Page 106 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“And then his lordship gave it to him plump in the breadbox—”
“He’s an out and outer, all right—”
“A nonesuch, is what he is—”
“And then her ladyship shot him!”
“What?” Mrs. Godfrey cried, turning to Anne. “You shot someone, my lady?”
Anne started to duck her head, but she stopped herself. Instead, she lifted her chin. “Why, yes. Yes, I did.”
“Aye,” Nick said with an air of authority, “her ladyship is bang up to the mark. Don’t be letting nobody tell you any different.”
It was four in the morning by the time Anne and Michael found themselves climbing the steps to her town house.
They made their way to Anne’s room. Word had gotten back to the household about their exploits, and there was a copper tub set out before the fire in Anne’s room. Anne waved off her maid’s offer of assistance, and Hugh’s as well. She wanted to tend to Michael herself.
But first, there was something she needed to tell him.
“God, that bath looks divine,” Michael was saying as he unbuttoned his jacket. “I’ve sore muscles in places I didn’t even know existed.”
“Michael,” Anne said.
He groaned as he shrugged out of his jacket. “I’m going to need some help getting my boots off. I don’t think I can bend over.”
“Michael,” Anne said again.
He started at the sight of a hole in the shoulder of his jacket, which was also marred with bloodstains. “Look at this—I think it’s a bullet hole. That bastard almost shot me!” He groaned as he tossed it aside. “Fighting off four thugs will be nothing compared to your brother’s tailor when he sees this. Pinkerton is definitely going to kill me.”
“Michael, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Of course, darling,” he said, pulling his shirt up over his head. “Just let me get out of these bloodstained clothes and into that tub.”
She winced as the mess of rapidly darkening bruises covering Michael’s chest and arms came into view. She crossed the room and took his hands. “No, Michael. I need to tell you right now.”
He glanced at her as he turned toward the tub, and what he saw caused him to jerk his head back around. Because, of course, he could read her face, and she could read his, and she saw the exact moment he realized that the thing she needed to tell him so urgently was that she loved him. Incandescent happiness radiated from his eyes (or at least, from the one that wasn’t swollen shut).
“Michael,” she began, “I—”
She didn’t get to finish because his lips crashed down on hers.
She tried again when he lifted his head. “I—”
He lifted her up and began spinning her in a circle.
“Michael!” she protested. “Put me down. I want to look you in the eyes when I tell you.”
After a moment he complied, a huge grin on his face. She tried again, but only got as far as, “M—” before he started kissing her again.
“Will you stop that?” she said when he finally lifted his head. “I want to say it!”
“And you’re going to say it. A thousand times today, and another thousand tomorrow, and a thousand the day after. You’re going to grow so sick of saying it.”
“No, I won’t. I can think of nothing I would rather do than tell you that I love you, Michael Cranfield, a thousand times a day for the rest of our lives.”
He drank her words in, basked in them, treasured them. When he spoke, his voice was a trifle unsteady. “And I love you, my darling Anne.”
Then he was kissing her again, and it didn’t matter that he had pulled one of his wounds open and was bleeding on the carpet, or that she smelled of horse. The moment was simply perfect.
