Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

H er return to Silwood Manor had been a bittersweet homecoming indeed.

Persephone stood before her beloved mare, Echo for the first time in nearly seven years, holding back tears at the differences which had come to pass in the time she had been gone. Echo was no longer the youthful mare she had once been, and though the stable master had taken excellent care of her, judging from her fine form and healthy coat, her age was apparent in her gait.

But she remembered Persephone. Those brown eyes gazed into hers now with an equine sense of understanding that only served to heighten Persephone's own heartache.

"It is a misery, is it not, Echo?" she whispered to her mare. "What has time done to us, my love?"

Rafe's voice was there, an ever-present memory burned into her mind. How handsome and concerned he had been, the morning when he had hurried her back to her room, taking care to make certain they would go unnoticed.

We'd best ‘urry, lovely. Time ain't exactly our bosom friend this morning.

His low rasp, the tinge of an East End drawl, his charm and the tender way he had gazed upon her, remained firmly tangled about her heart. They always would.

Time had not been their bosom friend at all, for it had been far, far too short. And now, she had been forced to return to Oxfordshire and face the wedding she had spent the last few years running from. It was either that or risk the life of the man she loved. Rafe was too precious to her. She would gladly sacrifice her future and her happiness if it meant preserving his.

A tear broke free and ran down her cheek, but she dashed it away before the servant attending her could take note. She had been in Oxfordshire for only several weeks, and the banns had been read. Cousin Bartholomew was leaving nothing to chance. In three more days, she would find herself wed to a man she loathed. One sennight before her birthday, when she would turn five-and-twenty.

She supposed that was why he was allowing her this small concession, the permission for a short ride without either a groom or himself as accompaniment. At least, according to the groom. He had said nothing of his intentions over breakfast when he had declared she might enjoy a turn about the stables since she had been an obedient betrothed since their return.

Oh, how those words had infuriated her. And how she had longed to throw her half-eaten eggs and kippers in his face. But she had not. Instead, she had calmly thanked him and inquired whether or not he would like to accompany her. He had declined, much to her relief.

In truth, Cousin Bartholomew was an abysmal rider. His large form and uneasiness with horses—brought upon by a childhood accident in which he had been thrown from a saddle—made him an awkward rider, looking always as if he were an inch from spilling to his doom. He had never cared for horses, aside from their monetary value or the éclat they afforded him.

"She is ready, my lady," the groom said, interrupting her tumultuous musings. "His lordship expects your return in one quarter hour. You'll want to be gentle with Echo as she's occasionally been favoring her front leg on cold mornings."

He was new here, like so many of the domestics at Silwood Manor. Cousin Bartholomew had changed much, she had discovered in her return, and she could not help but to wonder who had paid for all his revisions. New servants, the construction of a lake and fountain in the valley Silwood Manor overlooked, a Palladian pavilion on the front fa?ade, fresh carpets, a small fortune in paintings dotting the new wall coverings.

All while she had been living on the meager wages of a governess, forced from one situation to the next, just for the chance to no longer suffer his tyrannical rule.

She nodded politely to the groom. "Thank you, sir. I will be back in a quarter hour, as his lordship wishes, and I shall take great care of Echo."

Considering she is my horse.

Echo, like many of the horses here at Silwood Manor, was a part of her inheritance. Her mother's side of the family had been mad about horseflesh and rich as Croesus. And Cousin Bartholomew stood to benefit greatly from that combination.

With the groom's aid, she mounted Echo. Although years had passed since she had last ridden a horse, being seated upon her mare's saddle felt as familiar as if she had last been there just yesterday. With her thanks to the groom, she departed, taking care to keep Echo's pace slow and even. She was not limping today, but if Persephone saw the slightest hint of arthritis, she had every intention of dismounting and returning to the stables by foot.

For now, the chance for freedom, even only one quarter hour of it, beckoned with a temptation she could not ignore. The wind on her cheeks was slashing and cool. But at least the gray clouds overhead had not lived up to their ominous portent of rain.

Yet.

She decided to take Echo on their old favorite route, down the lane to the path that circled what had become Cousin Bartholomew's lake. It was a rather gargantuan affair, with a swan presiding over its smooth surface, and Persephone despised it as much as she loathed the life she was about to consign herself to here.

Oh, Rafe.

Where was he now? What was he doing? She hated allowing her mind to wander and wonder, but how could she not? In her old life as Miss Wren, she would have been happily ensconced in the sunshine-filled Mayfair nursery with Anne and Elizabeth. On occasion, they had been accompanied by one of Mr. Sutton's dogs. Usually Motley, who possessed a particular affinity for Rafe.

She could not blame the pup, for she felt the same way.

There was something about Mr. Rafe Sutton. She was sniffling again by the time she and Echo had rounded a copse of trees, blotting out the sight of Silwood Manor sitting loftily on the hill. Weeping was an almost constant state for her now, unless she knew she would be facing Cousin Bartholomew. Tears vexed him mightily, and she had learned he was not averse to showing her just how much during their journey to Oxfordshire.

The bruise had faded, but she had not forgotten.

Her tears were reserved for moments of solitude now, like this one.

She was so lost in her misery that she failed to hear another rider approaching until he was almost upon her. For a wild moment, she feared it was Cousin Bartholomew come to denounce her for her willful disobedience, until she took note of the man's form. He was not as large as Cousin Bartholomew.

And he had blond curls beneath the brim of his hat.

Her heart leapt. Surely it could not be Rafe! Here? In Oxfordshire? No.

She was dreaming.

"Persephone!"

His voice reached her, familiar and deep and laden with an emotion she could not define.

It was him. Somehow, Rafe Sutton was racing toward her on the back of an Arabian gray. She blinked furiously, sure she was somehow ascribing his traits to someone else. For how could he be here, at Silwood Manor? And how would he have known where to find her?

As the questions swirled, her body overtook her mind, and suddenly, she was riding toward him, heart leaping. Each gallop of Echo's hooves brought her nearer, Rafe's giving more credence to the wild and unbelievable notion that he had somehow come to her.

"Rafe!" she cried, pushing Echo as fast as she dared, unable to shake the fear he would disappear before she could reach him.

Their mounts pulled abreast of each other and they reined in at once. Persephone slid from the saddle at the same time Rafe dismounted, and in two steps, she was flying into his arms. Their collision was so forceful, her teeth knocked together and she bit her tongue, but she did not care.

All she did care about was Rafe's arms closing around her, strong and protective. His scent, mingling with the fresh earth and grass and the sharp scent of autumn leaves drying and falling to the ground.

"Ah, God, lovely." He pressed his cheek tight to hers, his hot breath falling on her ear. "I've missed you."

She clung to his neck, tears streaming down her cheeks. "How are you here?"

"I rode the bleeding horse behind me."

His unexpected attempt at humor caused her laughter to burst forth, mingling with the sobs. "I saw you on the horse. What I meant to say was how did you find me? How did you find me here, in Oxfordshire?"

She had never mentioned her past to him, and when she had left the Sutton town house, she had left without divulging her true name or a hint of all the shadows and secrets that kept her running.

"Long story we haven't the time for." He reared back, his hazel gaze traveling over her face as if he had just been presented with a miracle. "Will you ride with me?"

Fear crept over her. "Where? Cousin Bartholomew only allotted me one quarter hour. He will note I have not returned and come riding after me."

"That arsehole didn't allot you any time to ride." Rafe scowled. "Did you think he would allow his prisoner to slip from 'is fingers so easily?"

"How do you know?" She searched his face, his gaze, seeking answers.

"The groom aiding you was one of my men. It's all part of the plan, lovely."

"The plan? You have a plan?" Her heart was beating so fast, relief and love and hope at odds for supremacy. But lingering beneath the surface of it all was fear.

The fear Cousin Bartholomew would find them, that he would do Rafe harm as he had threatened.

Rafe grinned, his dimples appearing. "I would've thought you'd noticed by now, sweet. Rafe Sutton always has a plan."

Of course he did, and at the moment, it would seem his plan involved rescuing her. Which was everything she wanted, except that she could not possibly allow him to endanger himself and his family by incurring Cousin Bartholomew's wrath.

"Cousin Bartholomew threatened you," she blurted. "He told me he would have you killed. I cannot go with you, Rafe. I could never forgive myself if any harm befell you, knowing it was because of your association with me."

"Is that why you left without word? You were trying to protect me?"

"My cousin is a dangerous man," she said, rather than giving him the exceedingly complicated answer to his question. There was not the time for it.

Rafe's dimples disappeared, his countenance turning hard and serious. "I ain't afraid of the Marquess of Silwood."

He knew Cousin Bartholomew's title?

But then, of course he did. He was here, at Silwood Manor, was he not? He had found her.

"You should be afraid of him, Rafe. He is a powerful man, a peer of the realm." And heaven knew that a different set of rules applied to lords. A lowborn man like Rafe Sutton would scarcely stand a chance against Cousin Bartholomew's vengeance.

Rafe frowned, his jaw tightening. "Has he given you cause to fear him, sweet?"

Of course he had. Cousin Bartholomew was dangerous.

She wetted her dry lips nervously, the tightness in her chest growing more pronounced. "Please, Rafe. You do not understand the way of it. You must go. Save yourself. I have already agreed to marry him, which has been his plan from the moment my father died and he became my guardian."

"You intend to marry him?" Rafe winced as if he had been struck. "Truly, Persephone?"

Tell him yes. Tell him yes to save him. His pride will make him leave. It is for the best.

Oh, it was too dratted difficult!

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she considered her response. "I…"

"Say the words," Rafe ground out. "Tell me he is the man you want. Tell me you want to marry him. Do that, and I'll go. You'll never see me again."

Never see him again? She had told herself in an endless litany since Cousin Bartholomew had discovered her in London that she would accept her fate. That she and Rafe were not meant to be together, and that if she could not have him, she may as well surrender to marrying Cousin Bartholomew if it would keep Rafe safe. But now Rafe was here, holding her in his arms. How could she possibly tell him that she wanted Cousin Bartholomew, and that she was choosing him over Rafe?

The man she loved was before her. Rafe Sutton, with his blond curls worn too long for fashion, his easy smile and charm, his dimples, ready wit, and the sweet tenderness he seemed to reserve for only those closest to him…the man who had renewed her faith in trust and made her hope again. He was the man for her. He would always be the man for her.

"Say it, Persephone."

A gentle mist had begun to fall, and the wind kicked up, making the cold drizzle pelt her in the face as she struggled to form the words.

"You can't, can you?" He cupped her cheek, his gloved hands cool and yet retaining some of his warmth. Enough to chase the sting of the wind. "You can't tell me you want to marry Silwood. Because it would be a lie."

"Everything in my life has been a lie for the past seven years," she blurted. "What would be one more, if it means keeping you safe?"

"Don't do this to yourself, lovely." His hazel eyes were boring into hers. "Don't do this to us ."

"There is nothing else I can do."

He kissed her then, his mouth crushing. Familiar. Warm.

Home.

Hers.

He tore his lips from hers far too soon, forcing her to hold his gaze. "You can come with me now."

Hope rose, fervent and foolish. "But Cousin Bartholomew has threatened you."

"Threats don't scare me, and neither does your arsehole of a cousin."

She believed him. "You do not know what he is capable of in the way I do."

Another gust of wind blew, threatening to tear the hat from her head. Their horses were moving restlessly, reminding Persephone of just how precarious this moment was.

Rafe remained unmoved, his countenance harsh, determination evident in the rigid set of his jaw. "Let him come to the East End for me. I'll be waiting, and it ain't going to end well for 'im."

Of course he would want to protect her, even at his own expense. He had done so before.

She shook her head, the denial cutting through her heart as viscerally as a knife. "No, Rafe."

His beautiful lips tightened. "Why did you leave?"

"Because I had to." Because I love you, and I lied to you.

If he was here, he knew she had lied.

Didn't he?

The rain was falling with increased determination now, the mist turning into fully formed drops. In no time, they would be soaked to the skin if it turned into the deluge the distant leaden skies promised.

"Is it because you fear what he'll do to me?"

"No." A shiver tore through her, desperation and sadness chasing the initial elation that had lit her up like fireworks. "It was because I was living a lie, and I could not bear to remain, continuing my charade, knowing I would lose you."

It was the closest she dared come to admitting that she loved him.

He caught a tear on her cheek with his thumb. "Why would you lose me?"

"Because I have been lying to you, and because I feared you would not forgive me when you discovered the secrets I have been keeping." And because you never told me you loved me, and my heart will always belong to you.

"You were lying to protect yourself, lovely. I understand. There ain't a bleeding thing to forgive. Come with me now. I'll keep you safe. I vow it on my life."

He was so earnest, and he was looking at her now with such unguarded reverence that a new torrent of tears emerged, mingling with the rain.

"Oh, Rafe. Where would we go? There is nowhere Cousin Bartholomew will not find us now."

"I'm staying at Abingdon Hall as a guest of Mr. Devereaux Winter. We'll be safe there until I can get us to London."

Abingdon Hall was the neighboring estate.

Which meant that flight might truly be possible.

But Rafe had still said nothing of love or marriage.

"Have you come to rescue me?" she asked, needing to know. "What shall we do after we return to London?"

"We will be married, if you wish it. And if you don't, you'll still be better off than you are here, forced into marriage with your scoundrel of a cousin."

Marriage. To Rafe. Her heart leapt at the chance, foolishly rejoicing. She would love nothing better. But if he was offering only because of the terrible circumstances in which she had found herself, out of pity, or because he felt that he had to do so, she would not be able to bear it.

"You do not have to marry me to save me from my cousin or out of some sense of obligation because of what happened between us."

"Is that what you think?" He kissed her again, swiftly, deeply, and she tasted the salt of her own tears and the earthiness of the rains on his tongue. "Did that feel like a bleeding obligation to you? Did it feel like I am only worried about your cousin?"

"No." She bit her lip, studying his beloved face, trying to understand him.

"What it should have felt like is the kiss of a man who loves you, Lady Persephone Calcot," he said, "because that's what I damned well am. I'm the man who loves you."

Her real name.

He had used her full name.

And he loved her.

Rafe loves me.

It was seemingly impossible yet wonderful, like the luminosity of the stars in the night sky.

"You love me?"

"I love you." He was solemn, stroking her cheek, patient and strong.

Wiser than she was. Why had she run from him?

Here is your chance, Persephone. Worry about repercussions later.

"I love you too, Rafe." She turned her head, pressed a kiss to his leather-clad fingers as the rain came down faster and harder. "I shall go with you."

He kissed her again, his lips smiling against hers. "Thank Christ, lovely."