Page 124 of Marry in Secret
“On what?”
“On how good you are.” She pulled his head down for a long, luscious kiss and one thing led to another and they made love again, slowly, thoroughly, until he was sated and exhausted and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.
“I love it when you smile like that,” she said sleepily. “I love you so much, Thomas.”
The sound of Thomas not responding hung in the air.
He swallowed. It was all very well for him to tell himself that the words didn’t matter, but they mattered to her. If they didn’t, she wouldn’t be telling him all the time that she loved him.
And if he were honest with himself, every time she told him she loved him he felt warmth coil in his chest and spread all the way through him. A small healing. A benediction.
So he was lying about the importance of the words. Lying to himself and by omission, to her. Because he did love her, more than words could express.
He opened his mouth to tell her so. But to his chagrin, she flinched, and pressed her fingers over his mouth.
“No, don’t, I’m sorry. I wasn’t pressuring you. I don’tneed you to say anything, Thomas. I’m all right, truly. I don’t need to know.”
He took her hand and kissed her on the palm. “Yes, you do. And I need to tell you. It’s just... I’m not very good with words.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Hush. I do. Rose, you’re...” How to describe something so immense, so powerful? He groped for words; impossible, flimsy, parsimonious, feeble words.
“Of course I love you.” So inadequate. Useless.
“And I—”
“I’m not finished.” He’d barely started. He took both her hands in his, held them cupped against his heart as he lay on the bed facing her, all defenses down. Vulnerable. Open. “Rose, when I was shipwrecked, the thought of you kept me afloat. When I was dying of thirst in the desert, you were my water. When the other men were lost, barren of hope, wishing to die, I refused to allow it because I was strong, because I had you in my heart. You were my beacon, my hope, the very flame of my being.
“You were with me in the filth and degradation and brutality of the galleys, keeping me sane, keeping me strong. Reminding me that there was another world, clean and good and wholesome because you were in it. Through my darkest days, the knowledge that you were here, waiting, gave me heart. I knew, with unquenchable certainty that somehow, someday I would get back to you. And though I didn’t realize it, since my return you’ve freed me from the invisible chains that bound me still. My dearest girl, I love you, more than I can say, more than any words can ever express.”
“Oh, Thomas.” She was awash with tears. “But if you felt like that, why did you keep telling me to take the annulment?”
“I didn’t think you wanted me. I was damaged. I didn’t want to drag you down to my level.”
“Oh, Thomas, never think it. I always loved you and I always will. I loved you when I married you, and—”
“And I loved you.”
Her face crumpled. “Really? It wasn’t just because you were protecting me? Because of the possibility of a baby?”
“No, I loved you then and I love you now. From the moment I first saw you in the pump room in Bath, I knew you were the only woman for me.”
“When you told me you’d been damaged, I believed you, but I still loved and wanted you.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “But, Thomas, you’ve been through the most horrendous experiences, and I don’t know how, because God knows it should have destroyed you, but somehow you’ve emerged from it a fine, strong, decent, beautiful—yes, beautiful, don’t argue with me—kind and loving man. I don’t deserve you, but I’m selfish that way and no matter what you say or do, I’m keeping you.”
There were no words after that. Thomas’s heart was so full it felt ready to burst. All he could do was show her how he felt in the best way he knew. By lovingher.
Epilogue
To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour.
—WILLIAM BLAKE
The late-afternoon sun was soft, mellow with the hush of autumn. A faint scent of wood smoke hung in the crisp air. The trees surrounding Brierdon Court were thin of leaves, a mere smattering of gold and claret and brown against the stark tracery of branches. Yellow birches, golden larches, tawny oak leaves drifting down to lie in damp carpets and become one with the earth.
Seated on a rustic wooden bench, Rose gazed out over the place that would become her rose garden. She and old Mr. Pendell had spent many a happy hour designing it and poring over rose catalogs. They’d decided on a walled garden—roses were tough, but in a sheltered, sunny spot they’d flower more and longer, Mr. Pendell said. And a walled garden would make more of the scent—stop it from being blown away. The perfect place for a lady to sit. Or a lady and her gentleman, he’d added coyly. He was a romantic, old Mr. Pendell.
Now the walls were finished and stone flags had been laid, forming the pathways that wound romantically throughthe garden. The beds had been dug, manured and dug again, and trellises constructed for the climbers. Several pretty arbors had been built with seating beneath—in time the bare wood would be covered by roses.
