"I'm not sure how I'm supposed to find one," grumbled the driver.
"I'll come with you." Madeline turned to Fiona. "Will you be able to remain with His Grace? It's best not to move him."
Fiona nodded, and her cousin scrambled back into the coach. The driver hastened up and urged the horses to turn around. The glossy black coach grew fainter as it rolled toward the horizon, leaving Fiona alone with Percival.
Chapter Thirty
Everything ached, and Percival shifted. Long strands of grass blew in the wind, prickling his skin, and fluttering his tousled attire.
Fiona's soft hand brushed against his forehead and sent a joyful jolt through his body. He wanted her hand to remain there forever.
Instead she glanced at the sky, darker than before, and that sweet brow furrowed. "Hopefully the doctor will be here soon."
Percival smiled at her sudden primness. That said, a doctor sounded bloody good.
Raindrops fell, and Fiona peered up. "Oh, no."
"Help me up," he said. "Let's follow the direction the carriage went in. At least we'll be able to meet it more quickly and hopefully we can find shelter en route."
She blinked. "You're supposed to be ill."
He shrugged. "I'm not unaccustomed to pain."
In truth he hadn't felt this good in a long time. Fiona was here. Beside him. Perhaps he could have reassured Fiona's cousin. But then again-now he was alone with Fiona.
She hesitated, but then lightning fissured the sky.
"Springtime in Yorkshire," she muttered.
"Time to go?" He grinned.
Fiona nodded and pulled him up. He couldn't ignore the blissful warm sensation that spread through him at her touch. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.
He tilted his head toward her, but her expression was once again reserved. She handed him his cane. "You dropped this."
"Thank you." He despised the strange formality. Not that he didn't deserve it. "Forgive me. My behavior the last time we saw each other was despicable."
"How did you find me?"
"I went to the baroness's home. One of the maids told me."
Fiona nodded. "And the mask?"
"An improvisation. A stocking." His shoulders shrank. "It's been so long. Forgive me. I thought-I had this crazy sensation I was being romantic, but I see now, that . . ."
The raindrops toppled at a quicker pace, and the gray sky darkened. Thunder rumbled over them, and his heart thudded against its cage. Rain flooded the now muddy lane, bending the green stems of wild flowers, and Percival tightened his grip on his cane.
Fiona bit her lip and craned the horizon. Finally, her shoulders relaxed a fraction. "I see a cottage."
"Good."
She pointed in the direction of some trees, and he sighed. Ambling on slippery leaves and grass was even worse than braving the mud, but he forced himself forward. Fiona slipped her hand around the arm not wielding the cane, and he smiled.
It was bloody good to have her in his life.
He just hoped she might remain in it.
The next minutes were a blur of slimy branches and squishy leaves. Finally, they halted their muddied slide.
"Edmund Grove." Fiona read the name on the outside of the cozy, red brick cottage. "Oh, no."
"Sweetheart." His reply was instant, and her face flushed.
A lump in his throat thickened. She wasn't his sweetheart. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"No one's home," Fiona said, averting her eyes. "The cottage belongs to Madeline's butler … But he went ahead with some of the other staff to Italy."
A forlorn expression appeared on Fiona's face. Her lovely auburn locks were swept into an elegant chignon; she had changed.
"Let me have one of your pins?"
Fiona's eyebrows darted up, and she moved her head toward him. He shivered as the familiar scent of vanilla wafted over him. He'd missed this. So much.
He delved his fingers into her silky locks and slid a long pin from her hair.
She frowned at him, and some curls fell forward.
"You can take them all out." He placed her hairpin in the keyhole, fiddling with it until it sprang open.
"Oh," she gave a startled cry of approval, and his lips twitched.
"His Majesty's Army has trained me for just such a moment."
She swept by him and grabbed the hairpin, tucking it expertly back into her hair. "I'm sure we shouldn't be here."
"I don't fancy huddling outside the cottage in this rain."
She smiled. "Neither do I."
For a moment his eyes flared. The woman was an angel. Every bit as beautiful as he remembered, though she now moved with an increased confidence, and her attire was elegant.
"I should have come back to you earlier."
"But you didn't want to," Fiona said.
His eyes widened. "No. That's not it."
"You didn't want to see what Lady Cordelia was like?" There was a bitter tone to her voice, and she immediately shook her head. "Forgive me. And-thank you for getting Graeme to send me back Ned. And for everything else as well."
"I don't deserve you. Though I should say I definitely did not leave out of curiosity for Lady Cordelia."
She stilled. "Why are you here?"
"Because-I couldn't stand the thought that I might never see you again. I acted so horribly to you when your grandmother died. And I'm afraid I can't offer very much."
She smiled. "You have a dukedom."
"With responsibilities to see to in Sussex and festivities to attend to the rest of the year. You were wonderful at the ball, but I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."
Fiona settled onto the sofa and smoothed her bronze traveling dress. He settled beside her, stretched out his arm, and gingerly rested it on her shoulders. She tossed him a startled glance, and he did his best to smile at her.
Perhaps nothing had changed. She was going to Italy. He couldn't offer her that. But he needed her to know everything.
"So what do you think about Yorkshire in the spring? Rainy, isn't it?" Her voice rose an octave higher than her customary tone, and a jolt of happiness lurched through him.
Against all odds, she was here, beside him.
And from her wide eyed expression, she was every bit as amazed.
***
Fiona never learned his musings over the county's climate, for he swooped her into an embrace. Firm arms encircled her and pressed her against the hard ridges of his chest. Her breath quickened and caught in her throat, and her heartbeat, usually so unobtrusive and steady, careened wildly. The thought of any normality when he was near her seemed impossible for her body to comprehend.
Life only consisted of his steady gaze and the angular arcs of the chiseled features of his face. His eyes seared through her, and he stroked her cheek.
"Fiona," his voice roughened, and he clutched her more tightly against him. The gesture made her heart hammer, but there was nothing wrong, only everything good and wonderful with what was happening.
Everything had changed. Everything was perfect.
His gaze remained tender, and she had the feeling he understood her completely. "No other woman makes me laugh quite as much."
"Oh?" She croaked.
"And you're intelligent, skilled in something apart from water colors."
He smiled, and she was transfixed by the tantalizing proximity of his alluring mouth.
The space between them narrowed, and her heart galloped. "Water colors is a good skill," she said, conscious she was rambling. "And I'm dreadful at it."
Percival shook his head solemnly. "I don't care. You're curious and amusing and-"
She pressed a finger to his lips. "Stop."
He stared at her, and she fought to resist the temptation of succumbing to his deep blue gaze.
"Are you simply here to apologize?" Her voice trembled, and he shook his head solemnly.
The strained line of his sculpted mouth quivered, and he inhaled. "I love you."
She couldn't answer him. The words were too much what she'd always dreamed of someone saying, and the fact that that someone was him . . . Her heart pounded with greater vigor, and she had the mad thought that if she said anything she might break the spell, flinging her back to her old world.
"I don't want us to be apart," he continued, as if answering her fear, and he leaned forward.
This time his lips angled, and her eyelashes flickered shut. The whole world vanished, and all she concentrated on was the blissful sensation of his lips caressing her own, and the deep sweeping strokes of the velvety warmth of his wicked tongue.
He explored her body, and the tender motion of his firm hands stroking her face, gliding to her arms, and settling on her waist, gave life to a swarm of butterflies fluttering in her stomach.