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“You may have it only if you wish it.” He raised his gaze to hers, and she saw a hesitant hope there. “I’m quite happy to continue as we are, with just Abigail and Jamie, for as little or as long as you want. But if you wish to forgo this”—he rolled the lemon between his fingers—“that would make me very happy as well.”
Silly tears flooded her eyes. “I think, then, that I prefer we use this lemon for lemonade.”
He didn’t reply, but the ardent kiss he pressed on her was eloquent. The prospect of having a shared child sometime in the future delighted him as well.
When she could catch her breath, Helen said, “And the other gift?”
“More of an offering, really.” He brought a bunch of wildflowers out from behind his back. “At least they’re not wilted this time.”
“I adore wilted flowers,” she said.
“I am a lucky man to have such an easily pleased wife.” He sobered. “I would like to give you a wedding present soon. Perhaps a necklace or a new dress or a special book. Think about it and let me know what you’d like.”
She’d been the mistress of a duke. She’d had jewels and gowns showered upon her once, and they hadn’t brought her happiness. Now she knew better.
Helen reached up and traced the scars on his cheek. “There’s only one thing I want.”
He turned his head to kiss her fingers. “And what is that?”
“You,” she whispered before he lowered himself to her. “Only you.”
Epilogue
Princess Sympathy lifted her eyes to the sky and saw that she had failed. Soon she would join her champion in a stony sleep. Despairing, she wrapped her arms about Truth Teller’s cold stone waist and kissed his frozen lips.
And then a strange thing happened.
Color and warmth rushed over Truth Teller’s gray face. His limbs turned to flesh and blood, and his mighty chest heaved, drawing breath.
a, who’d been pacing the room, stopped, her expression alarmed. “She’s not a widow?”
“No. She’s the former mistress of the Duke of Lister.”
Sophia blinked, and then scowled. “I thought she might still be married. If she’s left Lister, who she was before hardly matters.” She dismissed Helen’s scandalous past with an impatient wave of the hand. “What matters is that you dress at once and go to Edinburgh and apologize to that woman for whatever boneheaded thing you’ve said or done.”
Alistair eyed his sister, now vigorously drawing the curtains. “I’m appreciative of the fact that you assume the rift is my fault.”
She only snorted at that.
“But what,” he continued, “do you think I should do once I apologize? The woman won’t live here.”
She turned to face him and pursed her lips. “You asked her to marry you?”
Alistair looked away. “No.”
“And why not?”
“Don’t be a fool, Sophia.” His head was aching, and he just wanted to go back to sleep—perhaps forever. “She’s been the mistress to one of the richest men in England. She’s lived in London or near the capital all of her life. You should’ve seen the jewels and gold Lister gave her. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed, but I’m a disgustingly scarred, one-eyed man who is nearing his fourth decade and living in a dirty old castle in the middle of nowhere. Why the hell would she want to marry me?”
“Because she loves you!” Sophia nearly shouted.
He shook his head. “She might say she loves me—”
“She admitted it to you and you did nothing?” Sophia looked scandalized.
“Let me finish,” Alistair growled. His head was pounding, his mouth tasted of the ale he’d drunk the night before, and he hadn’t shaved since Helen left. He just wanted to get this over with and go back to bed.
His sister pressed her lips together and waved a hand impatiently for him to continue.
