Chapter 27
Through Argyll’s thick, heavy sleep, a haunting melody beckoned; the entrancing voice that called out to sailors at sea.
He struggled to bring his eyes open.
“The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain…”
But everything hurt; even his lashes felt so weighted that he sank back into the feather mattress and stay buried in his slumber. He had the devil’s own headache and a gut that needed emptying. Every breath drawn burned. His head ached.
“I never had but one true-love—In cold grave she was lain.”
The siren’s song both lulled him to surrender to the rest his mind sought and lured him back to the surface.
To gaze upon her.
“I’ll do as much for my true-love…”
Why was he here?
“As any young man may;
I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave…
Why was the woman whom his heart beat for so sadly silent?
“For a twelvemonth and a day.”
Everything came rushing back.
The mad panic.
The dowager’s mad cackle while his body landed on Daria’s on St. Cyr’s graveled drive.
Around them had been screams and shouts and cries as witnesses came upon the scene of terror.
Argyll closed his eyes, trapped in the living hell.
Blood.
“The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak…”
The terror of searching Daria for a wound—her shrieks of sorrow and Argyll’s relief when his fingers found the hot wound at his left side.
His wife caught him as he swayed.
“Oh, who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?”
Her hands were warm and solid in his.
Then.
And now.
He focused on that. On her. On the feel of her fingers gripping his sleeve, her voice trembling as she called his name again.
Daria, his lifeline. His only reason for living and wanting to survive.
“Stay,” she whispered.
Then, and pause in her singing, to plead with him now.
I am, love.
He yearned to tell her that, so the worry clogging her voice and interrupting her song for him was no more.
A child’s loud whisper carried all the way through the closed panel of Argyll’s bedchambers. Not a whisper at all. “Did he die?” Eris.
“No, the Duke of Argyll is strong and he has your sister to care for him,” the dowager viscountess said. “He will live to be one-hundred.”
Lord St. John’s loud answering sigh absolutely did contain disappointment.
Argyll frowned and instantly regretted it.
“But Daria is singing him the death song.”
“All Daria’s songs are the death ones…” One of the Kearsley girls—his head was doing him no good at the moment.
A smile peaked through.
“Gregory.”
The bed dipped.
Struggling to open his eyes, it took him several attempts, and when he did—his breath caught.
Oh, God, he’d never seen a more beautiful sight. “Hullo, love,” he whispered.
Daria glared. “I am cross with you.”
He opened his mouth several times. “For living?”
“No, Greg—”
His always adorable wife caught too late the teasing light he allowed to shine through.
Her face crumpled.
“No!” He edged up onto an elbow. A sharp hiss exploded from between his teeth.
Daria rushed to his side, launching her slender frame onto the bed with a force that sent the mattress bouncing and his side burning.
She helped him back down. “It was Diggory,” she said. “Lord Kilburn received a note. I was meant to live—he was sending a message. Anyone who has dealings with you, your patrons, they risk his wrath.” Like a proper nursemaid, Daria fluffed one of his pillows.
Argyll caught her hand. “Look at me.”
His wife did so without hesitation.
“I was negligent,”
She made a sound of protest.
“It is a mistake I won’t make again. Me, Kilburn, DuMond, we are prepared for this war.
” He dragged her wrist to his mouth. Ignoring a searing pain that burned from the site of his wound, Argyll pressed a kiss to where her pulse beat.
“My club is secondary. You are first.” From over the top of her hand, Argyll held her luminous eyes. “You are everything.”
A whispery sigh spilled from her lips.
He sank back into the pillows. Before his astute wife could remark on his pain, he hooded his lashes. “Do I daresay, this former rake, finally managed to woo his enchanting wife?”
“You have,” she said, her body arced over him, and his stirred in response.
As Daria lowered her mouth to Argyll’s, his unceasing hunger for this woman—and this woman only—kept pain an afterthought.
Daria stopped with her lips a hair away; the warm sough of her breath brushed his frown. “Your enchanting wife also knows when you’re using your rake’s charm to distract me.”
His gaze charted a path over her beloved face. “How have I been so fortunate, that you should choose me?” he asked quietly to himself.
Daria’s features went even softer. “This question from a man who built a fortune on the whole premise of chance.” She picked up a pillow and shook it several times.
“You need to rest,” his wife said, all business as she slapped the feather article. “The doctor insists you stay as still as possible. Your wound was not deep. It pierced your left side. Any h-higher and—” She sank her teeth into her lip. “Yes, well, I’m going to care for you.”
When she returned the pillow under his head, he followed the gentle up and down sway of her breasts.
“I would very much enjoy a game of nurse and patient, love,” he purred.
“We needn’t make a game of it, Gregory.” He eyed her as she worked, devotedly attending him. “We are very much serving in those respective roles.”
“Someday, love,” he said silkily. “I’m going to show you what kind of fun I’m talking about.”
She narrowed her eyes “Fun?”
Recognizing his mistake, Argyll sighed. “You are cross, again.”
“I’m no longer cross.”
He perked up. “That is—”
“I am livid, Gregory.”
“Because I lived?”
“Stop!” Daria cried, and the sight of her ravaged face hurt more viciously than the way his skull split under her yell.
“Daria,” he said gravely. He crept his fingers into hers.
Given her temper, he waited for her tug her hand back; instead, she pulled him closer, drawing Argyll’s palm close to her heart. “You almost died.” Her eyes blazed. “And I would have never forgiven you.”
He refrained from pointing out the point would be a moot one given his jaunt onto the hereafter.
She bowed her head. “You almost died. F-For m…”
“Please, don’t cry,” he implored; he’d get down on his knees for her.
“me.” Daria wept.
“Without regrets,” he said. “I will lay down my life for you.”
She cried harder.
“Shh,” he soothed. Her misery tore deep. He’d take that same dagger a dozen times, to the chest and belly if she’d just stop.
She glowered through her tears. “And if you’re dead, Gregory? Hmm? What then?”
He welcomed her anger. Her weeping broke him. “I’m not sure of the question.”
“Well, I will be the most tragic widow the world has seen, and then some rake will believe me lonely.” She paused. “Which I will be if you’re dead, Gregory. He will look to warm my—”
He knew why his wife left the rest unsaid. His eyes bulged.
An unholy burning seared through his veins, and his nostrils flared. “I will haunt him,” he vowed, his voice a lethal whisper. “All of them.”
“I would rather you just stay alive so we needn’t worry about it, Gregory.”
Lips twitching, Argyll stroked the curve of her hip. “Very well. I accept your offer.”
She edged back, searching his face for humor. He kept absolutely still.
Daria sank back next to him. “It was supposed to be me, Gregory.”
Wait a minute…
He frowned. “I thought you said—”
“No, I mean, the curse dictated it was my time. You really shouldn’t have interfered.”
“You are angry that I—”
“Jumped in the way of my blade?” She nodded. “Very much so.”
“I am sure your brother was pleased.”
“Most. And grateful.”
And, no doubt regretful Argyll hadn’t kicked it.
“I love you.” Anguish bled from her eyes. “I don’t want to live without you, Gregory.”
“You won’t, love. I’m here,” he said quietly, stroking the top of her head to soothe her.
Oh, how he loved her. Argyll urged her to join him in the bed. He needed to feel their bodies touch. To know they both walked and lived and breathed upon this earth. But even more, he needed to view her, to see with his own eyes that she was real. That she’d survived.
They lay, he on his back and Daria curved against him, careful to not touch his opening. The silence was peaceful.
He looked at her.
She lay so still, her eyes growing heavy.
“I love you, Daria,” he said into the quiet.
Her lashes drifted open. His love reflected back in her eyes. “I love you too, Gregory.”
They began to drift.
“Gregory?”
“Hmm?” he asked, fatigue fast setting in.
“Before we sleep, is there anything you’re forgetting?”
He smiled. “There is.”
“And?”
“You were right about the prophecy.”
His obstinate wife gave him a long look.
“You were right about all of it, love. Destiny. Fate. Us.”
“Gregory?”
“Hmm?”
“Now, we may sleep.”
Gregory had nearly drifted off when his wife’s breath brushed his ear. “Gregory?”
“Yes, love?” he asked, languidly stroking her arm.
“Do you know what I’m looking forward to doing in bed after you heal?”
He opened his eyes, fully alert.
With a twinkle in her eyes, Daria leaned close and whispered.
His brows shot to his hairline.
With a cat-like smile, his wife lay back beside him.
“A good night, my warmhearted rake.”
Warmhearted rake.
“Only yours, little raven.” Argyll smiled softly. “Only yours.”
The End