Page 65 of The Traitor
She was happy to share the day with him, to share his land with him, to share his memories with him. As Milly let the peace of the surrounding glade seep into her soul, she would be happy to share herself with him as well.
***
The occasional duel was apparently not enough to keep a man’s instincts sharpened when it came to ambushes. Such were the deadening results of a few years on the fringe of London Society.
“We’re to picnic here?” Sebastian asked. “Wouldn’t you rather take your meal where the sun can reach us?”
Because the footmen had laid out the blankets—a thickness of three old quilts—in the dappled shade near the stream. The meal—assuming his wife allowed him to eat between her questions—would thus take place right beneath one of the best climbing oaks a boy had ever discovered.
Milly snapped off a sprig of honeysuckle, sniffed it, then passed it to Sebastian. “For this meal, my first private meal with my husband, seclusion suits me better. Does the mill still function?”
Sebastian breathed in the scent that symbolized the bonds of love. Honeysuckle was like his wife: a quietly lovely exterior hid a more beguiling and intangible beauty than one suspected.
“The mill ought to work. Local lore is that it dates back to Good King Hal’s day. We had a succession of dry years, though, and my father and a few of the other landowners thought it prudent to build a mill powered by livestock rather than water. The mill closer to the village is larger, but this one could serve when that one’s at capacity.”
Milly went after a cluster of lilacs next, the buds not entirely open.
“Will you make love with me here, Husband? Somewhere you were happy, somewhere a happy memory would be within our reach as the years go by?”
Delivermefromvillagegirlswhenspringisatitsheight.He took the lilacs from her and led her to the blankets.
“Baroness, you are very bold on your wedding day.”
“I am very happy on my wedding day. Did you know lilacs stand for first emotions of love?”
Yes, he had known that. He paused to strip a few inches of lavender leaves from a bush and held them out to her. “Lavender is for distrust.”
“Lavender”—she upended his hand, so the leaves fluttered to earth—“is for making soaps, sachets, and money. What do you suppose is packed in that hamper?”
He did not care what was in the hamper. He cared very much that Milly should not trust this happiness she mentioned so casually. Sooner or later—perhaps within the week—she would have to deal with being the Traitor Baron’s wife, or—more likely—his widow.
Milly knelt on the blankets, reminding him of another picnic they’d shared. “You are brooding, Sebastian. Do you regret marrying me?” She passed him a bottle of wine along with her question.
A snippet of schoolboy Latin assailed him:invinoveritas. “I will never regret marrying you, though you…”
She sat back, a knife in one hand, a small loaf of bread in the other.
“Yes, yes, I know. I will regret marrying you. You are a bad, wicked man, treason personified, the shame of three peerages and probably many a colonial society as well. Open the wine, and we’ll toast the depths of your disgrace.”
The bottle in his hand was one of a few shipped back from France years ago, before Napoleon had barged his way onto Britain’s list of crosses to bear.
“Milly, I’m sorry.” So inadequate; so sincere.
She fished another crock out of the hamper and lifted the lid.
“Strawberries. Just for today, Sebastian, might we please not dwell under the cloud of your sorrows and misgivings? Might we pretend you’re any other handsome fellow about to make love with his wife for the first time? You do intend to consummate the vows, don’t you?”
The strawberries went back into the hamper, the lid of the crock clattering against the container. She passed him the knife, though what he was supposed to do with it was a mystery.
Sebastian had upset his wife. She hid it well, probably between a wedge of cheddar and some sliced ham yet to make an appearance on the blanket, but Sebastian was ruining her wedding day.
Theirwedding day.
Between one lovely, scented spring breeze and the next, Sebastian’s emotions shifted from a need to protect his wife against the sentimentality of the day, to a need to cherish her for her tender emotions. Regardless of the outcome of the next duel, and the next—of all of the duels—Sebastian would never have another wedding day. Of that, he was certain.
He set the wine aside unopened, tossed the knife into the hamper, and crawled across the blanket.
“Kiss me, Milly St. Clair.”
