Page 84 of Gentleman Jim

“Very well. But only because you insist.” Maggie reluctantly sank down onto his coat. She was wearing a fitted dark blue pelisse over a plain muslin gown, her thick hair tied back in a simple knot at her nape. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes extraordinarily bright. “What do you mean by coming here?”

“And what do you mean by striding about in this manner?”

“I’m walking off a temper fit.”

His lips quivered. “Already? At this hour of the morning?”

“Don’t change the subject.” She gave him a worried look. “I thought we agreed it was too dangerous for you to come home?”

“We did. There was only one problem.” He dropped down at her side. “I couldn’t stand another second apart from you.”

Her expression softened. “Was it very awful?”

He grimaced. “I was working myself into a state apparently.” Pining like a lad after his first woman, his grandfather had said. Ridiculous.

She touched his cheek, her fingers as light as butterfly wings brushing over the hard edge of his jaw. “I missed you, too.” Her hand curved around his neck, tugging him closer. “Dreadfully.”

He bent his head and kissed her. Or possibly, she kissed him. He wasn’t entirely certain. All he knew was that his blood suffused with warmth at the touch of her lips, and every restless part of him sighed with relief.

She was here. Back in his arms.

“Maggie…”

“I nearly didn’t come here this morning,” she said. “If I wasn’t so angry—”

“You and your temper.”

Her fingers slid into his hair. “I’ve lately heard it’s unbecoming.”

“Not to me.” He nuzzled her cheek. “My fierce, beautiful girl.” He felt her mouth curve in a smile. “You burn so very brightly. Is it any wonder my life has been so cold without you?”

“I don’t wish you to be cold. But I still don’t think this is a good idea. Your coming here.” That didn’t prevent her from kissing him again.

He was vaguely conscious of the breeze rippling through the trees along the stream, and of his hired horse milling about nearby, cropping grass along the bank. A reminder that he was not, in fact, in a private room somewhere with his beloved, but under a clear blue sky, in the great wide open of Beasley Park.

It was the only thing that kept him from prolonging their embrace.

Drawing back, he rested his forehead gently against hers. “It’s all right. No one saw me riding up. The house looked all but deserted.”

Her eyes widened. “You rode up to the house?”

“I did,” he said grimly.

He hadn’t expected it to affect him. Seeing the sprawling Palladian manor house of honey-colored limestone. Walking over the sloping grounds blanketed in forget-me-nots. But it had affected him. Quite deeply, really. Indeed, every stone and timber provoked another storm of memories.

Coming home, Maggie called it.

But this had never been a home to him. It had been a place where he’d worked. Where he’d suffered. Where he’d felt the anguish of not belonging. The pain of rejection, even from his mother—of stifled hopes, and of dreams that would never ever come to pass.

If he’d had a home at all, it hadn’t been here at Beasley Park. It had been her. Maggie Honeywell had been his home. His only harbor in the storm.

All those years abroad, wandering the world, St. Clare wondered how he’d ever managed to go so long without her. Ten long years, with nothing but his memories to sustain him. It didn’t bear thinking of, not now that he’d seen her again. Not now that he knew she was free. That she’d been waiting for him all this time. His love. His Maggie.

“Is it the same as you remembered?” she asked.

He pulled a face. “Smaller.”

“It stands to reason. You’ve grown bigger, after all.” She lay back on his coat, her head resting just over the edge of the collar on a tuft of forget-me-not covered grass. “Do you remember us lying here together that day? Before it all went wrong?”