Page 133 of A Scot Is Not Enough
She laughed.
“Thesgian-dubhwas tucked in his coat,” he said. “I encouraged him to leave London and find his fortune elsewhere.”
She sunk deeper into the bed, her head on his chest. “I’m glad you’re on my side. You would be a formidable enemy.”
She twined her legs with his, fitting their bodies together. For a long time, they rested. His heartbeat was the music she needed. There was a steadiness being with him which fed her. The scent of his skin, the grain of his waistcoat against her cheek, his hand stroking her back. Alexander Sloane was her life. Hewould be her adventure, her future, and she would be his.
“What are we going to do about the countess?” she asked quietly.
“At the moment, nothing. She’s on her way to Scotland secure in her false belief that she’s eliminated you.”
“I can accept that... for now.”
He kissed the crown of her head. “Trust me.”
“Tha mo dhòchas seasmhach annad.”The words poured from her heart. “My hope is constant in thee... Clanranald MacDonald’s motto. I finally know what it means.”
Sunlight glinted on thesgian-dubh. Her vow complete. She pushed up on one elbow and pressed her mouth to his. Alexander was sweet and salty with love and need. She drank from the well of his kiss, content.
“You are my hope, Alexander Sloane, and you will be for the rest of my life.”
Epilogue
They were quiet as church mice, he and Cecelia. She was angelic in sunlight pouring through stained-glass windows. His family adored her, especially his mother. Her eyes had lit up when he whispered in her ear there’d be another wedding to plan. Very soon.
At the moment her motherly gaze was on Gideon and Phoebe exchanging their vows. All heads tipped for a view above rows of pretty bonnets, staid mobcaps, and men properly queued. His gaze, however, was on Cecelia.
“Stop it,” she murmured. “Your focus should be on your brother and his bride.”
“My focus should be on the object of my affection.” He stroked his knuckles on the back of her hand.
They’d made a habit of removing one glove each in hacks, in churches, and in London’s gardens and squares. Anything to savor each other, flesh to flesh. They’d put the bloom on each other’s cheeks and a sparkle in each other’s eyes. Jenny, of course, was slowly warming to his constant presence in the littlehouse on Swan Lane. He kept his rooms at the White Hart like a proper gentleman, which barely appeased the maid.
When he and Cecelia bought a house on Evans Row, they informed Jenny she would be the stately home’s new housekeeper should she accept.
Jenny had clapped her hands in glee. She’d hugged Cecelia, and she’d almost hugged him.
It was progress.
“That’s so lovely.” Cecelia’s voice was dreamy.
She was watching Gideon and Phoebe staring into each other’s eyes while the clergyman droned prosaic twaddle.
“I’d wager Gideon’s not listening. Probably won’t remember a thing.”
Hazel eyes gleamed softly. “Will you remember our wedding day?”
He stroked her ring finger. “I’ll remember you.”
Was it possible love multiplied? Did it compound like interest, getting bigger and grander with time? He’d never contemplated the sheer joy of growing old with a woman. To see gray thread her hair and lines gently etch her face. With Cecelia he could. The notion settled on him like a warm blanket on a testy winter day.
It was possible love muddled his brain. He was becoming a terrible romantic. He’d purchased eight romantic novels to entice her to spend more time in bed. Yesterday, he’d spent an hour in Madame Laurent’s shop designing a brown-and-pea-green shift to match Cecelia’s ugly robe. The Frenchwoman had been incensed when he said the shift—preferably the ugliest shift she could make—would be a wedding gift for his wife.
Madame Laurent had grumbled about idiotic Englishmen.
But that was love. It made smart men soft in the head, and soft women smarter. It defied convention and itwasconvention. Centuries of tribes and nations attested to it. Lust might drive men and women, but love knit them, heart and soul.
Cecelia tipped her head, whispering quietly, “I was just wondering which of my friends will marry next.”
