Or — "

She gave a
little laugh, drinking him up with her eyes, loving every inch of him.

" — I can
do it as a pirate might, by sweeping you off your feet and carrying you
straight to the nearest clergyman without giving you a chance to deny me —"

She laughed, and
reached out to playfully swat at his shoulder.  "And how might the Black
Wolf do it?"

He stared at
her, momentarily taken aback.  Then, swiftly recovering, he smiled and murmured,
"I suppose he would kidnap you and wrap you in his black cape, and adopt
much the same method as would our pirate."

"And how do
you know he has a black cape?"

"Well, if
I
were the Black Wolf, I'd certainly wear a black cape."

"Oh, Damon. 
I do so wish you'd ravish me!"

"Consent to
be my marchioness, and I shall consider it."

"What of
your naval career?"

"To hell
with it.  If they have not already thrown me out of the service, then I'll hand
in my resignation.  I don't belong there and never did."

"What of
the prisoner, young Toby?"

"I will . .
. buy his freedom."

"
Buy
it?"

"Why not? 
The guards who serve the prison hulk are easily bribed.  How do you think the
Black Wolf managed so many rescues?"

"My dear
Lord Morninghall, you are not only a very wicked man but a powerful one."

"I am
nothing without a marchioness.  Marry me."

She laughed and,
plucking a blade of grass, tickled his nose with its end.  But he
misinterpreted her teasing as reluctance to accept his offer, and she saw a
flash of naked fear in his eyes as his confidence, and patience, began to
fade.  She tossed the grass aside and leaned toward him, her eyes sparkling.  "Very
well then, Damon.  I will marry you."

With a
triumphant laugh, he tumbled her back down to the blanket, and her giggles were
abruptly silenced as his mouth came down hard atop hers.  Her eyes fell shut
and she made a soft moan of contentment as his tongue slipped out and slowly
caressed her lip, moving back and forth with sensual languor before pressing
gently against her teeth.  She opened her mouth to admit his entrance, her head
sliding on the waves of her own silken hair as she moved beneath him.  His
tongue delved deeply into her mouth and she tasted his hunger for her, his
need.  It awoke a similar craving in her, and moaning softly, she reached up to
embrace him, mindful of the still-tender wound in his back, his shoulders so
wide she could barely link her hands together atop them.  The wind sighed
through the forest of poppies and thistles around them, and she heard the cry
of a kestrel somewhere in the hazy sky above.