Page 81 of Wicked By Design

“I have all sorts of equally sensible ideas that will work out just as splendidly, just you wait and see,” she said without a trace of irony.

Damian snorted. “Very well, but let us wait until the morning to discover what other lunatic ambitions you possess, I think I’ve endured enough emotional turmoil for one night.”

“So do I,” she said softly, hugging him tightly to her. “I am so very happy, Damian. Thank you. Thank you for everything, for sweet peas and… and for ices and…” She smothered a yawn, suddenly bone tired after the events of the day. “And for a house with a sea view and for… for….”

She sighed and closed her eyes, for there was time enough now to show him how blissfully content he had made her. They had all the time in the world.

Damian stroked Celia’s hair, which tumbled in a silken mass over his chest. His throat was tight, his heart too full, and the enormity of the day, of the past hours, was almost too much to bear. He did not know whether to laugh or to weep, but either appeared equally likely.

A swell of protectiveness swept over him as he gazed at his sleeping wife. She had given him a future, perhaps not precisely the one she would wish for, but it was so much more than he had ever believed possible. It seemed like a miracle of sorts. If only he could find a miracle for her too, one that would allow him to give her everything, all of him, with no fears for the bloody end his mother had inflicted upon his father and her children.

The memory flitted at the edges of his mind, eager to torment him anew but he forced it back. Not tonight. It did not have the same power over him it once did, even if it still terrified him too much to risk Celia any further than he already had.

He felt a little calmer, knowing that Gideon would keep her safe if… if he ever showed signs of following the same wretched path. But he would not think of it, not now, not with Celia warm and trusting in his arms.

It seemed fate had decided to be kind, at least for the present moment, and he was not foolish enough to waste the opportunity given him. So, he closed his eyes and savoured the feel of Celia’s warm, soft body against his, allowing himself to relive every moment of a day that still seemed like an impossible dream to him, too remarkable to be real.

He stayed awake as long as he could, fighting sleep so as not to waste a moment of this precious night, but in the end his eyes closed, and for once, he slept without dreaming.

Chapter 18

Terms of Engagement

The Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 21st September 1816

Marcus glared up the hill at the winding dirt track that led to Seagull Heights. His chest had constricted, and he pressed a hand to the place the musket ball had struck him, a tight, pulling pain tightening like a vice around him.

He was barely a third of the way up and already sweating, his lungs burning and wheezing like bellows. Christ, not so long ago he’d have marched up here without thinking about it. Now look at him, as crippled as a man twice his age, and a gouty, rheumatic old cretin at that.

“Dammit, Hamilton, move your bloody arse, you sorry piece of shit,” he cursed, and forced his unwilling body to carry on.

He told himself he was an idiot for not hiring a hack to make the journey, but there was some stubbornly irrational part of him that would not accept he was no longer the man he had been. Either he would climb this sodding poxy hill, or he would die trying. At least then he wouldn’t have to sit for the bloody sodding portrait.

The path wound on and on, becoming steeper with each step, or so it felt to Marcus, whose breath was ragged now. His steps became shorter, pure stubbornness and determination forcing him to continue. Though he had known the going would be tough, he had not realised how tough, or perhaps he still underestimated how badly that French bullet had incapacitated him.

With his mouth set in a grim line, one hand clutching at the old scar, he carried on for what seemed like days yet surely could not be, but when he got to the top, the chimes of the village reached him on the breeze. Eleven strikes, he counted despairingly. An hour and three quarters, to make a climb that would likely have taken less than half an hour last year.

He muttered a foul oath upon the Frenchman who had wounded him, consigning him to the fieriest pit of hell, and felt a little better for it as he saw the elegant roofline of Seagull Heights come into view.

“Thank God,” he muttered.

When he finally reached the house, he did not go directly to the front door, aware he was sweating profusely and gasping. Instead, he headed around to the stables, meaning to take a moment to rest by the well and have a drink of water before tidying himself up.

With one hand on the wall for support, he trudged around the side of the house. He felt giddy and grey with fatigue, and so it was with an excruciating swell of humiliation that he turned the corner to find Miss Foxworthy standing by the well.

She dropped the empty bucket with a cry of alarm as she saw him and hurried forward.

“Good Lord, Colonel Hamilton! Whatever has happened? You are ill!” she cried, rushing towards him, her beautiful face taut with concern.

“Restrain yourself, madam, I am… I am perfectly well,” he managed, though his lungs seemed to be determined to suffocate him. “I have an injury that makes breathing a… a little challenging, and the climb was somewhat more—”

She stopped, staring at him in outrage.

“You mean to say you knew you had an injury that made breathing difficult, and you just climbed up that ridiculous hill all by yourself? Well, no wonder you are in such a dreadful state,” she said, and all her compassion seemed to have vanished. Instead, she looked furious. “Good heavens above, one would think a man of your age and experience would have more sense. Come now, let me help you before you pass out.”

Marcus stiffened, appalled by such treatment, and held up a hand to stop her from coming nearer.

“I am perfectly capable of seeing to myself, I thank you,” he snapped furiously.