EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS LATER
I wake up in the master suite of Rochester Manor. Sunlight pours through the tall windows overlooking the gardens, penetrating the silk curtains. The bed I’m lying on is wide enough to accommodate four and a hell of a step up from the old servant’s quarters.
Rowland shifts at my side, his arm pulling me closer, his lips grazing my neck.
These past months have been blissful beyond belief.
Each day, he brings me something new, whether it’s flowers from the garden, jewelry that belonged to his grandmother, or a wonderful dish he conjured up in the kitchen.
He even brings me his favorite books, wanting to share the happier moments of his childhood.
And the sex is incredible.
We fuck like animals, twice or three times a day, as if he’s making up for decades of enforced celibacy. He’s possessive. Primal. Feral. I’ve never in my life felt like I’ve belonged to a man so completely. He touches me like he’s starving, like I’m his only salvation.
“Good morning, my beautiful little pet,” he says, kissing my shoulder. His hard cock settles between my ass cheeks, sending a shiver up my spine.
“Morning,” I start to say, but my stomach heaves. Bile shoots up my throat like I’ve been poisoned.
I bolt out of bed, race for the bathroom, and barely make it to the toilet before I’m puking so hard my ribs ache. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes. What the hell did I eat?
Rowland appears behind me and gathers my hair off my face. As I throw up, he rubs my spine in time with my convulsing stomach. “Easy, pet. Let it out.”
I barely hear him through my retching. I can’t even remember the last time I felt so awful. It subsides, and I lean against the toilet seat, panting and spent. When the worst passes, I slump against him, wiped out and shaky.
“Must be food poisoning,” I say with a groan.
Maybe it was the lobster bisque. Maybe that rooster finally poisoned me with one of the eggs. My mind spins with crazy possibilities. It isn’t like me to feel queasy.
Rowland pulls me to my feet, his large hands cupping my cheeks, his brow creasing with concern. “Are you alright?”
“I can’t believe you saw me with my head down the toilet.”
Eyes shining with warmth, he studies my face. “When was your last period?”
The question hits me upside the head. When was it? I’ve been so caught up in this fairy tale that I haven’t been keeping track. Days blur together when you’re finally happy.
“I…” I frown. “I don’t remember.”
He grins. “Are you pregnant?”
I laugh, but the sound is hysterical. Brother Matthew tried to make me have his babies from day one, but nothing stuck. The old bastard kept calling me barren.
Throat closing, my mind echoes with his insults: barren, worthless, cursed. All those years, he had me thinking I was defective.
“Well, are you?” Rowland breaks me out of my thoughts.
“Not to my knowledge.” My teeth worry at my bottom lip. “I’d know, wouldn’t I?”
But my mind’s already racing. We’ve fucked every day since Rowland met with Blanche’s attorney and received the inheritance, sometimes twice or three times a night. I’ve been too happy to even recall something as trivial as bleeding. Shit.
“Stay there.” He leans me against the wall and opens the bathroom cabinet.
I’m so mesmerized by the scars on his back that it takes a moment to notice he’s extracted a pregnancy test. My stomach flips again. Of course, he’s been planning for this. Every time we fuck, he growls about getting me pregnant.
“Pee on this,” he says.
I take it with trembling hands. The plastic feels strange, like I’m holding a grenade. Rowland watches me perform the test, and we both stare at the little window in silence.
Minutes crawl by like hours. The plastic stick sits between my fingers like a loaded gun. My heart drums so hard I can feel it in my throat. I stare at the display, unable to stand still. Rowland hovers at my side, his gaze burning the side of my face.
The second line appears, and my jaw drops.
“I’m pregnant,” I whisper.
Rowland falls to his knees and grabs me by the hands. I glance down, my breath catching, to find his eyes glistening with tears. Reverence shines in his gaze, pure admiration as he looks up at me like I’m the answer to every prayer.
“Marry me, Annalisa,” his voice breaks. “Be mine forever. Make me the happiest man in this world.”
The words hit me like lightning. This is real.
This isn’t a delusion, a dream or a desperate fantasy.
Rowland is offering me forever. My throat closes.
This is it. The moment I strove for during all those years of running from one disaster to the next.
A man who wants me forever, not just for the night.
The answer comes to me as easily as my next breath.
“Yes.”
Rowland pulls me down to his level and kisses me like I’m oxygen and he’s drowning. “Today,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I can’t wait any longer. Not when you’re carrying my child.”
“What? How?”
“There’s a church nearby. If you can drive us, I’ll make it happen.”
“O-okay.” I laugh through tears.
He jumps to his feet and rushes to the bedroom. I follow, still dizzy from the pregnancy news, finding him rummaging through the wardrobe. Moments later, he extracts a flat box and places it on the bed.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Open it,” he says, his voice breathy.
I pad across the room, my hand on my belly, not quite believing I’m growing a new life. A child equal parts of Rowland and me. A baby made from devotion and love.
Rowland hops from foot to foot, wringing his hands. I’ve never seen him look so excited.
With trembling fingers, I lift the lid and push apart the tissue paper to find a delicate white dress.
“I made it especially for you,” he says.
“You did?” I ask, lifting the garment from the box. It’s made of the softest silk, simple, elegant, and shaped exactly to my figure. The tiny stitches forming the seams are more delicate than anything I could ever make. “This must have taken hours.”
“I worked on it at night while you slept,” he says, his cheeks turning pink.
Sighing, I shake my head, awestruck by his talent. It’s beautiful. Clean lines, no fuss, nothing like Blanche’s elaborate minidress. But then this garment was made with love instead of money. And only for me.
I think of the morning of my first marriage, when Mom shoved me into the wedding dress she’d been forced to wear when she married Dad. Grandma had also been forced to wear it when she was a child bride.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, my chest filling with warmth. “Thank you.”
We dress quickly, both giddy with excitement. The dress fits like he measured me in my sleep, but then he’s already memorized every inch. Rowland knows my body better than I do.
I’m too nauseous for breakfast, so I drive us through the countryside in a sports car Edward parked in a hiding spot within the grounds the day he ambushed us. Rowland rests a hand on my thigh, his gaze warming the side of my face.
“Are we meeting the same priest who married Edward and Blanche?” I ask.
“St. John’s is the only church on this side of the island.” He pauses, his hand stilling on my thigh. “And Father Henry’s been with the family for years.”
Cold shivers down my spine. “Won’t he think it’s strange that Edward’s getting married again so soon?”
“The Rochester family owns the church’s land. And the vicarage.” His tone shifts, becoming cultured and cold. It’s the voice he uses when he’s being his brother. “Father Henry knows not to ask questions.”
I hold back a grimace. No matter how many months have passed since Rochester’s death, that voice always gives me the creeps. I had nightmares the first few weeks about Rochester lurking beneath the house, waiting for the right moment to attack.
Each night, I would wake up in a cold sweat, screaming that the monster was here. They only stopped when Rowland took me to the cottage’s burned remains and showed me his brother’s charred corpse.
We arrive at the church, a one-story building of stone walls thick with ivy. An elderly man in black meets us at the door. He’s stooped and gray, looking like he was once as tall and robust as Rowland.
“Edward!” He frowns, his gaze sweeping up and down Rowland’s form. “You’ve lost weight, dear boy. Are you eating well?”
Rowland strides toward the priest with his chin raised and his shoulders pulled back, looking every inch the entitled rich bastard. “I didn’t come here for a discussion on my health, Father. I’m here to get married.”
The priest rears back. I can’t tell if he’s startled by the harsh tone or the thought of another wedding. “Of course, my son. Though isn’t this a little rash—”
“Would you like to continue having a roof over your head?” Rowland says.
My stomach dips. I guess this is precisely what a psychopath like Rochester might say.
Father Henry nods like he’s used to the Rochester family’s demands. “Well, you’d better come this way.”
He sweeps his arms toward the empty church and limps inside. The ceremony is quick but beautiful. I’m so nervous that I barely pay attention to the religious preamble.
“’Do you, Edward Rochester, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” asks the priest.
My stomach clenches so hard I nearly double over. Even though it’s Rowland playing the role of his brother, hearing that name again feels like jumping from the roof.
“I do,” he replies.
Father Henry turns to me and asks the same. Rowland squeezes my hand as though sensing my dry mouth, my fluttering pulse, the way my gut churns with unease.
It doesn’t matter which name Rowland uses. I know it’s him. This is about transcending survival. About remaining hidden from the outside world. About building a life from the ashes of our combined misfortunes.
“I…” I clear my throat. “I do.”
“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife,” says the priest. “You may now kiss the bride.”