Page 106 of The Time for Love
She blinked, then searched his eyes. He had no idea what she saw there, but her expression softened and, turning fully to him, she raised both hands and framed his face.
She looked into his eyes and softly said, “Your past—all of it, the sum total of it—is what made you the man you are today. The man who saw a situation for what it was and stepped in and protected me, my family, my business, my workers, and the entire town from a cunning and wily enemy who, once he’d got his hooks into us, would have torn our lives to shreds and preyed on us for decades. Only you understood how to rid us of him without bloodshed. If the others had tried, they would have gone in aggressively, seeking to drive him off by force, and he would have dug in his heels, defied and fought us, and regardless of the outcome, the clash would have caused irreparable damage.”
Holding his gaze, she evenly stated, “You alone saw the path to victory, and you had the wherewithal—the character, the knowledge, the traits—to convince us all to go along with your plan. That was—” She broke off, clearly remembering the scene in the boardroom, then shook her head in open wonder. “An amazing feat. I’ve never been a part of anything like that—a collective effort of such power.”
She refocused on his eyes and smiled. “The man you are now is the man I need beside me as I—we—steer Carmichael Steelworks into a future bright with possibilities.” She searched his eyes once more, then simply said, “You, as you are, are the man with whom I can see a future—a future I want to seize. I’ve never been visited by this degree of certainty before, not over anything else in my life.”
He looked deep into her turquoise eyes and saw that those words were her truth, uttered with unflinching honesty. Finally, some knot, some constriction buried deep inside him, eased, unraveled, and fell away. Lightness—happiness—rushed in and took its place. He smiled, raised a hand and caught one of hers, and pressed a fervent kiss to her fingertips. “Beside you. There’s nowhere else on earth I want to be. Now and forever.”
Her smile was brilliant, then she leaned closer and, as he bent his head, lifted her lips to his.
They kissed, and between them, passion welled, rose, and surged, eager and wanting.
By the time they broke apart, they were both breathless and hungry.
They searched each other’s eyes, saw their desire and need mirrored in the other, and shared a giddy laugh.
She leapt to her feet, seized his hand, and tugged him up. “Come on! It’s clearly past time we headed upstairs to appropriately celebrate our resounding success.”
Smiling every bit as broadly, as eagerly expectant as she, he rose and allowed her to tow him to the door.
He’d come to Sheffield seeking to secure the final piece—the final enterprise—to complete his portfolio of steel-based industries.
And while he’d found that, he’d also discovered and secured something infinitely more precious.
His place.
The right place for him to fit, the right place in which he could prosper and grow.
Into the man he knew he had it in him to be, standing alongside her.
EPILOGUE
SATURDAY, JUNE 13, 1863. MISTYMOOR MANOR, STACY BANK, PEAK DISTRICT.
Just over three weeks later, Martin had his most deeply desired wish fulfilled when he and Sophy were married before the altar in Sheffield Parish Church.
They’d had to move the ceremony to the larger church to accommodate all those who’d wished to attend. In addition to both their families and all the invited guests who had traveled from all over the British Isles, the congregation had included the majority of staff from the Carmichael houses plus most of the workers from the steelworks as well as all those who had been present in the Carmichael Steelworks’ boardroom on that memorable day when Cornelius Blackwell had been forced to retreat from the town.
Inevitably, the tale of what had transpired that day had got out and done the rounds of the pubs and the clubs, no doubt embellished through every retelling, until Martin couldn’t walk down any street without being greeted and thanked for the town’s deliverance.
At first, he’d protested, but in the end, he’d given up and resigned himself to being known far and wide as the Savior of Sheffield. John Brown—the Father of the Sheffield Iron and Steel Trade—had been the first to laugh and warn him that such names, bestowed by popular acclaim, stuck to a man for life.
But for today, Martin mentally set the unexpected title and mantle aside and concentrated on—reveled in—simply being himself. Courtesy of recent events, he finally truly understood who and what Martin Cynster was. He’d discovered he was a man who wanted a loving wife and a family of his own—along with the love that made both possible—just as passionately as his siblings.
As all the rest of the wider Cynster brood.
For years, he’d felt detached, untouched by the same compulsion that had seemed to infect all the others, but it seemed that he—the man inside—had merely been waiting for the right lady to cross his path.
In Sophy, he’d found his mate and the route to his future. A future that was so muchmorethan any he’d envisioned before.
After the ceremony, they’d circulated among their guests on the lawns about the church, then all those invited to the wedding breakfast had piled into carriages and followed them—driven by Figgs in an open barouche—to Mistymoor Manor.
The manor would be Martin and Sophy’s home and boasted a large ballroom with many glass doors that opened to a flagged terrace. Today, with the sun beaming down outside, the doors had been propped open, and every now and then, a gentle breeze wafted the scents of late blossom and early roses over the chattering and dancing guests.
Martin seized a moment to catch his breath and watch Sophy circle the floor in his cousin Toby’s arms; she appeared to be interrogating Toby about what he did these days. Martin wished her joy in getting any meaningful answers. He lifted a glass of wine from a passing footman’s tray and stepped free of the mad, giddy throng to the empty space before one open door.
He sipped and studied the crowd. Sophy’s family and his were mingling and making the usual connections such families did. Everyone seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. So many of his familial peers—his cousins and second cousins, the children of the fabled group long ago dubbed the Bar Cynster—were married now, he sometimes felt he needed a crib sheet to keep all the names of the spouses straight. And the children! His own nephews and nieces were running amok, weaving through the guests and laughing and calling; he vaguely recalled doing the same at long-ago weddings when he’d been their age.
