Forever and Ever (31 page)

Sophie thought he would set her away now, address his potential patron empty-handed, so to speak, because some might say a man who touched his wife in public was undignified or indecorous, or weak. But Connor kept her in a loose embrace, his hand on the curve of her waist, and answered, “I’m thinking it must be all the years you sat on the bench that have made you such a patient man, Mr. Knowlton. I’d have thrown the lot of us out by now if I were you and this were my home.”

Knowlton made an enigmatic
hmph
and blew a smoke ring. “Anything else?”

“I’m thinking that some of the things Croddy said about me are true.” Sophie started shaking her head. “And there are other things he didn’t say—only because he doesn’t know about them—that I’m not particularly proud of. I think I’m about as unlikely a candidate for Parliament as you’re likely to find, sir. I haven’t the nerve to ask you to endorse me, and frankly, I don’t know why you would.”

Sophie couldn’t take another self-effacing word. “Well,
I
can think of—” she started to say, but Connor gave her a squeeze to keep her quiet.

“In spite of my inadequacies, though, I’ll admit that I still want to serve in the Commons. In fact, I want it very much. But I’ll also tell you this. If you decide you can’t support me, Mr. Knowlton, for the rest of my life I’ll look back on this day, this hour, and no matter what else happens it’ll always be one of my happiest memories. Because this is the day I got my wife back.” He smiled down into Sophie’s shining eyes. “You could offer me the prime minister’s job, sir, and in all honesty, it wouldn’t hold a candle to that.” Through tears she couldn’t blink away, Sophie thought she saw a shadow of sorrow drift over Knowlton’s still, thoughtful face. Connor must have seen it, too. His voice was low and gentle when he said, “We won’t impose on you any longer. I want to say I’m grateful to you, sir, for your tolerance. And your kindness.”

He was thinking of the promise of discretion Knowlton had forced out of Robert. Sophie murmured an echo of the sentiment, glancing away from Knowlton to her uncle, who was looking unusually subdued.

Knowlton stood up. “I’m against patronage,” he said gruffly. “I don’t want the responsibility of choosing my own successor. It ought to be in the hands of the electors, and if I choose you, Mr. Pendarvis, I’d expect you to work long and hard to make that process the law of the land.”

“I would, sir,” Connor answered in surprise.

“Not that I am choosing you,” he added, puffing irritably on his cigar. “As far as I’m concerned Croddy’s out, but his cronies will undoubtedly field someone else now. I hope he’s a genius; I hope he’s a saint. If he is, I’ll pick him.”

“Quite right, sir.”

“Come to see me next week,” he said unexpectedly. “Don’t bring your handlers—come by yourself. I’ll give you a meal. We’ll talk.”

“Thank you,” Connor said, nonplussed.

“I think Croddy’s probably right—you’re too radical. But I’d like to find it out for myself. In any case, there’s one thing on which I can agree with you right now. It isn’t the power a man’s wielded or the money he’s made or the fame he’s acquired that bring him contentment as he closes in on the end of his life. It’s the ones he’s loved. The ones who have loved him. Nothing else comes close to that. I didn’t understand that bit of wisdom at your age. I’ll admit, it’s a point in your favor.” Years fell away from his tired face when he smiled. “See that you don’t lose sight of it.”

“I never will,” Connor vowed, and he wasn’t smiling at all.

XXII

They went to the office in Tamar Street, where Connor had spent the night, to retrieve the traveling case he’d left behind after Vanstone found him there and whisked him off to Knowlton’s. “So this is where you’ve been going every day,” Sophie said interestedly, standing in the center of the small, cluttered room and turning around in a circle. It was the most ordinary of offices, purely masculine and unornamented, but she surveyed it with great fascination. Indeed, all the way from Knowlton’s house in the pony gig, she’d been eyeing the world around her as if she’d never seen it before, or not for a long, long time. She’d been sleeping. Now she was awake, and Connor gave her a soft hug, thanking God for the miracle of his wife.

“Oh,
bread
,” she exclaimed, finding the remains of last night’s supper on his desk half buried under a pile of scribbled pages. “How lovely. I’m starving.”

“By all means, help yourself.”

“Did you sleep on that?” she asked with her mouth full, pointing to the scruffy couch taking up space along the far wall.

“I did. Ian donated it when he found out I was spending nights here.”

“Ugly, isn’t it?”

“That’s probably why his wife let him have it.” She was removing piles of books and papers from the sofa, and the blanket he’d slept under last night. He watched her, perplexed, while she sat down at one end and patted the place beside her. “What are you doing?”

She sent him a blinding smile. “Getting ready to be properly kissed, I hope.”

He dropped the shirt he’d been folding. His face must have looked funny, because she started to laugh before he could reach her. He laughed, too, for the sheer joy of touching her, his Sophie, and he swore out loud before he kissed her that he would never let her go again.

“Never,” she promised, too, holding him close. “We’ll be together for always, Con.”

“Forever.”

“And ever. No matter what.”

They had made rash promises before—they’d never quarrel again, for example—but this one they would keep, he knew it. “Sophie, thank God you came back to me. Nothing mattered when I thought I’d lost you.” He gestured to the cluttered room, the desk. “I didn’t care about any of this, the election, Knowlton’s approval. I’d have gone through the motions because of Ian and the others, but it wouldn’t have meant anything. Even if I’d won—”

“You
will
win.”

“—who could I have shared the victory with? It would’ve felt like nothing. Just the start of a long, hard job.”

“I’m sorry about everything. I’ve been an
awful
wife—no, let me say this. Losing our baby was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, Con. I was in this
pit
, and I couldn’t get out. I’m
glad
you left me, thank God you left me, because it woke me up! I’ll never stop grieving for the child we lost, but I’m alive now and I can feel again, and I need you so much. I think
I’ve
been a child—I didn’t know what husbands and wives should
be
to each other, or I forgot. You’re my lover, Connor, and my best friend, and you always will be. Please tell me you forgive me for turning away from you. But I just—couldn’t—”

“Sophie, Sophie.” He couldn’t stop kissing her, even though every word she said was like medicine for a sick man. “I’m so glad, sweetheart. God, I can’t wait to get you home.” Her face still bore the evidence of her tears, but to him she’d never looked so beautiful.

“I know,” she whispered. “I can’t either. It’s been so long.” Suddenly her eyes flew open. “But Con—why wait?”

The identical realization struck him at the same time. “Why wait?” he echoed, and it was as if they’d just invented the steam engine, or discovered a new route to the Indies.

“And to think I called this sofa ugly,” Sophie said wonderingly, winding her arms around his neck and pulling him down. “Oh, I’ve missed you, missed you, missed you,” she crooned, putting soft kisses on his cheeks for punctuation. “Hurry, let’s hurry.” She was wearing a little black jacket over a cream-colored shirtwaist, and he insinuated his hand between their bodies to slip tortoiseshell buttons out of the buttonholes, not hurrying, savoring the smiling curve of her lips against his. He slid the jacket off her shoulders and started on the blouse, and in no time at all he had her down to her skirt and corset. “Oh my, this is so wicked,” she breathed, reclining against the sofa arm, playing with his hair. “Doing this here instead of at home, in our bed. Don’t you think it’s wicked?”

“Mmm. Decadent.” The little snaps down the front of her corset weren’t cooperating. “Come here,” he ordered, making her lean toward him so he could untie the laces at the back. That was faster; the whole thing came off like a sexy straitjacket, and there she was, bare to the waist. He feasted his eyes on her full white breasts, so beautiful, murmuring, “Oh, Sophie, look at you.” He made her lie back on a pillow he put against the sofa arm, so she would be comfortable while he took his pleasure with her, caressing her and making her sigh.

“I don’t want to wait,” she whispered.

“Shhh. Close your eyes.”

“No, I want to watch you.”

“Very contrary today. I’ll make you close your eyes.” And he bent to her and took one luscious nipple in his mouth, rasping his tongue against the tip, teasing it with dangerous little nips of his teeth. Her breathy, helpless little gasps excited him. He pulled away to look at her, her pouting lips and heavy-lidded eyes, cheeks pink and glowing with arousal. “I love the way you look right now. You’re beautiful, Sophie.”

“You are,” she countered, trying to tug his shirt out of his trousers. “Would you still love me if I were ugly?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “But . . .”

“But . . . ?”

“It would’ve taken me longer to get to know you.” He slid his hands under her knees and pulled her legs over his lap. “Now I’ve got you,” he gloated. “Let me see your legs.” She squealed when he threw skirts and petticoats up, half burying her, so he could look at her long thighs, neatly sheathed in white silk stockings. He hummed his enjoyment, watching her face while he tickled her very softly under her knee, and then the band of warm skin above the top of her stocking. She was holding her breath, wishing and waiting. When he pushed her legs apart a little, she gave a stifled gasp and then a groan of frustrated anticipation. He lifted one of her knees and pressed it out, and sleeked a hot, slow trail with his palm down the inside of her thigh to the center of her. Her eyes were squeezed shut, neck straining, waiting, waiting.
Touch me
, she begged him with her body. He thought of waiting until she said it with her tongue, but she was just too tempting. “Wanton woman,” he whispered, and gave her what she wanted.

She cried out at the first light brush of his fingers, and he gentled his touch, caressing her slowly, deeply, gauging her response by her soft sighs and the wonderful expressions ghosting across her face. Oh, she was lovely, lovely, and she was all his. And he was thinking,
What did I do to deserve this?
when she clutched at his knee and slowly arched her back. “Con,” she said in the merest whisper, and then she turned her cheek into the pillow. It took her fast and hard; he could feel the deep, deep shudders inside, undoing her. They released her with excruciating slowness and left her gasping; spent and wasted, she drooped over him like a wilted flower—and then all he wanted to do was give her the pleasure all over again.

She lay still, and the minutes slipped by peacefully in that limbo time, that delicious interval when lovemaking is both a memory and an imminence. He stroked her stomach, her ribs, the space between her breasts, amusing himself by debating which was softer, Sophie’s skin or a satin pillow. The dreamy look in her eyes was clearing. When she sat up on her own power, he knew she’d come back to life.

“Why am I the only one half-naked around here?” she wondered, sliding her hands inside his waistcoat. He started to take off his jacket. “I’m doing this,” she corrected, and he held his hands up, surrendering gladly. But he couldn’t resist kissing her intent face while she went about her business, undoing his shirt buttons, unbuckling his belt. “What’s this?” she mumbled, pulling on his clothes. He didn’t pay any attention. “What
is
this?”

Too late, he saw what she’d found in the inside pocket of his jacket. He made an awkward grab for it, but she jerked away, sliding off his lap and scrambling to her feet.

“Connor—Connor—”

She couldn’t talk. She held the small gray flannel bag, heavy with banknotes, at arm’s length, her stormy eyes shifting from it to him, searching his face, frantic with confusion.

Connor sagged against the seedy old couch, dragging his hands from his knees to his thighs. He let his head fall back. Some kind of bitter laughter was welling up in him—but the taste was sour on the back of his tongue; he bit it back. He moved his sluggish gaze from the ceiling to Sophie, waiting for the ax to fall.

Instead, the bewilderment in her face slowly sharpened. He saw the truth in her eyes at the instant it hit her. “Jack. It was Jack.” She looked at the bag of money in her hands, shaking her head, and the sad, resigned twist of her lips mirrored everything he was feeling. “It was Jack, wasn’t it.”

He could lie to protect him, just as he’d lied to Vanstone and Knowlton. But not to Sophie. Not now. “He came to the house yesterday. I told you—do you remember? He was drunk, sick. He said he was going away to die, and nothing I could say to him did any good. I had to let him go.”

“Oh, Con.” She came to him as he was getting up to go to her, and she put her bare arms around him and held tight.

“This morning he came here—I don’t know how he found me—and told me what he’d done. He got the key to your desk drawer out of your purse in the hall yesterday—he knew you kept it there because he heard us talking about it once, months ago. He was going to take the money and run away, go somewhere to die in style, he said, and nobody he loved would have to take care of him or watch him fade away. This morning he was a wreck—ashamed, panicky. Hungover. He gave me the money, and I said I’d make it all right. Somehow. I told him to go home and stay out of trouble.”

“Oh, God,” Sophie breathed, resting her temple on his shoulder. “Connor, what should we do? We could put it back, but then . . .”

“Everyone would think you’d done it for me. They’d still think I stole it.”

“I could say there never was a payroll . . . no, Jenks saw me counting it out on Tuesday. That won’t work.”

“Besides, Andrewson’s still got a bump on his head. That can’t be explained away.”

“Jack really hit him? Hard?”

“Knocked him out cold.”

“Oh, God.” She put her cheek next to his. “Con, I’m so sorry. I mean for Jack, because he’s so sick. I love him, too.”

“I know you do.” This was what he’d wanted and needed from her so badly yesterday. He took it now, forgiving her as she’d asked him to, and counting himself the luckiest of men. “Sophie, let me love you.”

“Yes.” She pressed against him, and they were heart to heart at last, without secrets or pride. They lay down on the sagging sofa, and when they came together the sensation of merging was new, not quite like anything they’d felt before. They’d gone to some higher level, and it was scary and exciting to think that there would be other planes of intimacy after this, layer after layer, and it would never stop because there was no ending, no limit. Connor wanted this perfect time, this moment of aching, absolute rightness to last forever—but even as he thought it, he could feel his body starting to betray him, bent on another course entirely. “Sophie,” he sighed, philosophical, and the last kiss he gave her blended wistfulness with anticipation. Surrendering to the inevitable, he took comfort in knowing that the elusive prize of oneness could be captured again, and again, and that they had a whole lifetime to strive for it.

***

They rode home slowly in the pony cart, dazed, aware that they were seeing the Devonshire spring for the first time but barely able to concentrate on it; they were still too wrapped up in one another. Tranter Fox riding a donkey between the two stone gateposts flanking the drive to Stone House was an arresting sight. Valentine turning in and Tranter’s donkey coming out almost collided in the toll road.

“Whoa!” Tranter’s worried face lit up when he saw them. “Praise the Lord, ee’re ’ome! I been sended three times since noon t’ tell you—there’m turrible trouble at Guelder!”

Sophie grabbed the seat on one side and Connor’s thigh on the other, steadying herself while he wrestled with the reins, calming Val. “What’s wrong?”

“Fire at the forty level. Nobody’s sayin’ who, but they think a man hung a lantern too close t’ the scaffold beam, and it catched. Charles Oldene and his team was sinking a pit all the way down the south gallery and didn’t see nor smell a thing till it were too late. Now they’m trapped.”

Without a word, Connor turned the pony toward the mine and whipped him into a canter. Tranter jogged behind or alongside, shouting out the rest of the story, while Sophie held on, white-knuckled, to the jouncing cart and tried to control her fear. Fire had eaten away the support timbers at the entrance to the gallery, collapsing it under a ton of burned rubble and ore. The cave-in had stopped the fire by smothering it, but it had also walled up the winze through which fresh air pumped into the gallery. Miners had been working feverishly to haul away the fallen debris, but the danger of another collapse made the work slow and potentially deadly. In fact, half an hour ago Jenks had told them to stop, Tranter reported, until new timbers could be wedged in to protect them. Meanwhile, Oldene, Roy Donne, and Rollie Coachman were running out of breathable air. “Ee can ’ear ’em weakenin,’ the tributers say. They’m layin’ down flat where what’s left is cooler, savin’ up their strength. But every man knows, ma’am, it’s likely the end of ’em.”

Guelder mine swarmed with villagers; it looked as if half of Wyckerley had turned out to wait and pray for the three men trapped underground. The scraggly crowd parted to let the pony cart pass, and before Connor reached the mine office, Andrewson and Jenks burst out the door and rushed toward them. Sophie was struggling for composure, but memories of another disaster—three years ago, when Tranter had been trapped and they’d come so close to losing him—kept flashing through her mind.