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John let his hand course slowly over her body in soothing paths. “You’ve built a life here,” he said quietly. “You have friends . . . the Sociedad . . . a house you’ve always dreamed of . . . a career such as few ever imagine. You’re the queen of Lombard Street. All of that should only be cast aside as a last resort.”

Reina relaxed against him, her anxiety fading.

“You don’t have to handle everything by yourself,” John added. “It’s the two of us now.”

She levered herself higher on his chest to look at him. “I should have talked with you before starting to make plans willy-nilly,” she said contritely. “I didn’t stop to think.”

John leaned closer to graze her lips with a gently flirting kiss. “We’re neither of us accustomed to partnership,” he said. “We’ll learn the way of it, aye?”

Reina kissed him impulsively, her mouth shaping to his, offering anything he wanted. He responded in full measure, exploring slowly, wringing sweetness and sensation from her.

After he lifted his head, Reina stared at him with drowsy golden eyes. Then she turned alert. “Switzerland,” she exclaimed. “The extradition laws are even more favorable than America, and Zurich is an emerging financial hub. With efficient planning, the trip will only take two days. We’ll all have to learn German, of course, but—”

John kissed her with a smothered laugh. “Reina, my sweet love, my treasure . . . no more plans for now. I have an idea about how to deal with the Kingsleys, but I need a bit of time to look into it. Give me the rest of today. That’s all I ask.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Spring Awakening

Certain species of plants, such as strawberries or daffodils, refuse to flower without having first gone through the hardship of winter. Once the cold weather retreats and spring appears, they know the danger has passed and it’s safe to unfurl their petals and trust the world again.

Back in Nether Wallop, hayfields were sown every autumn, giving the seeds a chance to root before overwintering. By midsummer, the fields became a waist-high sea of green and gold, with patches of red clover glowing like schools of tiny fish. At full bloom, the sward of mixed grasses—timothy, cocksfoot, meadow fescue—would be cut, dried, and stacked in rickyards. The best hay was always banked in loose heaps in barn lofts, to keep the animals fed through the hungry months.

It had been in one of those haylofts that June had let Gil Pardy give her a poke. She didn’t remember much about it, except that it had been quick, and straw had jabbed through the thin blanket Gil had brought to cover the loose hay. He’d flipped up the front of her skirt, opened the front of his corduroy trousers, and started going at it.

Although Gil had kissed her once during the process, his main interest had been in pumping hard and fast, like a ram on first mount. Somewhere amid the burning discomfort of the thrusting, June had been aware of the lumps and ridges under the blanket, where stalks had crossed and were digging into her back and hips. But when she’d tried to tell Gil, he didn’t seem to have heard. It was as if he’d forgotten she was there.

It had smelled good in the hayloft—that had been the best part. Gil’s weight pressing her down had crushed the freshly cured grass and clover beneath her and stirred up a lovely dusty-sweet smell.

But the walk home had been a misery of soreness and trickly wetness and stinging bits of grass and chaff in her hair and on her skin. Tiny, itchy hay seeds had worked inside her clothes and shoes.

The worst part had been how pleased Gil was. He’d kept saying how nice the coupling had been, without seeming to understand that June’s experience had been different from his. It hadn’t occurred to him that her pleasure might be something other than a mere by-product of his pleasure. She’d started having regrets before she’d even reached home.

Also, she’d sneezed for days afterward.

If that was what it was like with the handsomest bloke in Nether Wallop, she’d thought, it would be even worse with someone else.

Now June realized the error in her thinking. Who cared if Gil was handsome, when he was so selfish? He’d never thought about pleasing her. The flirting and courtship had been a game, and the prize had been a roll in the hay. She hadn’t really been a person to him, only a convenience.

To make matters worse, when the vicar had found out what had happened—from Gil!—he’d lectured June about the need to marry quickly. “Now that you’ve stumbled out of the gate,” he’d said, “you’re doomed to walk an unsteady path, unless you have constant guidance from a stern hand on the reins.” Which had revealed that she wasn’t a person to the vicar either—apparently he thought she was a horse.

She’d assumed that was how all men were . . . until she’d met Mad.

Gil Pardy and Mad were more or less the same age, but there was no comparing them. Gil reminded her of Covent Garden turnips in spring, after having been kept in storage since the autumn harvest. Pretty on the outside, mostly rotten and spoiled on the inside.

Mad had never known anything like Gil’s sheltered life. He’d been alone in the world since the day he was born. He was honest and hardworking and took nothing for granted. Somehow, even after the bad turns he’d had, he still liked people. He was a man who never complained about taking on a man’s responsibilities.

And he treated June with tenderness and patience, never seeming to mind all her jabs and sharp edges.

But June had been afraid of the side of him she hadn’t yet seen, the side that might lash out with a violence he couldn’t master. She wanted no part of that. Someone with Mad’s immense physical power, in a rage, could knock down a bloody building. It didn’t matter how sweet-natured he was the rest of the time. People who didn’t mean to hurt others still ended up doing it. The sorry truth was that no one in Mad’s life had ever taught him to pause for a necessary half second before giving way to his worst impulses.

It would be a hard pattern to break.

But today, in front of everyone, Mad had battled that other side of himself and won. It was grand progress—and progress should be celebrated, which was why June had just towed him to the carriage house.

At the moment, Mad had no inkling of her plans. He was too busy brooding over the strangers who’d barged into their home.

Holding his tough, warm hand, June pulled him through the entry door to the corner stairwell. But as they began to climb the steps, Mad stopped and asked irritably, “Why are we going up there?”