Chapter Twenty-Six #2
To be charitable, he had to admit he could understand why Sir Julian had become so obsessed with her.
His neighbor and friend, who’d lost his own first wife, had remarried to the most beautiful young lady in England.
No, in the world. Sir Julian must have looked at his neighbor’s good luck with building jealousy, and when his friend had died, he’d been part way to building up the fantasy that had taken over his life.
Luckily he was now in the custody of a rather horrified and embarrassed magistrate from Market Harborough, which was a good few miles to the north.
However, Harry doubted he’d be charged with anything for kidnapping and then shooting Miranda.
The landed gentry tended to stick together over perceived crimes, so the magistrate would be one of his cronies, but he’d sown the seeds for having the man committed to a mental institution.
It pained him to do so, as he knew what they were like, but he didn’t want such a madman anywhere near Miranda ever again, and if this was the only way to achieve this, then he’d do it.
He’d leave telling Miranda until she was feeling stronger.
The candlelight flickered, throwing shadows dancing over the walls.
The very pink walls. Thank goodness none of the rooms at the Hall were decorated like this.
And tomorrow, when she was feeling a little restored, he could take her back there and look after her properly.
He could reunite her with her daughters, to whom he’d had to send a hurried note telling them of her injury and imploring them not to worry.
To his surprise, they hadn’t all come rushing over to find out what was going on.
Perhaps young Dick had been able to forestall them.
He was beginning to feel very impressed by that young man.
He deserved a better future than gardening could give him.
Miranda stirred on the bed and stretched her hand out towards him. “Harry?”
He took hold of it in both of his. How small and delicate it was. He leaned closer. “I’m here.”
She smiled now, her face a pale oval in the gloom, the deep blue of her eyes swamped by the size of her pupils. “I had such a bad dream.” Her voice was soft and wondering and oh, so sweet to his ears. Like music. His heart did a leap and his stomach turned over as he gazed at her.
It was all he could do to speak a few short words, so deep was the sea of love mixed with relief that was cascading over him. “It’s over now. You’re safe, my darling.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He shifted in his seat, and lowered his gaze. “For what? I only did what any man would have done.”
She shook her head. “For everything. For being you and loving me. For coming so swiftly to rescue me. For saving me from Sir Julian, whose intentions I fear were anything but honorable.”
He looked up at her again. “On the contrary, it was you who saved me.” He swallowed. “You have the heart of a lion disguised within such a delicate frame that no one would guess it was there.”
She chuckled. “And you would make a very bad poet.” She gave his hand a tug. “Come. Lie beside me. There’s room, and I’d like to feel you here, close by me.”
He hesitated.
She gave his hand another tug. “Humor me. I am a poor invalid, and I fear I cannot sleep unless I have the man I love beside me.”
He stood up, suddenly unsure of himself. He’d taken his coat off a long time ago so all he had to do now was kick off his boots. For a moment, he perched on the side of the bed, gazing down at her, wondering at how life had been so kind as to engineer their fated meeting.
Then he lay down on his side, his head on the pillow only inches from her face. A little involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
She smiled again. “Have I told you how much I love you?” Now they were so close, her voice hardly rose above a whisper. Her breath was his breath and a wisp of her beautiful hair tickled his nose.
“Actually,” he whispered back in the darkness of a night lit only by one candle. “You haven’t.”
A small chuckle. “Then let me tell you now.”
“I’d like you to.”
“I love you, Harry Madeley. I love you.”
“And I love you back, Miranda. More than you can ever imagine.”
She shifted a little as though uncomfortable. Perhaps she needed a further dose of laudanum, but if he did that she would go back to sleep again, and all he wanted was to lie here gazing into her eyes and listening to her voice. “Are you in pain?” He was her doctor so he had to ask.
She grimaced. “Only a little. I think I must have been very lucky.”
The urge to move just a little closer and press his lips to hers arose, but she was injured, and he was a gentleman, so he didn’t. “Do you need more medicine? For the pain?”
She shook her head. “No. Just lying here looking at you is making me feel better.”
He smiled. “And I you. I can’t even feel my leg aching. I have no medical explanation for that.”
“It’s love.” And now she moved forward a little with a wince, and her lips brushed his in a feather-light kiss. “Love is healing you.”
Probably not true, but who was he to argue. “I think I don’t want to wait long to be married to you, Lady Madeley.” He shifted forward an inch as well and returned her kiss, keeping his gentle. He spoke against her mouth. “Do you think your daughters will mind?”
She chuckled now and winced again. “I must remember not to laugh for a while. And no, I don’t think they’ll mind one bit. I have a suspicion this was what they’ve intended all along.”
“So long as Megs decides not to shoot me for it,” he whispered. “I’ll be content.”
And he kissed her again.
THE END