“It’s for you.”
She smiled, curious, and he resisted the urge to kiss her, not wanting to rush. Not wanting to scare her. She opened the paper carefully, peeling it back just enough to peer inside. She looked up, brow furrowed in confusion before she removed the parchment. “It’s . . .”
“Wait.” He reached for a match, then set the item on fire.
She laughed, and he relaxed slightly at the sound—music in the big empty room. “It’s a figgy pudding.”
“I don’t want it to be a lie, Sixpence. I want it to be the truth. I want us to have fallen in love over a figgy pudding,” he said, his voice catching. “In you I see my heart, my purpose . . . my very soul.”
There was a moment of complete stillness as she recalled the first time he’d said the words, and he thought, fleetingly, that he might be too late. That this silly pudding was too little.
But then she was in his arms, kissing him, and he put all his love, all his emotion into that caress, loving the way her hands came up to play in the hair at the base of his neck, loving her little gasp as he worried her lower lip with his teeth. She pulled away and opened her beautiful blue eyes to meet his gaze, but he was not ready to release her, and he stole another kiss before vowing, “I am yours, my love . . . yours to do with as you will. When I stole you in the dead of night and claimed you for my own, how could I have known that now—tonight—forever—it would be I who am claimed? My heart that is stolen?
“I realize that I am unworthy of you. I realize that I have a lifetime of ruin for which I must make amends. But I swear to you, I shall do everything I can to make you happy, my love. I shall work every day to be a man deserving of you. Of your love. Please . . . please give me that chance.”
Please believe me.
Her eyes glistened with tears, and when she shook her head, he lost his breath, unable to face the possibility that she might refuse him. That she might not believe him. Silence stretched between them, and he was desperate for her words.
“For so long, I have ached,” she whispered, her fingers at his face, as if to convince herself that he was there. That he was hers. “I have ached for more, dreamed of love. I have ached for this moment. I have ached for you.” A tear spilled over, tracking down one of her lovely cheeks, and he lifted his hand to wipe it away. “I think I have loved you since we were children, Michael. I think it was always you.”
He placed his forehead to hers, pulling her to him, wanting her near. “I am here. I am yours. And dear God, Penelope, I have ached for you as well. So very much.”
She smiled, so beautiful. “How is that possible?”
“How could it not be?” he asked, the words harsh and graveled with emotion. “For nine years, I thought it was vengeance that would save me, and it took you—my strong, beautiful wife—to prove that I was wrong and that love was my salvation. You are my redemption,” he whispered. “You are my benediction.”
She was crying in earnest, and he sipped at the tears before taking her mouth in one long, lush kiss, pouring all his love into the caress, stroking deep until they were both gasping for breath. He lifted his head. “Tell me you believe me.”
“I believe you.”
He closed his eyes against the wave of relief that coursed through him at the words. “Say it again.”
“I believe you, Michael.”
“I love you.”
She smiled. “I know.”
He kissed her, deep and quick. “It is customary for the lady to return the sentiment.”
She laughed. “Is it?”
He scowled. “Tell me you love me, Lady Penelope.”
“It’s Lady Bourne, to you.” She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and let her fingers tangle in his hair. “I love you, Michael. I love you quite desperately. And I’m very happy that you’ve decided to love me back.”
“How could I not?” he asked. “You are my warrior. Facing down Bruno and Langford to fight.”
She smiled shyly. “I could not leave. I would not be your fallen angel. I would follow you into hell . . . but only to bring you back.”
The words humbled him. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, “But I am afraid I cannot let you go.”
Her serious blue gaze did not waver as she asked, “Do you promise?”
With everything he was. “I do.” He wrapped her in his arms, resting his chin upon her head, before he remembered the other item he’d brought for her. “I brought your winnings, love.” He extracted the papers from the card game the previous evening and set them next to the pudding.
“Your property.”
He pressed a kiss to her neck, and smiled against the skin when she sighed at the caress. “Not mine. Yours. Won handily.”
She shook her head. “There is only one thing from last night’s winnings that I want.”
“What is that?”
She leaned up to kiss him thoroughly, robbing him of breath. “You.”
“I think you might regret that win, Sixpence.”