By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) (25 page)

Other than that, the room contained a small nightstand beside the bed, a washstand with basin and pitcher, and a chest on which Raven or Morris had left Daniel’s brushes; his traveling bag sat alongside.

Every surface was spotless, and beeswax scented the air, noticeable even over the tang of the logs burning cheerily in the small grate.

A lamp had been left on the nightstand, its flame turned low. Claire adjusted the wick and warm light filled the room, combining with the flickering flames of the fire to create a golden glow. Straightening, she glanced around, then, with no other option offering itself, sat on the bed and looked up at him.

He held her gaze for a second, then he closed the door and crossed to sit beside her.

Claire clasped her hands loosely in her lap; she glanced once at Daniel—took in his encouraging expression—then fixed her gaze on her fingers. “I know that you, Melinda, and the others—everyone, in fact—thinks that the reason I’ve so trenchantly turned my back on a second marriage is because I loved my husband so deeply that I did not wish to replace him. That because I had loved him to that degree, and because our marriage was such a loving one, I had vowed to cleave to his memory and not remarry.”

She drew breath, then said, “That’s true in one way and entirely false in another.” She glanced at Daniel. “When I tried to explain and dissuade you from pursuing me, I told you that I did not know whether I could ever commit properly to another marriage. That was the truth at that point, and the reason for it lies in the real story of my marriage.”

Shifting her gaze to the flames in the hearth, she went on, “I was the second of two children, but my much older brother was killed in the wars. Then when I was sixteen, my parents died in a carriage accident. They were reasonably well connected and had been comfortably well-to-do, so they left me decently provided for, at least financially. But they had no close relatives able to care for a sixteen-year-old young lady-to-be. They left me to the guardianship of older friends—a family who lived happily in the Dales, largely out of society. When I turned nineteen, the family arranged for me to go to London and be presented under the aegis of a Lady Mott, a kindhearted soul who made her way by using her position in society to launch…well, young ladies like me. She took me in and duly presented me, and I caught the eye of a dashing gentleman by the name of Randall Meadows. He was the grandson of a viscount on his mother’s side, and as handsome, charming, and debonair a gentleman as any young lady could possibly wish for.

“I…I fell in love, or thought I did. But to my surprise, Lady Mott tried to steer me away from Randall. When I challenged her, she could say nothing definite against him. However, she wrote to my guardians, as she was bound to do, and they wrote firmly advising me against accepting a proposal from Randall.” She paused, then said, “Over all the hours we had together, Randall was never once anything other than handsome, debonair, and charming to me. He proposed and I accepted. I knew that although my guardians might disapprove, they would never cause a scandal by trying to overturn a marriage.”

She looked down at her now tightly laced fingers. “Randall and I married via a special license—I wrote a letter, supposedly from my guardians, giving their permission. Looking back, I realize that even his friend who stood up with him had concerns, but Randall carried all—me included—before him. In hindsight, I was impossibly naive, but…” She paused, then went on, “Throughout the months of our marriage, I was deliriously happy. Our marriage seemed perfect—Randall was attentive, or at least as attentive as I expected, and although we only lived in lodgings, I accepted that we needed to take the time to find the right place to live, the right house.”

Daniel said nothing; he could tell from Claire’s expression that some painful revelation lay ahead. He wanted to reach across and take her hands in his, to give her comfort, but he reined in the impulse. She was having a difficult enough time facing her demons; she didn’t need distraction.

As if to confirm his guess, she drew in a slightly shaky breath. Her gaze still locked on her hands, she said, “I’ve never told anyone this—the only other who knows it all is my family solicitor. He handled the marriage settlements and helped me later.” She drew breath again, steadier this time. Raising her head, she stated, “Five months after we wed, Randall overturned his curricle in a ditch—he was participating in some race. He was killed instantly, leaving me a widow. What transpired… For that, I have only myself, and my naivety, to blame. Like me, Randall had been born to some wealth. He was an only child and had inherited some years before we met. Unbeknown to me, he was also a spendthrift, a profligate one. By the time he met me, he’d already run through his fortune and was deeply in debt. On marrying me and gaining access to my funds, he paid off his debts, then proceeded to run through what was left. When he died…his creditors immediately came calling. I was grieving, in shock, and to then discover that he’d left me with barely two pennies to my name—”

Abruptly, she looked up, blinking rapidly.

Daniel softly swore. Reaching across, he closed one of his hands over hers and gently squeezed. “You don’t have to tell me anything more.”

“No.” She met his gaze. “I want to. You deserve to hear it all so you’ll understand.” She paused, then went on, “My old solicitor helped me settle with all the creditors. After that…as I said, I had barely enough left to bless myself with. Lady Mott very kindly took me back into her home—I had nowhere to stay. She offered to sponsor me again, but even she could see I…simply couldn’t. Quite aside from being in mourning, I’d lost all taste for marriage—for trusting men. And I no longer had any dowry. My guardians wrote and offered to take me in, but I wouldn’t have been able to even pay them board. I would have been a penniless pensioner in their house, and they didn’t need or deserve that, and neither did I.”

Claire looked down at Daniel’s hand, warm and strong over hers. Shifting her hand, she stroked his with her fingertips. “The only skill or qualification I possessed was that I had been well educated—my parents had seen to that. The only path forward was to become a governess. Lady Mott steered me to the Athena Agency, which proved a godsend. They took me in, checked my background and abilities, then sent me to the Rupert Cynsters. Two days later, I was on my way to Somerset.”

For a moment, she held still, then, lips curving, met Daniel’s eyes. “I’ve been with the family ever since, and countless times have blessed my luck. I left my past behind long ago—I let it all go. All except…”

He tipped his head. “All except your entirely understandable distrust of marriage and of men who offer it?”

Her smile deepening, she nodded. “Indeed. And it’s you I have to thank for freeing me of that last shackle by asking me whether it was right that Randall’s memory should hold me back from knowing happiness for the rest of my life.” She held his gaze. “Until you said that, I had simply never seen it in that light. I’d only known that the distrust, not just of men who offered marriage but of my own feelings, ran deep, deep enough to stop me from moving down the path of matrimony again.”

“And now?” Daniel quietly asked.

Her smile broadened, her expression softened, and the glow he needed to see filled her eyes.

“Now,” she said, “I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I never loved Randall. I thought I did, but I was merely infatuated—and even that was with the façade he projected rather than the man he actually was. I never really knew him. There never was any true connection—if there had been, he wouldn’t have done as he did, nor would I have been so unaware of his failings.” Focusing on Daniel’s eyes, she continued, “Now, I know what love is. It’s what I feel for you. It’s…very different from infatuation. It’s much deeper, more powerful, infinitely more riveting.”

He smiled. Tugging one of her hands free, he raised it; cradling her curled fingers between both of his hands, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m no callow youth. Although I’ve never felt this emotion before, I know what it is—I know that it’s love. I love you, Claire, and I will until I die.”

Her face glowed, radiant with that same emotion. Leaning closer, she raised her other hand to his shoulder. She slid it further to cup his nape as she shifted on the bed to face him.

He shifted, too, so that he could fully meet her eyes, could bask in the acceptance, the joy, the steady flame of her love that shone there.

Leaning closer yet, stretching up, she lifted her face, her lips, to his. On a breath, she softly said, “I love you. I trust you. And yes, Daniel Crosbie, I will most definitely marry you.”

With that, she closed the distance and pressed her lips to his.

She kissed him—and with a soaring heart, he recognized and accepted, drank in and savored, all the pent-up longing she allowed to pour out.

Into the kiss. Into the steadily heating exchange that fanned the flames of wanting, of need and desire that had smoldered, latent, between them.

He released her hand and reached for her, closed his arms about her and drew her closer, and she came. Eagerly, enthusiastically.

Exactly as he wished.

The kiss deepened, driven not by him or by her but by them both, into a heady, glorious melding of mouths, lips, and tongues that excited all their senses. That sent heat spreading beneath his skin, then sinking deeper.

Her hands, gentle but deliberate, framed his jaw, and she met and matched him in what had transformed into a battle of delight. One palm rising to cup her head, he held her steady as he parted her lips further and, slanting his lips over hers, with his tongue claimed every inch of her sweetness; she tasted of warmed honey laced with promise and spiced with joy. He couldn’t get enough, was already past addicted.

She sighed into the kiss and leaned into him.

For an instant, they swayed, then, locked together, he tumbled them down onto the bed.

She allowed it, falling with him and laughing softly as they landed with their heads on the pillows.

He would have come up on his elbow to hover over her, but she moved first. Rising to lean over him, her soft weight on his chest, she looked into his face; with one hand, she brushed aside the lock of hair that had tumbled across his forehead.

Smiling, her heart lighter than she’d ever known it to be, Claire looked down into Daniel’s eyes—eyes that promised her all and everything she’d ever wanted in life. A husband, a happy marriage, and if they were so blessed, a family of their own—but most important of all, she saw love.

Solid, unwavering, immutable, his love was so strong it caught her breath and left her wanting to plunge giddily in and bathe…the curve of her lips deepening, she said, “I suspect that by now Melinda will be sound asleep. I really shouldn’t wake her.”

His brows arched. “She was kind enough to absolve you of the need to check on your charges. In the circumstances, it seems appropriate to avoid disturbing her well-earned rest.”

“So”—she arched her brows—“where should I rest my not-so-weary head?”

His smile lit the room. “I have a suggestion, Mrs. Crosbie-to-be, if you’ll entertain it—why not spend your night here with me?”

She laughed, and even to her ears, the sound was joyous. “I believe, sir, that I should, indeed, do just that.” Propped above him, she looked into his eyes, and all that was in her heart welled. She felt the power of what lived there, now a palpable thing, and let it show. Her tone serious, her diction clear, her eyes confirming the depth of her conviction, she said, “I came here determined never to marry again—never to take the risk of loving again. Yet here I am, so deeply in love that I feel giddy and breathless, and I can’t wait to be yours and have you be mine. You’ve been my salvation—you’ve saved me from my past. You are and will always be my love. You will always hold my heart.”

She didn’t give him a chance to reply but swooped and covered his lips with hers. She kissed him and let all the sheer need—the need to love and be loved that she’d been holding within her through all the years—pour out. Let it free.

Let it consume her. Let it drive him.

Let it guide them both on.

He met her, held her, as she knew he always would.

He drew her down, rolled them over, and then he was kissing her and her head spun.

Her senses waltzed as, with slow, reverent care, he learned her curves. They were both experienced enough, it seemed, to hold back the urgency, to better and more fully savor every little step along their passionate journey. While the end of that journey was not in any doubt, she was grateful that he’d chosen a longer route. She wanted their first time to be a glorious memory, an interlude steeped in the passion they would each bring to their marriage bed for the rest of their days.

His passion. Her passion.

The former surged hot and strong in the languid stroking of his tongue against hers, in the heavy heat of his hand as he cupped her breast through the fine wool of her gown.

He found her nipple and gently squeezed. She arched beneath him.

Deep within her, her own passion stirred, long forgotten but lured to life by him, by the supping of his lips, the claiming of his tongue, the artful caresses of his hands on her body. He drew back a little from the kiss, not releasing her lips but releasing her senses enough that she was exquisitely aware as he splayed his hand across the width of her waist, lightly gripping, then releasing and skating lower to span her taut belly.

Then his hand drifted lower, tracing her limbs, the hollows and curves, making them his.

She shivered and rejoiced. They were both still fully clothed, yet he commanded her awareness utterly, to the point where every last iota of her conscious mind was filled with the moment, focused on the drift of his fingers over her body and on the sensations that provoked to the exclusion of all else.

His fingers skated on a long light caress from her knee upward, lazily tracing the long length of her leg before lightly delving into the hollow at the apex of her thighs.

Heat bloomed in her belly, pooling low.