His warm laugh gusted across her ear, and she shuddered, gasping again when his chest brushed against hers, the friction sending a thrill through her. Her entire body thrummed with a ragged heartbeat. “London’s most exciting new writer reduced to this,” he teased. “I never thought I would live to conquer her.”
Maggie’s eyes flew open. Conquer?
She wrapped her legs around his waist, dragging him into her. The moment their bodies touched, the moment he realized how much slicker and ready she had become, Bridger relented. There were no more coy games as he eased her back on the desk and pushed inside, filling her, drawing a winding groan from her throat as she clung to him. Her feet dug into his lower back, urging him deeper; if there was deeper to go then she wanted to experience it. She wanted to leave no part of herself untouched.
Even as Bridger moved inside her there was no relief. She planted her palms on the desk and thrust out her chest, crashing back against him, chasing the tingling in her cheeks that intensified the more she had of him. He found his way back to her mouth, kissing her, the two of them passing back and forth the fevered sound she made with each crescendo. His pace increased. She could chase the swell no longer and risked freeing one hand to smash his cheek against hers, crying out. He groaned and spent himself inside her, and Maggie shudderedunder him. She panted and laughed, heedless of the noise, loudly in love with him and all his flesh and passion and heat provided.
“Of course, I will marry you,” she said, watching him lift his head and gaze down at her. His stormy eyes were the softest they had ever been. “For who else would publish my books?”
Bridger rested his head on her chin, sighing with feigned exasperation. “Only if they are as good as the last. You know I will always tell you honestly what I think.”
“The greatest gift of all.” Maggie sat up, pulling the bodice of her stays back into place and wiggling until her skirt fell back down, replacing some of her modesty. Bridger yanked up his trousers and half sat on the desk beside her, reaching for her hand and cradling it in his. “Did you mean what you said in that note?” she asked, suddenly a bit serious. The sparkling fog of lovemaking had faded, and she found herself retreating to the most naked parts of her heart. “That you would love me even if I could not write?”
“I meant it, Maggie—I will always be plain with you, always frank.”
She nodded, believing him, for no eyes that dark and serious could lie. His returned letters had spilled across the desk. She chose one, picking it up and scratching at the wax. At once, Bridger snatched it away. “Not that one,” he said, turning scarlet to the roots of his dark, soft hair. “It was the last. By that time, I had somewhat lost faith.”
“Always plain?” Maggie smirked. “Always frank?”
Bridger relented and let her have it.
It was full of his hurt, his fear, swinging between blaming her for not telling off her aunt and lamenting the timing of his father’s death keeping him from her at the crucial moment. Her eyes filled with tears. She knew this circle of hell intimately, and folded up the letter, then swished it away, aiming vaguely for the fireplace. It bounced harmlessly against the stones and fluttered to the ground.
“What are we to do?” she asked, trying not to be miserable.
“Whatever we must.” Bridger cleared his throat and stood and rummaged in the desk, withdrawing a tattered ledger that, in all honesty, probably needed replacing, or at least some repair. Dropped, it thudded down onto the desk near her thigh. His eyes were blazing when he next looked at her, and for a moment, she thought anything might be possible. And perhaps it was, for this man had found a way to publish her book and make a dream something she could hold. “Here is the income we’ve already received from volume one ofThe Killbride,and we shall publish the second volume in the coming year. How quickly, dear one, can you write another book?”
28
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
The Merchant of Venice, Act 1, Scene 1
Mr. Bridger Darrow and Mrs. Margaret Darrow took a cottage in Cray Arches. It was so merrily situated, in fact, that the fairy crown of Pressmore Estate could be seen presiding on the hilltop overlooking everything, easily spotted from their back garden. They both had a fondness for Warwickshire and had no desire to go elsewhere, though much of their time was spent in London, in the townhouse that could now afford more than one cook and one maid. Beadle Cottage, their home in Cray Arches was called, and though small, it suited them well. Mosely was quit and given back to Mrs. Burton, and though there was some hurt pride and prickly feelings, Winny, Violet, and Mrs. Arden relocated and made their home where they were welcome. There was no more talk of charity or ultimatums, and no more badgering from Aunt Eliza, for Margaret Arden was married at last and settled.
And that, dear reader, was that.
Mrs. Burton did not attend the wedding at the little church in Cray Arches, a snubbing that was met with quiet jubilation. Mrs. Mildred Richmond and Mrs. Ann Richmond were there, one more visibly elated than the other, and of course, Lane stood up for his friend and beamed and said “blazes” too much, offending Mr. Corner, the vicar, who was still not seeing well and mistook Winny for Violet several times. The girls found this very funny, and never corrected him.
Pimm Darrow issued an excuse, claiming urgent business at Fletcher kept him away. It was understood by both Bridger and Maggie that he likely did not want to return to a place he associated with infamy and betrayal. Word arrived, too, that Ruby was matched with a suitable husband, a rich merchant chosen by the colonel, and she wrote long, flowery letters to Maggie, promising to advance her books among the sparkling ladies of her circle.
Regina was there, too, naturally, to congratulate the couple.Sable Fallshad taken London by storm, and her ascension in literary circles made her well positioned to recommend another title by a talented woman,The Killbride.
They did not make much money, and they did not enjoy extraordinary fame, but Maggie found herself suited to writing her books, and walking to Pressmore, and giving her family a modest living where true love was celebrated, and where true love won.
