Epilogue

As it turned out,weddings were much less fun when they were your own.

Thorne had been to his share of weddings, especially in the last few years as each of his friends—nay, his brothers—had found love, and each one had been full of excitement and flirtations and drink. Lots of drink.

But when it was you getting married, you had to stay sober, no matter how much whisky might help to steady your nerves.

And it was you who had to manage the details like guest lists and locations and what kind of canapes to serve.

Because Kit certainly didn’t give two shites.

To be fair, neither did Thorne, and the pair of them had spent their share of hours chuckling about it all, in between kisses.

Essentially, Titsworth had ended up planning their betrothal ball—which had been a smashing success, and ended up being Kit’s official introduction to Society as the Countess of Bonkinbone. At least, her introduction to Society in a dress. She’d been wonderful, and Thorne could not have been any prouder of the way she faced their scrutiny and whispers with a brave tilt of her chin and a confident smile.

Christ, she was magnificent, and he was lucky to be hers.

It was a thought he had multiple times a day.

When he woke, wrapped in her arms.

When he kissed her, reveling in the way he could draw moans from her.

When she made him laugh, or when he finally teased her into rolling her eyes, or when she tried to be romantic and failed horribly.

When she played for him as he read, her music—her presence—keeping him grounded and focused.

When she slid effortlessly into the role of Countess the way she’d soon become a Duchess, working with Titsworth and the solicitors to manage Bonkinbone and soon Stroken. The woman was brilliant, in control, and so very talented.

Aye, he was lucky to have her.

After the exhaustion of the betrothal ball, the wedding itself should have been easy. But first they had to make it through the royal presentation.

It was a formality of the highest order, and if Thorne had been proud of Kit at the ball, the way she handled bloody meeting the bloody Queen of bloody England was even more remarkable.

All of them who’d helped to bring down Blackrose—Thorne, Kit, Rourke, Sophia, Demon, Griffin and Bull, Olivia, Fawkes and Danielle—had been invited to attend. And when Queen Victoria invited, best treat it as a command.

She’d spoken of duty, and honor, and truth, and gratitude, until all the ex-agents were squirming, knowing how they’d inadvertently betrayed their country. But then the Queen had called Thorne forward and spoken to him directly about the way he’d led the charge to right the outrageous wrongs Blackrose had committed.

He’d found himself blushing and stammering and assuring Her Majesty it was a group effort, but the tiny woman had just nodded regally, as if she knew all the details.

In fact, thanks to her daughter Princess Louise, she likely did.

The Queen had personally honored each of them, thanking them for their efforts, and exonerating them. But when she’d called for Kit, a genuine smile had crossed the older woman’s face.

“Countess, thank you for what you have done for Britain recently. I know you were raised in America, but British blood flows in your veins. I hope you understand the service you have performed.”

And Kit, without smirking, without teasing, inclined her head gently. “England is now my home, Your Majesty. I’m honored to be one of your subjects.”

It had been the perfect thing to say, and the Queen had been satisfied that her newest Countess was loyal.

At least, momentary Countess. Today, the Countess of Bonkinbone had become the Duchess of Stroken. And all of Thorne’s friends—his family—were there to celebrate; celebrate not just his marriage, but the successful closure of a chapter of their lives which had brought so much horror.

It should’ve been a fooking epic party, except Thorne was too busy fretting about place settings and processional order and who was the second-best violinist in Scotland to play them down the aisle.

Turns out, he shouldn’t have worried about a damned thing.

Titsworth and the Stroken butler—because the only thing Thorne had requested was that they marry in Scotland—had handled everything. Perhaps Kit had helped, but she’d been calm and collected and serene, so Thorne couldn’t tell.

All he knew was that the moment the music had swelled and she’d stepped through the doors of his family chapel on her beaming mother’s arm, every single one of his worries slipped away.

She wore honeysuckle in her hair.

Looking into Kit’s eyes, Thorne’s world narrowed until it was just the two of them, sharing this, forever. When he took her hands, his breathing slowed and his heart calmed, and he knew this was how he was supposed to be.

With her.

With her, he could focus. He could let go. He could be the best version of himself, and she was the one who allowed it to happen. It was a miracle someone as special as her could love him, and he wasn’t going to let this chance go to waste.

“I love ye,” he’d whispered, as they turned to face the priest. And she’d beamed back at him.

Aye, the planning part of the wedding hadn’t been any fun, but now Thorne was married to the lass, surrounded by his loved ones, things had turned more exciting.

“I wonder if he kens he looks like an idiot,” came Bull’s musing from his side as they stood watching the crowd dance and mingle and drink.

Fawkes, who was standing on the lad’s other side, snorted. “He’s grinning. That’s no’ idiot behavior, no’ for Thorne. That’s what he normally looks like.”

“Perhaps he normally looks like an idiot,” Bull shot back.

“Aye, well, ye’ll get nae argument from me. I dinnae ken how Kit can stand to look at the dobber. Clearly the Cumming good looks passed him by.”

Rolling his eyes, Thorne turned to his cousin and young friend. “Ye think ye’re more attractive than me? I’m the groom.”

Bull shrugged. “So? There’s such a thing as ugly grooms. Remember Demon’s wedding day?”

“I dinnae, thank God,” muttered Fawkes. “And what does ye being the groom have to do with being less handsome than me?”

“More handsome,” corrected Thorne with a smirk. “Why, if on her wedding day the bride is the most beautiful woman in the room, then I cannae see why it wouldnae work for the groom.”

Bull began to chuckle, and Fawkes scoffed good-naturedly. “It doesnae work that way, ye dobber. I’m far more attractive than ye.”

“Well, my Kit is the most beautiful woman in the room.” He watched her across Stroken’s ballroom—the estate in the Highlands was even larger than the one in London—chatting with her mother and Ellie. “And I’ll no’ hear a word otherwise.”

His cousin hummed, then sighed. “I suppose, since it is her wedding day, I have to agree. But she’s prettier than ye are.”

“I ken for a fact she’s got prettier knees,” Bull offered.

Thorne swung on him. “When did ye see my wife’s knees?”

“Och, Thorne, ye’re forgetting our adventures in travesti? I was the one to design that orange frock she’s wearing, ye fool.”

Aye, that was right. At Thorne’s request, Kit was wearing the gown she’d worn in her first Society appearance, the evening she’d met her father for the first time. The evening they’d first danced.

Fawkes hummed. “He’s right, ye ken.” When Thorne looked at his cousin, it was to see the other man staring at his legs. “Ye do have ugly knees. Why do we all have to wear these kilts?”

“Because it’s traditional,” Thorne snapped. “The ladies love them. I told ye that, aye? Was I wrong?”

Fawkes grinned. “Nay, Ellie is quite fond of me in a kilt.”

“And look at the way Georgia is hovering over Demon,” Bull pointed out. “She’s clearly loving him in his Hayle kilt.”

“Nay, she’s just trying to make certain he doesnae drop wee Rosie,” Fawkes countered. “Now, yer brother Rourke cuts a fine figure in his Lindsay colors, and Sophia kens it.”

Bull snorted, his gaze finding the couple in question, who were clearly exasperated by whatever the twelve-year-old twins—Hunter and Grace—were asking. As they watched, Sophia shooed them toward Griffin’s daughter Marcia and turned to her husband with a relieved smile.

Miracle of miracles, Rourke smiled back and offered his wife the arm not holding his silver-tipped cane.

“Perhaps,” Bull offered, “but with that scar up his leg, his knees are even uglier than Thorne’s. Ye ken who looks good in a Lindsay kilt?” He stuck out a leg. “Me.”

“I’m surprised ye’re no’ in the MacIver colors, like yer stepfather and brother,” Thorne teased.

“I have one, but decided to match Rourke tonight,” the lad breezed. “I had to help Rupert with his pleats. I think it bothers him it’s no’ something he can memorize out of a book.”

“I noticed yer sister Marcia is wearing MacIver colors.” Fawkes nodded across the way to where she was gesturing animatedly with the twins. “She’s proud of her new clan?”

“Nay,” snorted Bull. “She’s just irritated that Rupert and I chose to wear something without pockets, so we compromised with a bodice made from the tartan and a few hidden compartments.”

Thorne grinned ruefully as he clapped his young friend’s shoulder. “Ye are a talented lad, Bull.”

To his surprise, the young man flushed and glanced down at the glass he’d clasped with both hands. “Aye. That’s what…that’s what Her Highness says. The Princess.”

Says. Had Bull been in contact with Princess Louise since the horrible encounter in Thorne’s music room? Thorne squeezed the lad’s shoulder.

“I’m proud to ken ye, lad,” he said quietly. “Whatever yer future brings, I ken ye’ll make all of us proud. If ye ever want to talk about what happened, or what is happening, I hope ye’ll remember I’m yer friend.”

Fawkes cleared his throat. “And me.” When Bull glanced at him in surprise, Fawkes shrugged, cheeks darkening. “I mean, ye’re no’ all that bad, ye little shite.”

In a blink, Bull’s confident smirk was back. “I’m fairly wonderful, in fact.”

“And modest,” Thorne smirked. “Och, hello, Danielle.”

Fawkes lit up when his wife joined them, sliding her hand through his arm and squeezing up against him. “Congratulations cousin,” she teased Thorne. “You know we are now double cousins, with you marrying Kit?”

“I suppose we are.” Two sets of cousins marrying one another—well, their children would never be allowed to marry, that was for certain. “And I couldnae be happier to have you as part of my family.”

“Yes, well, I am no Gloria Pastorino,” Danielle teased, nodding across the room to where Kit and her mother had been joined by Fawkes’s mother. “I heard how tongue-tied you became when she first arrived in London.”

Groaning good-naturedly, Thorne scrubbed his hand over his face. “Will I ever live that down?”

“I think she’s flattered, truthfully,” Danielle admitted with a cheeky smile. “And she seems to be reveling the title of Dowager Countess, despite having avoided it for so long.”

Thorne—and Kit—now knew the truth; Gloria Pastorino had avoided Britain all these years because of her husband.

And neither of them could blame her.

Kit’s mother had arrived a fortnight after Blackrose’s death, and after the initial reunion, had sat them both down to explain. Apparently Thorne’s letter to her to watch herself had been enough to convince her she needed to tell her daughter the truth.

I fell in love with him, darling. Oh, he was so handsome, so suave. I know now he was that way with everyone, but I wanted him as much as he wanted me. But I refused to become his lover; I saw the way he was, and I knew I wanted more than just a night or two with him. I wanted his heart, the way he held mine.

The memory of that lovely voice confessing such details made Thorne sad. Kit, who’d been holding her mother’s hand, had smiled softly. “So you married him?”

At the risk of embarrassing us all, I refused to sleep with him until we were married. I knew he was the younger son of an earl, but I did not know the details. I did not care; to me, he was merely William. He left when you were younger than two, claiming business back in England. A few months, and he would return, he said. I soon understood what he meant. He sent money, but it came with a caveat. I was never to claim his name, nor acknowledge our relationship. He said it was important to his business for the Crown that no one know he was married, and if he ever heard rumors, he would move to silence them.

The way the famous singer had shivered had left little doubt in Thorne’s mind what Blackrose had meant. He’d threatened to silence her if she spoke of their relationship. The bastard had clearly regretted the marriage, but short of killing Gloria—and she was remarkably agile, always moving from theatre to theatre, town to town, country to country—the best he could do was assure her silence.

Thorne and Kit had managed to convince Gloria that she was safe now, and the Crown had exonerated them all so they could live in peace. Last Thorne had heard, his new mother-in-law was planning on moving her permanent residence to London to be closer to Kit, although she would continue to tour as long as she was in demand.

Thorne hoped she’d be satisfied with only occasional proximity to her daughter, because he’d planned to keep Kit in the Highlands as long and as often as possible. He loved it here, and as he’d predicted, so did she. The wide open spaces appealed to her American sensibilities, and his suspicions whenever she sped through his paperwork were realized: she had a talent for estate management which far surpassed Thorne’s. Now that she was in charge of both Stroken and Bonkinbone, he vowed to honor her skills.

“Why are you all hiding over here?” demanded a very pregnant Olivia, as she waddled up on her husband’s arm. Effinghell was silent, as always, but his eyes twinkled with humor when he nodded to Thorne as his wife continued, “Your bride is clearly desperate to be rescued, Thorne. Fawkes, I found your daughter wrestling with a dog in the foyer.”

“Aye,” intoned Fawkes solemnly. “These things happen.”

“Merida is seven,” Danielle explained, “and thus has negative interest in her Uncle Thorne’s wedding but unlimited interest in animals. How is your sister, Alistair?”

The hulking duke nodded to the pair whirling about the dancefloor, and Thorne huffed a small chuckle.

“Even Kipling is wearing his colors. And ye look smashing in the Kincaid kilt, Effinghell, even if ye’re tall enough that far too much of yer thighs are showing.”

Bull snorted. “As if ye’re one to judge another man’s knees, Thorne. But does anyone else think it interesting so many of yer friends are Scottish?”

“Scottish dukes,” Olivia corrected.

“Scottish dukes who are also ex-spies,” offered Danielle.

“Scottish, ex-spies who also happened to unexpectedly and rather suddenly inherit dukedoms,” Bull smirked.

Humming, Thorne looked around the room, his eyes landing on his friends. Rourke. Demon. Griffin. And here was Fawkes and Alistair with Olivia.

“Nay,” he finally said. “Nay, I guess I never noticed. What a surprise.”

Giggling, Olivia shoved him toward the dancefloor. “Go collect your wife, you dobber.”

With a grin, Thorne complied, the laughter of his friends and family followed him.

Kit tookspecial care to hang her gown so it wouldn’t wrinkle. It was the finest ball gown she owned, and now it was her wedding gown, and Bull had made it very clear that she was to bloody well treat it right, no matter if Thorne kept trying to distract her with his kisses.

“At least the kilt is easier to maintain,” she grumbled as she returned to the master chambers in her new home. “Fewer small buttons.”

“Aye, and easier access,” he murmured, bending close enough to brush his lips across her bare skin as she presented her back to him so he could unclasp the Stroken jewels from around her neck. “Remind me to show ye.”

As she released her corset with a sigh, Kit arched her back slightly, pressing her arse against his hardness. “I think I can guess.”

The weight of the necklace released, her new husband chuckled. “Still, a practical demonstration might be in order.”

They’d done this many times, by now. It had been months since her father died, since she’d taken on this new role. She loved that Thorne still relied on her, still treasured her music. She loved that he still willingly gave her control in the bedroom—and that he hadn’t found a new valet.

Yes, this ritual—the undressing and getting ready for bed—was a routine by now. But tonight was different. Tonight was their wedding night.

Kit gasped when her husband snagged her hand and pulled her to him. He’d shed his jacket, his neckcloth, his waistcoat, even his shirt. In just a kilt, he looked like a warrior of ages past, all lean muscles and charming smile.

“Dance with me, wife,” he demanded, pulling her against him.

Kit didn’t object, but teased him as she lifted her hand to rest on his shoulder. “I thought we’d danced enough tonight?”

“Och, love,” he murmured as he swept her into movement. “I’ll never get enough dances with ye.”

Yes, this was one more thing she loved about him. How graceful, how elegant he was. He moved like an angel, and after years of Thorne being forced to use this grace for her father, Kit was delighted to dance with him, to feel him use his power for something which brought them both joy.

He was humming, and when she realized it was Vivaldi’s La Primavera, she grinned and hummed right along, taking the harmony. Their voices mixed and teased and played just like her fingers on violin strings, until she felt the joy bubbling up from him and into her.

Or perhaps that was merely the anticipation of what was to come.

Because Kit had decided how to make tonight truly special. With the way she could feel his cock pressing against her belly, the way her core throbbed, she knew they were both ready for this.

Their dance ended with a kiss, which seemed to last forever. When he finally pulled away, Kit realized she was breathing heavily, her fingers curled around his shoulders to stay upright.

“Have I—” She had to clear her throat and start again. “Have I told you how handsome you are in a kilt?”

Her husband grinned. “Aye, but I could stand to hear it again.” But he didn’t give her the opportunity to respond, just lowered his lips to her shoulder, kissing a hot trail along her skin. Her chemise gaped open, and she was suddenly desperate to rid herself of it.

Through the thin linen, Thorne cupped her small breasts, as if marveling she’d ever hidden them. She knew he loved to tease them, to “comfort” them, as he said. As if they were still grumpy at being bound for so long.

Kit loved the freedom of trousers and pockets, and still wore them occasionally, which her new staff here at Stroken had become accustomed to. But dresses…ah, dresses were, as Thorne said, good for easy access.

“Wait,” she commanded, stepping away from him.

She loved the way Thorne followed her instructions, obediently watching as she pulled the chemise over her head and stood proudly nude in front of him. His hungry gaze traveled over her body, and Kit felt herself heating from that look alone.

“Do you remember what I said to you, that first night in your chambers?”

Kit saw the moment he realized what she was talking about, saw him suck in a breath, almost felt his shoulders tense in anticipation. “The night—the night ye…talked to me?”

“Yes,” she murmured, holding his gaze as she stepped back toward the bed. “I talked to you. I told you about your future, about what was waiting for you.” The future she wanted to be a part of, even if she hadn’t seen how at the time. “I told you about your wife.”

“Ye said…” He swallowed, eyes following her. “She’d wait for me on my bed.”

Kit backed up until her arse hit the mattress, but didn’t climb up. “I told you she’d love you, and want the best for you.”

“Aye,” he rasped hungrily. “And that love would bring pleasure.”

He remembered.“Touch yourself, Thorne,” she whispered. “Stroke yourself.”

The swiftness of his movements—yanking aside the kilt and reaching for his cock—proved he’d just been waiting for the command. Smiling wickedly, Kit watched the muscles in his throat tighten in anticipation as his palm and fingers stroked his hardness.

“Good,” she murmured, stepping toward him once more. “Good.” Her fingers rested on his chest, and she loved the way he shivered. “Now…”

Kit dropped her hand to his belt, working at it as he continued to work toward his own pleasure. Just the sight made her slick with desire, but she had a plan for tonight. When his kilt finally fell away, they both sighed in relief.

“I hope…ye’re no’ planning…on folding that…right now?”

She had to chuckle at his plea, and instead tossed the tartan aside. As Thorne stood there, pumping himself, she ran her palms across his chest. “Do you remember what else I said your wife would do?”

As she sank to her knees in front of him, Thorne groaned. “Christ, love, I dinnae think I—”

“Then don’t think, husband,” Kit commanded, her lips inches from the weeping head of his cock. “Just feel.” She licked him. “Remember how you offered to let me borrow The Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts?” She licked him again. “You had no idea how thoroughly I’d already read it.”

Thorne’s free hand dropped to her hair with another groan. “Kit, I… Fook.”

“Do you remember how I said your wife would look up at you with love and trust?” Her hand closed around his on his cock. “And she would allow you to lose control because that’s what partners do?”

With a sound suspiciously like a sob, Thorne’s head dropped back, his hand falling away from himself as Kit took up the rhythm. She pumped her hand as her mouth closed around him, mimicking the feel of their lovemaking.

He resettled his weight, his breathing coming heavier and heavier, and Kit cupped his ballocks with her free hand. He groaned in appreciation, and she grinned around his cock.

As her head bobbed, she moved her hand from his balls…back.

She’d noticed he wasn’t shy about this area of his body, and in fact had seemed to like when she’d touched him there. Indeed, instead of stiffening, Thorne managed to relax even more, widening his stance so she could probe his arse.

Kit pulled away from his cock long enough to command, “Look at me, Thorne.” Immediately, those lovely blue eyes opened and he dropped his gaze to where she knelt between his legs. She made certain her expression showed all her love.

“Let go,” she whispered. Her fingertip slid into his pucker, pressing, urging.

His eyes widened on a gasp, and she was feeling quite pleased when she closed her lips around the head of his cock once more. He didn’t last long enough for her to complete a stroke, but with a sound somewhere between another gasp and a sob, Thorne obediently let go.

His seed exploded from his cock, filling her mouth, causing her to swallow instinctively. His fingers found her hair and his hips flexed forward, likely unintentionally, as another wave spilled down her throat.

Her thighs pressed together, trying to hold in her own pleasure until he could touch—could lick—her to orgasm. She was so wet, so happy, so fooking pleased.

Yes, Kit was crowing with victory, so proud of him for the way he’d responded to her touch. To her commands. And as soon as her mouth wasn’t full of cock, she’d tell him so.

But Thorne was the one to pull away from her, to drop to his knees so they knelt on the fine carpet of their bedchamber, and pull her to him. “Oh God, Kit, that was…”

His seed was still on her tongue and she swallowed again. “Magnificent?”

“I love ye,” he rasped, before claiming her lips. “Christ, I love ye,” he whispered, peppering her jaw with kisses, then her throat. “Ye are a treasure.”

She stilled him by grasping his cheeks with her hands. “Thank you, Thorne,” she said firmly, “For accepting me the way I am. For matching me so beautifully.” For letting me be myself. “For loving me.”

There were tears in his eyes again as he took a deep breath. “I cannae believe I ever thought ye werenae romantic.”

Figuring it was time to reestablish her reputation, Kit waggled her eyebrows. “So…butt stuff?”

Sure enough, Thorne burst into laughter, tugging her to her feet. She went willingly, but then squealed with surprise when he lowered his shoulder and swept her off her feet.

“What—Thorne, what are you doing?” As if she couldn’t tell, the way he went striding for their bed.

When he tossed her atop the mattress, she grinned in anticipation and shifted her weight to her elbows.

“Wife,” he growled, resting his weight on his palms, one on either side of her hips. “It’s time I show ye exactly how much I value ye.”

With a wicked grin, Kit opened her legs, sucking in an excited breath when the cool Highland air brushed her wetness. “Gladly.”

Thorne lowered his mouth to her, whispering. “I love ye.”

Whimpering, Kit fell back against the counterpane as pleasure swept through her.

I love you too, husband.

Forever.