Joy? Hugh had never experienced such passion, such completion. Marian had never known that such absolute, incredible ecstasy existed. What she lacked in experience, she made up for in enthusiasm. What he could not manage with his broken arm, he managed with his lips and his tongue and his words of love. And they truly were that, words of love.
“You do know how much I love you, don’t you, Marian mine?” he asked when they were near to drowsing in each other’s embrace.
“
Hmm
. But I think you’d better tell me again.”
So he did, and showed her the evidence of his affection, so they were anything but sleepy. Later—a lot later—Marian stroked his face, feeling the coarse beard starting to form on his jaw. “We have to talk, my love.”
Hugh could barely think, much less talk. “I am listening.”
“Do you remember when you were hurt, and the dog would not let anyone tend you? I would have shot the stupid animal to save your life, you know.”
“I recall the scene fondly. You were a V
ikin
g warrior priestess, calling thunderbolts down on the disobedient. Or else you were a shrew. I could not tell which at the time.”
“Whichever it was, I truly would have fired at the animal to save you. Know this, my lord, my love, that if you are ever unfaithful to me, ever betray our vows, then I will shoot you to save our marriage and my sanity. I thought I could be a complacent, accepting wife, averting her eyes from her husband’s indiscretions. I cannot, especially after we shared this.” Her arm waved around the room to encompass the tousled sheets, the scent of lovemaking, their contented, floating-on-clouds conditions. “I could not face the idea of your making love to another woman this way.”
“I have never made love to a woman this way,” he swore truthfully. “For I have never been in love. But you still do not trust me, do you, Marian?”
“How can I, knowing your reputation? Why, half the women present tonight gave you such looks, I almost threw my champagne at them.”
“Did they? I never noticed. No matter, for I shall prove to you that my reputation means nothing. Do you think thirty or forty years can convince you of my faithfulness?”
“Hmm. I suppose that ought to be enough for a proper, loyal husband. I was hoping for eternity, though.”
“Then eternity it is. You see, I always intended to honor my marriage vows. That’s why I never took a wife, because I never found a woman worth the effort of fidelity. Now I have, and I will never let her go. I love you, Lady Hardesty, only you.”
“And I love you, Lord Hardesty, only you. Forever.”
“Forever,” he repeated, before falling asleep.
*
“You won.”
“No, you won.”
“But you were right.”
“No, you were. I am honest enough to admit it. You said the love of a good woman would reform the man. He is as good as a saint now, blast it. You won.”
“But you said her love would not be enough, that it was his love that mattered, and you spoke wisely, so you won. He had to love the woman in return before he put her happiness ahead of his own.”
They both thought about such a love and what it could do. Then Saint Peter said, “You know, we were both wrong. It is neither the love
of
nor the love
for
a good woman that matters. It is the
right
woman for a man who can change his life, change the world.”
The devil sighed, then brightened. “But that son she is carrying will be a real hellion. No doubt about it. He’ll be one of mine, absolutely.”
“It’s a daughter she is carrying,” the saint replied. “An angel as good as gold, as pure as new-fallen snow.”
“A son, I say.”
“A daughter.”
“A boy, damn him.”
“A girl, bless her.”
*
Nine months later, to her husband’s relief and delight, Marian, Lady Hardesty, was delivered of a beautiful blue-eyed baby girl. And a sturdy auburn-haired baby boy.
About the Author
The author of more than three dozen Regency romances,
Barbara Metzger
is the proud recipient of a RITA and two
Romantic Times
Career Achievement Awards for Regencies. When not writing Regencies or reading them, she paints,
gardens, volunteers at the local library, and goes beachcombing on the beautiful Long Island shore. She loves to hear from her readers through her Web site,
www.BarbaraMetzger.com, or Facebook
.