Page 25 of Spellbound
“Right,” he said.
Hours later,the magistrate had come and gone. Belladonna was in a slightly better frame of mind. She was no longer wracked with guilt having summoned her ancestors and all but sentencing Reverend Stalker to his death. There was a certainty that had come to her in those last few hours. He would never have stopped. There would have been no peace for any of them because he would not have been content until she was dead.
“You are still troubled.”
Looking up, she saw Desmond in the doorway of her bedchamber. “Must we keep up this ridiculous tradition of having separate rooms? It is the most unnatural thing in the world that a couple who is married should sleep separately.”
“You only say that because you have not heard me snore,” he pointed out.
Her lips curved in a slight smile. “I’m willing to chance it. I don’t want us to sleep apart.”
“Then we will not. This is our home now. Traditions and expectations be damned.”
With each word, eh’d taken a step closer to her until she could reach out and place her hands flat against the hard planesof his chest, covered only by the crisp cotton of his shirt. “You came back to save me.”
“Quite unnecessarily,” he agreed. “You had it all well in hand, it seemed.”
“I might have failed,” she said. “I had never done that particular spell. I had learned it, but never actually completed it. Precisely because it is so powerful and unpredictable. Amarantha cautioned me to never use it unless I had no other choice.”
“Did you?”
Belladonna considered that for a moment. “Not that I could think of at the time.”
“I had a rather starling realization while I was speaking with Mrs. Stalker,” he said softly. “I am in love with you. I know that its’t what you wish to hear. That speaking of love makes you fearful of this curse?—.”
“No. I’m tired of being afraid,” she said. Because she’d had her own realization. When she’d walked into the corridor and seen him holding Reverend Stalker against the wall, it had dawned on her that there were no guarantees in life. Not for anyone. Eugenie had lost the husband she loved. Edwina had lost hers, as well. It was a dangerous thing to love someone so much, but it was a very lonely and painful thing to never love anyone at all. “Because I love you, too. I love you and curses, to borrow one of your favorite phrases, be damned.”
There was no more time for talking. Desmond took her in his arms, kissing her with the same fierce intensity that robbed her of her senses. And like everything else with them, it progressed quickly to a hurried but undeniably satisfying coupling that left them both spent.
EPILOGUE
London, Sixteen months later…
It was notsomething she would ever grow accustomed to. Belladonna Goodwynne Crane stared in complete dismay at the assortment of gowns laid out before her. Silks and velvets, embroidered wool, rich brocades—it was a feast for the senses. And far too dear.
“This is too much, Desmond. Who could possibly need so many dresses?”
“You,” he said. “We will be going into society some while we are in town. There will be parties and the theater to attend… and the wedding, of course.”
Belladonna smiled at that. Edwina was getting married. She’d met the most charming man, brother to the new vicar—a peaceable and very mild mannered sort—and they’d fallen immediately in love. She might, she thought, have helped that along just a little. Not to create the feelings, but to remove some of the obstacles that might have been in their path. She’d never tell Edwina, but she was certain that Desmond suspected.
“I hate to leave Julianna alone so much!” She protested.
“We have a houseful of servants, love. She’s not alone.”
“And who in this house is prepared to deal with her… uniqueness?”
As if on cue, the baby in question giggled from her cradle that had been placed beside the bed. Desmond said nothing, but he did walk over and pick up his daughter. A dark haired, cherubic creature with whiskey eyes and a winsome smile that was remarkably like her mothers. He pressed a kiss to the untamable curls that were far longer and far thicker than a child of only six months ought to possess.
She patted his face in response, but her gaze was fixed on something above them, hovering near the ceiling. It prompted a peal of giggles from her. He didn’t ask what it was. In truth, he didn’t want to know. When living with a woman, or women, who were blessed with such gifts, the key to happiness was an unprecedented amount of willful ignorance.
“Keep the dresses, Belladonna,” he insisted. “We will find places for you to wear them. Or you may simply wear them at home because you like the look and feel of them—or because I do.”
She wavered, whether because she wanted the gowns or because of the sensual innuendo in his voice, he could not say.
“It’s such a waste, Desmond! They’ll only fit me for another few months anyway.”
His tickling of Julianna slowed and then halted altogether. When he turned to her, there was a question in his gaze, but hope as well. “And why is that precisely?”
