"Stop it."
"It's true, Celsie. I'm going mad, and there's nothing that you or anyone else can do about it except hide me away from Society until I'm ready to be committed so that I don't humiliate the lot of you."
"Hiding you away is the last thing I intend to do. You are the most fascinating, brilliant, incredibly intelligent man I know, and I will not allow you for one moment to deprive the world of what you have to offer it. Now, tell me some of the other things you've seen."
He slanted her a half-disbelieving, half-hopeful look from beneath his lashes. "It's nonsense, all of it. Bloody nonsense."
"Tell me anyhow."
"You really want to know, then?"
She smiled again. "I am asking, aren't I?"
"Oh, very well, then." And so he told her about being at the townhouse in London a fortnight earlier, and looking out the window only to see a string of amber moons glowing upon a shiny ribbon of grey. He told her about being at Rosebriar, near the village of Heath Row, and seeing the winking firefly roaring overhead the night of her ball. He told her about passing through Wembley back in April, and seeing thousands of people piled into a giant soup bowl with a field in the middle and yelling at the tops of their lungs. And he told her about a big, red, rectangular box, with two eyes in the front and rows of people sitting behind glass windows, and how it — and not any flight of brilliance or imagination on his part — had prompted his idea for a double-compartmented coach.
She listened in rapt fascination, eager to hear about every strange thing he'd seen and heard. Finally he ran out of words and turned his head to look quietly at her.
"So what do you think?" he asked. "I'm going mad, aren't I?"
She pursed her lips, thinking. "I don't know. I can't help but wonder if there's a purpose to these things."
"A
purpose
?"
"Well, yes. Maybe you're a modern-day prophet, Andrew. Maybe this is all allegory. Maybe God is trying to tell you something, or you have simply been gifted in a way that neither of us will ever understand. I don't know what to think. But I do know one thing: You ought to take advantage of everything you're seeing. Write it all down, catalogue each episode, try to find a pattern, try to use what you're seeing toward the pursuit of your own creations. I can help you."
"Help me?"
She grinned. "Well, you are
not
the most organized person in the world. If you leave all the paperwork, organization, and administration to me, you, my dear husband, can get on with your science."
Andrew stared at her incredulously.
Dear God in heaven . . . have I been truly blessed? She's not going to turn away from me, then? She's actually going to remain at my side, help me through this, take what's bad and make it good?
He shook his head, feeling as though the storm clouds that had been hanging over his head and future this past year were finally clearing away, allowing the first brilliant rays of sunlight to touch him from above.
And Celsie was that sunlight.
He reached out, slid an arm around her waist, and pulled her close, needing her strength, her optimism, her new way of looking at things — and the solid, living warmth of her that was his only comfort in the strange and confusing world his life had become.
"What a fool I've been for not telling you earlier," he murmured, feeling humbled and ashamed. "I was so afraid that you'd reject me if you knew the truth, that your admiration would turn to pity, and, well . . . I guess I found the idea faintly unbearable."
"The idea that I'd reject you, or that my admiration would turn to pity?"
"The former, of course."
She smiled. "Well, Andrew, if you were afraid of
that
, then I'd say you weren't as loathe to marry me as you might have thought."
"It's the madness," he said despairingly. "As much as I think I'd like to be someone's husband, I shouldn't be married to anyone. It's not fair to her. Not fair to start something that's only going to end in heartbreak. I'm a doomed man."
"Oh, no, Andrew. You're not a doomed man. You're a very gifted one, I think, blessed in a very special way, and you probably have more to offer this world than you can ever know — and more than any ordinary man of science could ever give." She pulled him close, gazing deeply into his eyes. "I don't know what ails you, and I'm not even going to try to guess, but I know one thing: Together, you and I are going to turn this little affliction of yours from the negative into the positive. And we're going to start right now."
Chapter 27
They left immediately for Rosebriar.
Oh, it was amazing, what confession could bring! Like the earth after a rain shower, Andrew felt cleansed. Reborn. He filled his lungs with clean, sweet air as Newton carried him swiftly along the muddy roads, and gazed about him with new eyes. Three days without sleep, yet he had never felt more alive. Three days of marriage, and a lifetime of hope before him. How long had it been since he'd appreciated the beauty of a hard blue sky reflected in the perfect mirror of a puddle? The winsome sight of a wagtail flitting before them? The joy of simply being alive? His future was uncertain yes, but he now knew he had one constant in his life: Celsie. With her by his side, he would not have to face anything alone, ever again.
As he watched her cantering along beside him on Sheik, his heart swelled and his loins tightened. Oh, how he would love to pull her off the fiery little stallion and into his arms . . . how he would love to plunder her mouth, her body, right here in a grassy verge, in a damp glade. She had given him back the world. She had knelt with him in the muddy street, shielded him from ridicule and speculation, and defended him with all the courage of a tigress standing over its wounded mate. As long as he had Celsie, he was invincible.
It hit him like a broadside of iron.
I love her.
His hands tightened on the reins to anchor his suddenly dizzy head.
God help me — I love her!
Such a momentous realization nearly overwhelmed him. He was no longer the prisoner of his own fears, because she had set him free. He was no longer a prisoner of his own fearful future, because she had made lightness out of something heavy, brightness out of something dark. God in heaven, he didn't even have to remain a prisoner in his own
house
anymore, because she — his own, dear, wife — knew all, accepted all, accepted
him
.
They were a half mile from Rosebriar; already he could see the big house of rambling grey stone nestled against its backdrop of green hills and heath, of autumn trees dark, scraggly, and bare-leaved against the hard blue sky. Without warning, Andrew pulled Newton up, snared Sheik's reins in his other hand, and as both horses plowed to a stop, leaned breathlessly toward the startled Celsie.
"Andrew, what are you doing?"
For answer, his mouth came down on hers. She melted against him, making a noise of contentment deep in her throat, and for him there was only his wife, her soft lips yielding to his, her arm winding around his neck, the tips of her breasts just touching his chest, her tongue slipping out to playfully taste his own.
Sheik fidgeted and sidestepped away, breaking the kiss. Andrew met Celsie's gaze, breathing hard.
She put a hand to her heart, her eyes glowing with banked silver fire.
With invitation.
And then she gave him a mischievous little grin and looked rather pointedly at the pommel of his saddle. Or rather, at the hardening bulge in his breeches that was just inches away.
For Andrew, the chill November day was suddenly very warm.
For Celsie, the urge to reach out and touch that growing bulge was suddenly very strong.
"Thank you for agreeing to come back to Rosebriar, Andrew," she murmured, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. "I know you're tired, and that this was a bit of a ride, but it didn't seem appropriate to spend our first real night as husband and wife in your brother's house." She edged Sheik a little closer to Newton, and reaching out, dragged her finger suggestively up the side of her husband's thigh, watching in satisfaction as he shut his eyes and groaned softly. She leaned close, and with a coy grin, whispered into his ear, "I think it's time we begin our marriage in earnest, don't you? After all, we have a wedding night to consummate."
"Yes . . . " he leaned toward her once more, his lips brushing her cheek and causing a warm glow to spread through her blood. "Lost time to make up for."
"Wild inventions to create . . ."
"Homeless puppies to save . . ."
"Unfinished business to complete . . ."
His hand had found the small of her back through the woolen pleats of her riding jacket. She sighed in contentment and anticipation.
"Andrew?"
"Celsie?"
He looked at her expectantly, his eyes intense, his grin slow and lazy and full of that famed de Montforte charm. She smiled in open invitation and slowly gathered her reins. And then:
"First one back to the house wins!"
She set her heels to Sheik's sides and squealed with excitement as the fleet Arabian shot ahead like a quail exploding from cover. A moment later she heard the thundering tatoo of Newton's pursuit, and laughing, gave the little stallion his head. The wind sang in her ears. Mud spattered her flying petticoats. The horse's ears twitched forward, twitched back, and suddenly Newton, two hands taller and Thoroughbred-fast, was there beside her, iron-gray mane streaming in the wind, nostrils flaring red, his great galloping legs eating up the road.
A hand snaked around her waist and Celsie shrieked as she was pulled from the saddle across flying space, only to be swept up into the hard curve of her husband's embrace. Laughing, he settled her before him, imprisoning her within his arms and not letting the big thoroughbred slow until they were through the gates of Rosebriar and on their way down the stately drive, Sheik cantering in their wake. As they trotted up to the steps of the front entrance, they were both laughing.
Celsie, her face flushed with wind and her heart pounding, her bottom half on the pommel and half on Newton's withers, turned and pushed playfully at Andrew's chest. "You really
are
mad!" she cried breathlessly —
And kissed him.
Beneath them, Newton was still moving. Dutifully he carried them up to the steps and stopped, where he tossed his head and waited for them to dismount.
But Celsie was still kissing her handsome husband, loving this new, cheerful side to him that she had only glimpsed before, loving the way his tongue traced her lips before slipping between them, loving the feel of his hand as it moved up the front of her embroidered waistcoat, his thumb pushing against the bottom of one breast. She groaned as he lightly caressed her nipples through the fabric, teasing them to small, hard buds, his hand hidden by her jacket and cloak.
Flushed, dazed, and breathless, she finally pulled away.
"What
will
the servants think?" Andrew teased, with a wicked gleam in his eye.
"That Rosebriar's mistress is madly in love with her husband. Now come, Andrew. I have a present for you, and I must give it to you now, before we meet in bed, before you kiss me again and make me lose all my resolve to make this perfect —"
"A present?"
"A wedding present! Come, let's go!"
She slid out of his arms and landed lightly on the ground. He dismounted, handed the Thoroughbred's reins to an approaching groom, and ran after his wife as she flew up the front stairs. He caught her arm one step from the top and spun her around. She was laughing, her eyes bright and her cheeks rosy from the cold wind as she tumbled into his arms.
"If we're going to make this perfect, I have a few ideas of my own," he said. "First I am going to kiss you. Then I am going to carry you over the threshold as I should have done the other morning. And finally I'm going to let you go for only the space of a heartbeat, because I, too, have a wedding present to give you."
Again their lips met, and she was still kissing him as he lifted her easily in his arms, carried her up the last stone step and over the threshold into the home that had once been her father's, then hers — and now belonged to them both. He didn't bother shutting the door, leaving it swinging open behind them for a servant to close.
In the entrance hall, he finally set her down. "Very well, go get your present, then, and I'll go get mine. Where shall we meet?"
"Top of the stairs in a quarter of an hour!"
Then, laughing, she kissed him fully on the lips and was gone in a whirl of dark woolen petticoats.
Andrew stood there for a moment in the hall, his head reeling, his heart singing. God and thunderation, what the devil had he wasted all this time, energy and worry on? Perfect women did indeed exist! He
had
one!
And what the devil was he doing just standing there?
He ran to fetch his present to her, which was still packed in the coach that had come down with them from Blackheath. The coach was in the stables, and as Andrew lifted the heavy wooden crate from the vehicle, he cursed himself for not having had it brought round to the house. By the time he lugged the thing back to the house, through the door, and across the entrance hall, he was nearly out of breath. There he set the crate down and paused to look up the grand flight of stairs.
Celsie was there, all right, at the very top, her eyes laughing, her arms empty, watching in amusement as he bent once more and labored to get the huge crate up the stairs.
"Is that my present?" she asked impishly, leaning against the wall and watching him struggling with his burden.
"It certainly is."
"Well, I guess it's not a piece of the famous de Montforte jewelry," she quipped, folding her arms and pretending to be very disappointed. "Unless it's a four-million-carat diamond."
"You're right . . . not jewelry," he managed, stopping to rest for a moment before picking the giant box back up and continuing on.