Chapter 4 #2
She began hesitantly, “I have been waiting for the right moment to say this…” And then she stopped there, as if gathering courage to finish her thoughts.
After a deep breath, she lifted her gaze and looked him in the eye.
“But should our days be numbered, then we must make every moment count for all it can. I love you, Perry. With all that I have.”
Pain rippled through him, and the festering wound on his heart was ripped open, draining its poison into his veins. Peregrine inhaled a sharp breath that only barely made it past the lump in his throat. And unexpectedly, tears welled and overflowed before he even felt them rise.
“No,” he croaked.
It was unfair of her to say this to him now. To strip him so naked before her.
Parts of him threatened to unwind, spooling loose. And after another moment, Charity got up and moved across to his bench, pressing herself into the space beside him. She leaned against him, letting her left palm settle over his chest.
“You always push me away when you are afraid. Don’t retreat from me; you have nothing you need to hide. I adore you, Perry, for exactly who you are. And I did not want to wait any longer to say this, especially when you so badly need to hear these words right now.”
Peregrine stared at her hand lying over his sternum.
He might have been struck by lightning, for all that his limbs would respond.
He was rooted. Trapped, and unable to escape her touch.
When he finally tore his gaze away from her hand and brought it back to her face, the corners of her eyes glimmered with tears.
“After speaking to my father, I was lost, and you brought me out of the shadows,” she whispered. “I love you. Let me be the same light in the darkness for you.”
“Charity—don’t. Don’t say such things,” he gasped, swamped by grief. And elation and anger. A curious, light sense of freedom. And a thick line of dread. How could so many emotions spring from three little words?
“Why?” she asked him gently. “I know why you are afraid to say what you feel. But why does it hurt you so much when I am the one saying the words to you?”
His mother had been three steps ahead at every turn, even when she wasn’t in England. And now the stakes were higher than ever. Could he prevent his mother from trying to ruin her socially? Hiring other killers? Stop every opportunity for poison or an accident?
In this, he stood truly on his own. He did not dare count on the Queen’s ability to protect any of them.
Peregrine was lightheaded. “Because if you love me, and I fail you…”
I don’t know if I will survive it, his thoughts finished.
And yet, somehow she still understood. He could see it in her eyes.
She lifted his gloved hand, threading their fingers together and stroking his knuckles.
“No matter how much it hurts to think about… I believe the only thing worse than loving you and losing you would be to live a life where I never had the chance to.”
God. He knew that misery well.
The sharp pain faded into a soft twinge within his breast. A yearning. She was close enough he sensed the warmth of her skin along his arm. Their cheeks hovered only a few inches apart. He wasn’t certain when he had begun to lean back into her like a flower seeking the face of the sun.
They were caught in the space between two star-crossed regrets, and the one thing Peregrine couldn’t seem to make himself wish for was that Fate had never set their paths to cross.
Even if it were possible, he couldn’t wish he had forgotten the taste of her lips, or the feel of her hair sliding against his skin.
Or even just this—this quiet moment where his pulse began to slow, as his breathing found a rhythm with hers.
The rawness of the moment eroded beneath the chastest of touches.
The tender pressure of her living flesh against his, even through their gloves.
The sound of horses’ hooves and the bustle of the streets faded as they began to reach the quieter places of London.
And it was as though the world held its breath on the exhale, empty of crisis, an uncurling pause like the stillness following a physical release.
“Question or command?” Charity asked him after a time, breaking this temporary truce.
“Command,” said Peregrine, reluctant to move.
He was a coward who did not want her to ask him if he wished he might undo the things between them. Or whether there was a chance he would ever say those three words in return.
But she did not seem discomposed by his reply. Instead, she reached for her reticule. “Close your eyes.”
This was unexpected. He turned towards her, narrowing his gaze. “What are you doing?”
“I have your birthday gift with me,” she said, loosening the drawstring. “Close your eyes.”
Uncertainly, he did as she asked. He listened to the rustle of fabric as she reached into the bag, and a moment later, his senses were overwhelmed with the potently sweet, spicy smell of cloves and oranges.
Blinking open his eyes, he saw Charity holding a green silken bag close to his nose, her eyes twinkling slightly with mischief.
He took the sachet from her fingers, confused by the odd choice of fabric.
He turned it over, examining it, finding his initials embroidered into it boldly with a dark thread that stood out well against the light green.
And then he brought it to his nose again.
Despite the bleakness of his thoughts earlier, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. The scent reminded him of them together. The cloves in his soap; the orange in her perfume. He would treasure it for that reason alone.
But he couldn’t help examining the bag again, wondering why the fabric was so naggingly familiar. “This bag. Is this…?”
Charity’s mouth widened in a real smile, devilry sharpening the edges of it. “Do not tell me you don’t recognise the colour, Lord Fitzroy.”
A brief laugh was startled from his lips. “It is not.”
But it was. He recognised it now. It had been sewn from the old cabbage green dress she had worn in front of the Queen. The night that he had broken into her room. The night she had accused him of poisoning Prince William.
The night that she needed him, despite the fact that he was her enemy, to help her comb her hair.
“I assure you, it is! I cut up that dress myself,” she retorted.
His melancholy faded as the memory took him. Almost from the beginning, they had seen each other at their very worst. But even then, even when they didn’t trust one another… they had always needed one another. And they had always been there for each other in the end.
No, he wouldn’t wish she did not love him, selfish though it might be. He wouldn’t give or trade away a single second of it. And he was tired of his mother, her parents, Fortuna, and every other person in this godforsaken city attempting to pry the two of them apart.
“I adore it,” he said, putting the sachet in his waistcoat pocket. “My turn. Question or command?”
She gave him a prim stare, but the corners of her mouth twitched slightly, and a wicked glitter lit her eyes. “Command, of course.”
He lifted his eyebrow, his pulse picking up speed. “Are you quite sure, Sparkles? I won’t allow you to change your choice, and I might ask you to do something terribly untoward.”
“You will not!” she protested, but she had dimpled when he used her nickname, and her voice was amused. “You simply aren’t that cruel to me. Go on then. Pose your demand.”
Their time together might be so short. He didn’t want to waste another second of it. He couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her so unprotected to the world, should the worst happen.
He leaned in, their cheeks barely grazing as he brought his lips to her ear. She shivered, her breath speeding up and her throat tilting as though she expected his mouth to trace a path along the column of her neck.
But enticing as that thought was, that gratification wasn’t what he was about to command.
“Marry me,” he said instead. He pulled back to see her expression, and her face was a perfect, shocked blank. “As soon as we can procure a special licence. No banns, no invitations, no allowance for anyone’s objection.”