Chapter 18
Emma shook her head, hardly able to comprehend how the conversation had veered from anger and jealousy and scheming to confessions of eternal love.
Slightly bewildered, she clasped Chris’s hands, hoping to gain strength from them.
He was the only man she’d ever wanted in her life.
Bold, courageous, determined, hardy, and kind, he committed to anything he put his mind to.
He went to war, promising to return. He’d served nearly five years’ imprisonment, daring to find his way back home to her.
She loved him. Oh, how she loved him! But war still raged on the Continent.
Families were denied tea, brandy, silk and lace.
Sailors and militiamen labored in foreign citadels, mistreated, fearing they’d been forgotten by their fellow countrymen.
She couldn’t abandon them now. No matter what Chris decided to do.
Who knew how long the war would last?
She’d managed with the help of her cousin, to liberate almost seventy-one souls in four years. If Chris found out, would he stop her, prevent her from following her heart?
If not, she could not marry the man she loved.
What a dilemma!
“Say yes, Emma.” Flummoxed, she allowed Chris to raise her hands to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, a spine-tingling display of affection that shot to her toes. “Make me the luckiest man alive.”
Chris was lucky and alive, downtrodden, wounded, yes, but thriving. His heart was hers and vice versa. What more proof of their love did she need, to say yes? The differences between them could be worked through later.
Her heart hammered, pounding in her ribcage like a caged animal fighting to escape. Outwardly, she felt like a marionette, performing to the delight of family and friends as she became the center of attention. But she didn’t care.
After all he’d suffered, Chris still wanted to marry her.
“It’s simple really.” Barrett whispered in her ear. “Just say yes.”
Her gaze locked on the damaged man she loved. This was the day to celebrate his birth, and the Lord Christ’s birth. How much more meaningful would it be to celebrate a renewed engagement, too, their lives together beginning like a babe laying in a manger, his entire story yet to unfold.
“Yes,” she finally said, searching Chris’s soul.
He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, wiping away a happy tear that had escaped from her eyes. “I shall spend the rest of my days making you happy. I won’t disappoint you, sweetling.”
Would he—disappoint her? There was still so much she didn’t know about his captivity in France.
He seemed so far away at times; she wasn’t even sure he’d recovered from the abuse he’d suffered mentally as well as physically.
Nevertheless, she was quite aware that his cousin and aunt glared at them awkwardly.
Their churlish conduct angered her, and she meant to put them in their place.
“I will marry you, Sir Christmas.”
“Chris,” he said smiling. “You used to call me, Chris.”
“Very well,” she said her eyes misting. “Chris. Nothing will persuade me otherwise. Nothing would make me happier.” Except ensuring that the Townsbridges never attempted to swindle Lord Astley-Milne or his tenants again.
“A toast then,” Barrett announced as the Townsbridges were escorted from the room.
The viscount’s sister turned back as if to grovel, but her son grabbed her by the arm and forced her through the door. Within seconds, they were gone, Collins and several footman following behind, their footsteps fading until the front door opened and closed.
“You were saying, Lieutenant?” the viscount asked.
“Ah, yes. A toast to the man who kept me going when all seemed lost, and saved my life. And to the woman whose love kept him alive long enough to do so.” He winked then downed his wine.
Lord Astley-Milne laughed so hard, he shocked everyone. She hadn’t heard him laugh so fully in too long. “To the woman who will now truly be my daughter, and the son she brought back to me.”
Dinner was an intimate affair once the Townsbridges quit Milne Manor.
Following the turtle soup, they ate scallops and wilks, roast beef—illustrating the British spirit and strength—and venison, carrots, cabbages, Brussel sprouts, mustard, chutney and jam, all served a la francaise.
Then, to round out the evening, Figgy Pudding was served.
A combination of suet, brown sugar, raisins, currants, citron, lemon and orange peels, spices, crumbs, flour and eggs, milk and brandy, the tradition symbolized Christ and the twelve apostles.
Not long after, the viscount complained of fatigue. Collins intervened, but Lord Astley-Milne assured the butler that all was well, then kindly accepted Barrett’s offer to escort him to his bedchamber. Very soon, they made their exit leaving Emma alone with Chris.
Together, they walked the halls of Milne Manor, drawn by an unseen hand to the red parlor where Chris had once asked her to marry him. Scents decidedly woody and balsamic gave the house an otherworldly aura as they approached.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look in the firelight?” he asked providing her a glass of wassail—a mixture of beer, sherry, sugar and spices.
She shook her head, longing to hear that she was the same youthful, attractive girl he’d left behind when he joined the Navy and she’d sworn to love him for all time.
“You may tell me as often as you like, for I am sure to forget,” she teased.
How little she’d known when she was younger. And yet, her love for Chris continued to burn hot and raw like an ache that never receded. No one had ever been able to turn her head the way he did, especially Lord Lyddon and Mr. Townsbridge.
Townsbridge had not taken the news well throughout the years.
He’d held her rejection of him against her, though that snub had never triggered her worry.
She’d had more important things occupying her mind.
Jealousy hadn’t occurred to her, though she knew that Townsbridge hated the way that death and illness had brought her and the viscount closer.
That all seemed harmless enough until news of Chris’s capture arrived and she realized Townsbridge wanted to ruin Milne Manor and the viscount, and steal Claverfield from her.
She would not, could not, give up her family home.
It was all she had left of her parents. And she couldn’t do so without endangering Ansell and his men, and the prisoners of war she’d fought so long and hard to save.
Seventy-one families had benefited from her exertions.
She intended to increase those odds before the war’s end.
“Though we have known each other all of our lives, there is something about me you do not know,” she said nervously.
“That you have an ugly wart?” She shook her head. “You’re wearing a wig?” She laughed. “Incapable of boiling water, is it?”
She attempted to make a dash for the hall but he caught her by the waist and tugged her back into his lap.
“This is grave,” she said pushing against him. “I have been schooled in every womanly virtue. Some more cunning than others.”
“Is that so?” He quirked his brow. “I’m almost afraid to ask how crafty you are.”
“I am serious.” She stiffened her arm to keep him from getting any closer.
“I am too,” he said wincing. “Though I have only just returned home, I see what you have become. A wonderful hostess, an excellent housekeeper, a dutiful daughter, a skilled seamstress, and an even better friend. What more do I need to know?”
She relaxed and reached up to stroke his cheek with the tips of her fingers, tracing his scar. He didn’t flinch. “I did not sit and embroider cushions while you were a prisoner of war.”
“Not one?” he asked laughing before reacting to her frown. “I’ll bite. Why?”
“I had more important things to do,” she said. “Things which you might not approve of.”
“Like operating a smuggling ring?”
She smacked his chest, and he winced with pain. “You knew?”
“Father explained that you were responsible for my rescue. Your cousin’s name confused me at first, but when I put everything together, the association between the two of you began to make sense.” He looked into her eyes. “I owe my life to you both.”
“I should warn you.” She glanced away, shaken to her core. He’d been wounded trying to escape, and she’d nearly lost him trying to save him. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes as she admitted the truth. “I am not a saint.”
“Neither am I,” he said. “But I am determined to marry you, Emma. That is, if you will still have me. Marriage to you, with all your connections and cunning, can help me rescue my fellows.”
She started to rise. “Is that why you suddenly decided—”
“No.” He breathed deeply. “I decided to marry you the first chance I got when I was working the fields in Salamanca. I vowed to marry you with every step on the march to Madrid. And when a bad-tempered horse threw me at Gravelines, you were the first to flash across my eyes. You are the reason I am alive, but not for your cousin’s efforts.
The thought of you,” —he cupped her face in his hands— “looking into your face, touching your body, and kissing your lips kept me company each and every second of every minute of every day.”
Emma brazenly blinked back tears. How you must have suffered, my dearest love. She sank into his embrace and accepted his kiss, a slow, tender kiss that ignited a fire in her belly, making her never want to be parted from him again.
“I am committed to you, my darling Emma. So much so that I want to give you a gift.”
“A gift?” She leaned back. “I have all that I need now that you are home. I do not require anything but you, and your promise never to leave me.”
“Some promises are hard to keep,” he admitted calmly.
Her heart seized and panic took hold. What did he mean by that? She couldn’t bear to live without him. She took his face between her hands. “Then do what is hard.”
“I am.” His smile sank into her, satisfying her dormant hopes and dreams. “I gave you my mother’s ring,” he said, his voice huskier than she’d ever heard. “Her sacrifice bind us.”
She sighed heavily. “I will never forgive myself. If your mother hadn’t tried to comfort my parents—”
“She loved you.” He grabbed her hand, fingering the sapphire ring on her finger.
“She did.” A sob tore from her throat. “But I failed her.”
“How could you? Emma, you rescued me and many others. That is her greatest legacy—saving you so that you could return the favor seventy-fold.”
Time, loss, despair, and relief washed over her.
She sank into him, crying out her grief for the loss of her parents, the loss of Chris’s brother and mother, the years she’d futilely searched for Chris, and the waiting, the endless waiting .
. . The fireplace crackled, pieces of wood hissing and creating sparks.
She stared at the hearth, absorbing her husband-to-be’s warmth, feeling love and forgiveness surround her.
Fate was cruel, but destiny spun without mercy.
She’d been topsy-turvy ever since she’d heard about the Battle of the Basque Roads.
She glanced down at her hand, mesmerized by the blue gemstone, and counted her blessings.
Lady Astley-Milne had worn this ring many years.
It had been one of her favorites. And now it was hers, linking them together, and proving she and Chris were meant for each other.
She leaned back, wiped her eyes, and angled her head to his, longing to be close to this man she loved, nearer and dearer than ever before.
“I love you, Emma.” He caressed her cheek, rubbing his thumb along her jawline, the sensation a sizzling revelation. “I have always loved you.”
He kissed her then, softly at first, and as their tongues mated and their passions soared, his kiss became more demanding, as if they were no longer two beings but one, both needing to lose themselves in each other, to forget about the outside world, their sins, their bitter disappointments and pain, to create an exclusive world few ever found.
“Oh, Chris,” she said on a breathless sigh. “I love you too. I always shall. I always will.”
But would love be enough to see them through the war? She had no way of knowing what Fate had in store. And she didn’t care. As long as she was lost in Chris’s arms, his touch, his taste, the world was a better place.