“Dear God!” Lord Hasselthorpe exclaimed. He fell against Beatrice, grasping at her arm.
It was the wrong thing to do.
Reynaud roared again and lunged. The other iron ring exploded from the wall. He was on Lord Hasselthorpe in one bound, tearing the man away from Beatrice.
Lady Hasselthorpe screamed.
Reynaud hit the other man in the face with a horrible smacking sound, and Lord Hasselthorpe fell to the ground. Reynaud followed him down to the stone floor, kneeling above him, his balled fist driving again and again into Lord Hasselthorpe’s face.
“Stop him!” Lady Hasselthorpe clutched Beatrice’s arm. “He’ll kill Richard.”
He would, too. Reynaud showed no signs of halting, though the other man had long since ceased resisting.
“Reynaud,” she said. “Reynaud!”
He stopped abruptly, his chest heaving, his hands, bloody, hanging by his sides and the chains still dangling from his wrists.
Beatrice went to him and hesitantly touched his short, black hair. “Reynaud.”
He turned suddenly and laid his face against her stomach, his big hands grasping her hips. “He hurt you.”
“No,” she said, stroking his dear head, feeling his warmth beneath her palms. “No. The blood was his. The bullet must’ve hit him somewhere. I am not hurt.”
“I could not bear it,” he said against her. “I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”
“I wasn’t,” she whispered. She took his hands, large and bruised, in hers and drew him up. “I’m whole and safe. You’ve rescued me.”
“No,” he said as he stood. “I am the one who is rescued. I was lost and broken, and you saved me.” He bent and whispered against her lips, “You have redeemed me.”
He pulled her close, and she came willingly, happily, into the arms of the man she loved.
And who loved her in return.
Chapter Twenty
At the princess’s words, the Goblin King threw back his head and laughed until his green hair waved all about his head. “You shall be a delightful addition to my menagerie, my dear.”
He held out his horny hand. Princess Serenity laid her own small white hand in the Goblin King’s palm. At that very moment, Longsword appeared at a dead run.
“Stop!” he cried when he saw them. “Stop this dreadful thing! I did not know what my wife meant to do, but when I woke in the dark and found her gone, I suspected the worst. I have run all this night to prevent this thing.”
“Ah,” sighed the Goblin King. “But you are still too late. The pact between your wife and I has already been agreed upon and sealed. There is naught you can do. She is forfeit to me. . . .”
—from Longsword
“What will happen to Lord Hasselthorpe?” Beatrice asked later—much later—that day. She sat at her dressing table in her chemise, brushing her hair.
She watched Reynaud in the mirror. He lounged on the bed, his banyan falling open to reveal his bare chest. He’d discarded shoes and stockings, but he still wore his breeches. She’d almost lost him today, and the horror was still close to the surface. If she’d had her way, she would’ve shadowed him all day, just to watch him breathe. But they’d had to part early this morning. Reynaud had been concerned with taking Lord Hasselthorpe to prison, and she’d made an exhausting journey back to London in the company of a distraught Lady Hasselthorpe. The poor woman had had no idea of her husband’s murderous character, and moreover it seemed that she’d truly loved the awful man. Beatrice had spent the ride trying to comfort her.
As a result of all this, she’d only been reunited with Reynaud shortly after dinner, when he’d embraced her hurriedly and excused himself to bathe. His hair was still damp from that bath, she could see, and she wanted to touch it, but she restrained herself, feeling unaccountably shy.
“He’ll be charged with treason and murder,” he said. “And when he’s found guilty, he’ll be hanged.”
“How awful for Lady Hasselthorpe.” Beatrice shivered a little, placing her brush carefully on the dressing table. “Did he really inform the French of your regiment’s movements solely to kill his brother?”
Reynaud shrugged, causing his banyan to fall farther open. “He was probably paid as well, but I think the main reason was so he could steal his brother’s title.”
“What a terrible man.”
“Indeed.”
Beatrice swiveled on her stool to look at him fully. “I never thanked you for what you did to help pass Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied quietly. “The men the bill benefits are soldiers. My men. I should’ve been more interested in the bill all along, instead of worrying solely about myself.”
She stood, walking toward him. “You’d lost everything. There was a reason you were focused on what you needed to have again.”
“No.” He shook his head and looked away, a muscle tightening in his jaw. “I thought only of money and lands and my title. I didn’t consider what was truly important until it was almost too late.”
She felt her throat tighten. She climbed into the bed to sit beside him and trailed her fingers down his chest. “And what is that?”
He turned and seized her hand, making her start.
“You.” He kissed the tips of her fingers, watching her with black eyes so serious they nearly frightened her. “You. Only you. I realized it on the ride to Hasselthorpe’s estate—realized it and knew I was too late. God, Beatrice. I rode for hours thinking that you would be dead before I got there.”
“I thought you might not come,” she admitted.
He closed his eyes as if in agony. “You must’ve been terrified. You must hate me.”
“No.” She drew their joined hands toward her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I could never hate you. I love you.”
He grabbed her and rolled her under himself in a sudden movement. His position was dominating and aggressive. She should’ve been wary, but she had no fear of him at all.
Reynaud leaned close to her, nearly nose to nose. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. There’ll be no going back—no holding back—once you’re truly mine. I do not have it in me to let go once I have what I desire in my grasp. Tread softly.”
She framed his face with her palms. “I won’t tread softly. I want to go running and leaping. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I love you. I’ve loved you since you came crashing into my tea party. Before that, really—ever since I was a young girl and saw that roguish portrait of you in the blue sitting room. I love you, Reynaud. I love—”
He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her words. She slid her hands up, reveling in the smooth feel of his hair beneath her hands. He was alive. She was alive. Joy flashed through her, and she widened her legs beneath him in invitation.
Fortunately, he seemed to have the same idea.
He tore his mouth from hers, gasping as he fumbled between their bodies. “You are mine. Forever, Beatrice.”
He levered himself up and pulled at the skirts of her chemise. Something ripped and then she felt his hot penis against her folds. He thrust into her, once, twice, and was fully seated, but he froze then.
His head dropped and he shuddered. “Beatrice.”
She stretched slowly, sensuously.
“God, don’t,” he muttered. “Beatrice . . .”
She wrapped one leg over his calves and the other high over his hips. “Hmm?”
She clenched internally.
His flesh leaped within her. “Christ.”
“Do that again,” she murmured, tilting her hips against his. He was heavy on her—she couldn’t displace him—but she could sort of undulate, which she did.
“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered, lowering his forehead to hers.
“Really?” She slid her hands inside his banyan, kneading his bare back.
“Yes,” he groaned. “And I’ll die a happy man.”
“Then let us die together,” she whispered agai
nst his lips.
She kissed him then, a tender caress, light and sweet, her lips slightly parted, trying to show him how much she loved him, for she truly had no words to tell him.
And perhaps he understood. He gasped a little, moving his hands to frame her face, raising his own to watch her as he began to move above her. He withdrew and pushed into her, only a little, the movement tiny and controlled, the effect devastating to her senses. She watched him, this man she loved, this man who’d offered his life for hers, as he made love to her. His face was hard and grim, the bird tattoos exotic and foreboding, but his mouth was gentle, and his eyes held an emotion that made her arch up into him.
“Beatrice,” he whispered, and began to move faster.
She gripped him, her muscles tightening, her breathing quickening, watching him, waiting. He hitched himself a little higher on her, grinding down, hitting her just there. And she broke. Suddenly, without warning. Gasping and shaking and crying, pressing herself up urgently into him, staring into those ruthless black eyes. Heat crashed through her, seemingly without end.
“Beatrice,” he cried. “God! Beatrice!”
And he convulsed above her, shuddering as he flooded her with his seed. Shaking, his black eyes wide and desperate, his mouth twisted as if in agony. He slowly closed his eyes and let his head drop as his great chest heaved for breath.
She stroked his back in little tired circles, her body replete, her mind at rest.
He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth opened wide, his tongue claiming possession. She arched again, helplessly, her nerves still raw.
He lifted his head and looked at her. “I love you, Beatrice. Now and forever. I love you.”
She smiled. “And I love you. Now and forever.” It was like a new beginning. A new pact.
So she pulled his head down to seal it with a kiss.
“THEN HE’S BEEN condemned,” Samuel Hartley said sotto voce nearly a month later.
“Condemned and scheduled to be hanged afore the new year,” Reynaud replied equally quietly. The gentlemen stood in a group to one side of his blue sitting room, but the ladies weren’t too far away, and they had damnably sharp hearing. The topic wasn’t appropriate for the day.
“Serves him right,” Reginald St. Aubyn said, not at all quietly. He saw Vale’s raised eyebrow and flushed. “Told you I never would’ve backed the man had I known he’d murdered his brother, let alone was a traitor to the Crown. Good God.”
“None of us knew,” Munroe growled. “’Tisn’t your fault, man.”
“Ah.” Reginald cleared his throat, looking surprised. “Well, thank you.”
Hartley leaned forward to say something else, and Reynaud bit back a smile. In the last month, he’d gotten used to having “Uncle Reggie” about the place, and while he wouldn’t call the other man his bosom bow yet, they were getting along rather well. It’d helped that Reggie had quite the knack for managing money, making it grow by leaps and bounds. But then he would’ve borne with Reggie even if he’d been the most curmudgeonly old man possible. He’d raised Beatrice and she loved him. That was all that mattered in the end.
He glanced to where the ladies were gathered in a knot by one of the settees. Beatrice stood by the others, smiling at something Lady Munroe had said. She wore a pale rose frock tonight, and her hair glowed golden in the candlelight. The Blanchard sapphires sparkled at her neck, but even they were dull next to the bright beauty of her face. Had they been alone, he would’ve strode over and picked her up, carrying her to his bed so that he might demonstrate again how deep his devotion was. He had a feeling that the urgency of the need to convince her of his love would never pass. He inhaled deeply. But they had guests now, and he wouldn’t have Beatrice to himself for several hours yet.
Reynaud glanced to Emeline, sitting in the middle of the settee, as round as an orange. He’d noticed that Hartley cast frequent glances her way, and he had to approve of such uxorious concern for his sister. Lady Munroe—Helen—stood just a little apart, though all the ladies included her in the conversation, and Tante Cristelle sat enthroned in a gilt chair. Lady Vale sat beside Emeline on the settee, ramrod straight, a faint smile about her thin lips.
Feminine laughter drew his eyes to another settee, where Miss Rebecca Hartley sat. Standing stiffly next to her was a young man in simple black clothes, his dark hair clubbed back.
“I think I’ll have a new brother-in-law in the coming year,” Hartley murmured next to Reynaud.
Reynaud grunted. “Emeline says he was a footman in her household.”
“Indeed.” Hartley glanced again at his wife. “But O’Hare has spent the last year learning my business in the Colonies. His head for figures is amazing. I’ve been thinking that should Emeline and I wish to spend a protracted length of time in England, I’d put him in charge of the Boston warehouses.”
Reynaud raised his eyebrows. “He looks young for the job.”
“He is,” Hartley replied. “But in another few years . . .” He shrugged. “Of course, it would help to keep the business in the family.”
Reynaud glanced again at the couple by the settee. Miss Hartley’s cheeks were a bright pink, and O’Hare hadn’t taken his eyes from her face since entering the room. “Then you approve of the match.”
“Yes, I do.” Hartley’s mouth quirked. “Not that my opinion matters. I trust Rebecca to make the right decision in choosing a husband.”
A sudden rise in the ladies’ chatter made Reynaud turn his head. Beatrice was leaning forward, placing a package on Emeline’s lap.
“What are they up to now?” Hartley wondered next to him.
Reynaud shook his head, feeling that smile returning at Beatrice’s excited look. “I haven’t the faintest.”
“THE GENTLEMEN, THEY are talking about that so ’orrible traitor again,” Tante Cristelle commented to no one in particular.
Beatrice glanced over. The gentlemen were all huddled in a corner, and Lord Hasselthorpe was a frequent topic of discussion, but Reynaud looked almost lighthearted tonight. He caught her watching him and gave her a slow wink that made the heat rush into her cheeks. Goodness! Now was not the time to be remembering what he’d done just this morning to her.
Hurriedly she turned to Emeline. “Open it, please.”
“There’s no need for gifts,” Emeline said, but she looked quite pleased nonetheless.
Beatrice had learned in the last month that her sister-in-law was rather nice underneath her formidable exterior. “Actually, it’s for Lady Vale and Lady Munroe and me as well. But you’ll see. Oh, do open it.”
Emeline lifted the box lid. Inside were four bound books, each a different color. One was blue, one yellow, one lavender, and one scarlet.
Emeline glanced up at Beatrice. “What are they?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Look inside one.”
Emeline chose the blue and opened it. And then she gasped. “Oh. Oh, my goodness. I’d almost forgotten.”
She looked from Melisande to Helen to Beatrice. “How…?”
Tante Cristelle leaned forward. “What is this?”
“It’s the fairy-tale book that my nanny used to read to Reynaud and me when we were children. Forgive me.” Emeline dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “I gave the original book to Melisande to translate.”
“And I did,” Melisande said in her steady voice. “And when I was done, I gave the translation to Helen to transcribe. She has such an elegant hand.”
Helen blushed. “Thank you.”
“She gave me back the sheets of papers—she’d made four copies—but for a long while I did not know what to do with them,” Melisande said. “When Beatrice married Reynaud, I gave them to her to bind into a book. But I had no idea she’d made four books.”
Beatrice smiled. “Each of us worked on it, so I thought each of us should have a book of the fairy tales as a memento.”
“Thank you,” Emeline said softly. “Thank you, Melisande and Helen, and you as well, Beatric
e. This is a wonderful gift.” She cradled the blue book against her breast and glanced at the gentlemen. “For so long, all I had were memories of Reynaud, and this book was one of the best. Now I have him back again. I’m so grateful.”
Beatrice had to dab at her own eyes. Reynaud was back, and she was grateful as well.
The door to the sitting room opened at that moment, revealing the magnificent form of the butler. “Dinner is served, my lord.”
“Ah. Good,” Reynaud said. He strode to where Tante Cristelle sat and bowed to her. “I know ’tisn’t the done thing for a gentleman to escort his wife to dinner, but we are still newly wed. Might I have dispensation this once?”
That old lady glared at him with steely pale blue eyes, but then they softened. “Tch. Silly boy. But it is Christmas Day, after all, so I forgive you.” She waved her hand at him. “Take your wife. All of you, take your wives. And you”—she crooked a finger at an alarmed Uncle Reggie—“you may escort me!”
Reynaud offered his arm to Beatrice as their guests assembled to be led in to dinner. She placed her fingers on his sleeve, and he tilted his head toward hers. “Have I wished you a Merry Christmas yet, madam?”
“You have,” she said. “Several times. But I don’t grow weary of hearing it.”
“And I’m afraid I’ll never grow weary of saying it.” His obsidian eyes danced. “Now or in the future. So let me say it once again, the first of many more: Merry Christmas, my love. Merry Christmas, my darling Beatrice.”
And he kissed her.
Epilogue
At the Goblin King’s awful words, Longsword fell to his knees before him. He drew his magical sword and laid it on the ground at the Goblin King’s feet and said, “I will give you my sword, though it means my own death, if you will only let my wife go.”