Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jacob held Annabelle close, cradling her head against his shoulder, his stomach coiling into helpless, desperate knots. She fisted her hand in his waistcoat, gripping so tightly the fabric would be forever ruined, and he pressed his mouth to the side of her head.

"Annabelle," he said against her hair. "Annabelle, tell me how I can make it better. What will make you stop crying?"

If anything, she merely cried harder. He could feel her tears soaking through his waistcoat, and he wished he could transport them away from this dingy, awful tavern with its straw-lined floor and bawdy dining room filled with drunken patrons. Once, he might have revelled in the quiet, underlying threat of violence, but as soon as he had stepped inside and heard that there was a young, fair-haired lady staying there, his stomach had sank.

So long as she consented to go with him, he would order a post-chaise and four to take them back to Kent tonight, or at least as far as a more salubrious establishment. And if she did not consent to marry him, he would do his best to at least persuade her to leave with him.

The thought he had done too much damage for her to still love him would not leave him. He was a creature of pain, but he had never, never wanted to hurt her. But she was crying over him again. Again. The sight and sound of it flayed him inside out. Seared through him. She could brand him with her tears—but as long as she needed him to hold her, he would be there.

"There has not been a moment since I first met you when I have not wanted you," he said, because he needed to fill this space between them. Her body was flush against his, but he couldn't shake the feeling that the distance grew further with every shaky breath she took. "I may have been born wicked, but you make me want to be good, Annabelle. You make me want to find a way to deserve you. You make me want to fight for the one thing in my life that is worth having." He tightened his hand in her hair, wishing he could reach through her and whisper his words directly against her heart. "I don't care that my father beat me or that I bear his name, or that if you marry me, our children will bear his name. Because they will have your eyes and your kind heart, and God, Annabelle, I haven't wanted anything in my life the way I want to be with you. Losing you almost killed me. I can't do it again." He found her ear with his mouth. "So if you make me work to win you back, I will. I am here to stay." His arms tightened of their own accord. "Tell me you hate me if you must. Tell me you never want to marry me. Tell me whatever is on your heart, and give me the chance to learn how to make you love me."

Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs, but she said nothing, and the silence disturbed him more than anything else ever could.

"And if you can never love me, at least let me protect you by marrying you," he said. "I will give you space, give you books, everything you ever wanted, and I won't disturb you if that's truly what you want. Just let me do this one thing for you."

Finally, she leaned her head back to look at him. His Annabelle, her face shiny with tears, her eyes red-rimmed, her eyelashes damp and clumped together, more beautiful than a fallen star.

"Tell me again," she said, her voice thick. "Tell me you love me."

He smiled and smoothed away the tears on her cheeks. "I love you with every broken piece of me. My heart is a blackened, imperfect thing, but it is yours to break if you wish. You have that power, Annabelle." He searched her shimmering eyes, needing her to hear him, to understand him. "With just a word."

"You love me," she whispered, her fingers finding his lapel and holding him in place.

"I never stood a chance, darling." He smiled down at her. "I did my best to hold out, but it was a fruitless effort." Holding her gaze, he took both her hands, freeing them from his lapels so he could look down at her properly. "Marry me, Annabelle Beaumont, and save a man from a misery of his very own creation."

Her answering smile was a little watery. "You might have saved us all this pain by coming to this conclusion earlier."

Hope flared to life in his chest, and he bent his lips to brush against her damp, salty ones. "Am I to take that as a yes, sweetheart?"

"If I loved you any less, I would tell you to leave," she said, her voice cracking. "I hate you almost as much as I love you, Jacob Barrington, and you are the only man on earth I could be prevailed upon to marry."

No force in existence could have stopped him from kissing her then.

"I have a room," Annabelle gasped out as soon as he gave her time to breathe. Privacy, they needed privacy—and as soon as possible.

He brushed his mouth against her forehead, then both cheeks. They were still wet from her flood of tears, but she could not bring herself to be embarrassed when he held her this tightly, as though one or both of them would shatter if he released her. "Not here," he murmured. "Much as I would love to have you here—and in a bed, no less—I insist you find a more suitable establishment. Then we can claim to be married and share a room without fear of a maid walking in and disturbing us." He kissed the top of her nose then took her mouth again as though he could not help himself.

"But it's dark," she said in surprise, drawing back. "Are you proposing we travel at night?"

"That is precisely what I am proposing, little bird. There is a remarkable invention—you might have heard of it—called the lantern, and it will suffice to cast a light that—"

She slapped his arm and he broke off with a smile that touched his eyes. One of the first she had seen since he had found her. The sight of it filled all the cracked places inside her.

How quickly hurt could be soothed when the right balm was found.

How ironic that her most effective balm was a man known for his violence, his carelessness, and his reckless seduction.

Nothing about him now seemed reckless, however. He was all tenderness as he kissed her once more, promised that he would hire them a coach, and bid her not to leave the room should something befall her.

There was nothing careless about the measures he took to ensure her safety. Despite the hour, he procured them a chaise and four, and settled matters with the innkeeper regarding dinner.

Before she had time to collect her wits, she was sitting opposite Jacob in the shabby carriage, a lantern swinging from the side, sending inconsistent light grazing over them both. The hour was late and although the days were warm, the nights were still cool enough he had requested a blanket to cover her knees.

She felt a little dazed at the speed by which everything had happened.

They were engaged. She had agreed to marry him. Jacob Barrington was in love with her—and not just that, but he was prepared to marry her. Prepared to fight for her.

Part of her had been tempted to make him fight to win her back. But while she was angry, there had been devastation in his voice, and he loved her.

There could be no fighting that.

"Does my brother know you had intended to propose?"

"He did," Jacob confessed, the uneven light casting shadows across his face, gilding him in gold and night. "I think perhaps he might not have opened the conversation with his fists if he had known. Although," he added with a wry grin that made her blood heat, "I can hardly blame him."

"He should not have hurt you." Staggering a little from the motion of the carriage, she moved to take the seat beside him, smoothing her fingers again over the bruise on his cheek. "He hit you."

"In his defence, I provoked him."

"How can you justify it?"

He chuckled, his fingers coming to her cheek and pulling her down for a kiss. "My little defender," he murmured against her mouth. "Hearing you leap to my defence does things to me, little bird."

"Good things?"

His lips moved to her earlobe, giving it a nip that sent heat through her. "Oh yes," he said, his voice so low she barely heard it. "I would say they are good things." When he drew back, she saw yearning flicker across his face as clearly as she felt it melt her bones.

The feeling inside her was too big to be contained. A rabid, possessive need to make this man hers, to ensure he never looked at anyone else the way he was looking at her now.

Every movement awkward, she rose and half collapsed on his lap, straddling him the way she had on the sofa, her knees pressing against the leather.

"Annabelle." His hands caught her waist, drawing her down onto him, and then he was kissing her. Kissing her as though his world had ended and she was the light that beckoned him on; as though the only thing that existed in his world was her.

He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit down, just hard enough for her to gasp with the sting and pleasure of it. Her body went molten, sinking into him. His hips moved and she dragged at her skirts, moving them out of the way, raising them to her chest until her legs were bare.

There. There.

He groaned, a sound that skimmed across her senses, pressed against her skin. With one hand, he gripped her hip; with the other, he ran a hand up her calf to the crease of her knee, tickling the sensitive skin there until she moaned and wriggled against him.

"Careful, love." His eyes were bright when he broke away to look at her, so bright she could hardly bear to meet them. Heat and want that burned her inside out. Such a delicious ache. "We're in a carriage."

"I don't care." She kissed him again, coaxing his tongue with hers until he returned her caresses with an enthusiasm that bordered on filthy. His hand cupped her bottom, grinding her against him, and she laughed. Laughed.

"One of these days," he said between kisses, "we will find a bed. And when we do, I won't let you leave it for days."

"Days." The word sounded dreamy. She could stomach days in a bed with Jacob and his wicked mouth, his capable hands, his seductive voice as he told her how much he loved her.

His hips thrust up into her and although he was still wearing trousers, the friction of his erection against her core was enough to make her dizzy. This alone could bring her to that bright peak, but she was still aching and empty inside.

Her need tightened at the thought of him sliding inside her the way he had before.

"Jacob—"

He met her gaze blindly, lust clouding his eyes, and she cupped his face in her hands. "Tell me what you want, love, and I'll give it to you," he rasped. "Tell me how you want me, and you can have it."

"I want all of you."

"Christ, Annabelle." His eyes were unfocused as she rubbed herself against him again, emboldened by the way he responded to her, as though his control was barely hanging on. As though he was barely hanging on. His fingers squeezed her bottom in a silent plea, asking for the thing he would never beg her for.

"I want all of you," she repeated. "Because I love you."

His mouth was on hers, and he tasted like desire, like need. She wanted to capture this moment for her memory forever, so she would always know what it was like to be wanted more than life itself. The feeling of being loved was in the shape of his lips, the gentle scrape of his fingers, the taste of his tongue. If ever she had doubted it, she could not now, not while he worshipped her mouth and her body as though she were made out of precious gold and diamonds.

As though she were an angel and he were a shepherd guided by her light.

As though he was lost and she were the path to salvation.

As though she was Annabelle and he loved her.

"Annabelle." Desire was thick in Jacob's voice, and he raised his gaze again, looking at her with eyes that had become more familiar than her own. "I want you to look at me. I want to see your face."

When she looked at him, he urged her up with his hands at her waist, and obediently she lifted herself free of him. He unbuttoned his breeches, freeing his length and positioning himself in preparation for her.

"Here," he said, his voice rasping a little as she sat back on his lap, letting him find the place she needed him to be. "You might need a little—" he started, then as he slipped easily inside, he groaned. "No, I should have known. You're ready for me."

It was a reckoning between them, this moment. A beginning of something new, the end of what had come before. Yesterday, she had thought she would never see him again; now they were tipping headfirst into the future, and that future was wrapped in each other.

There was no mirth in his face, no wicked seduction or gentle mockery. Gone was the teasing, the easy smile that felt as though it had grown on his face the way muscles had wrapped around his arms. Now he was serious, deadly so, everything about him tensed as she sank all the way down.

Deliciously full. Deliciously his.

This is what I was made for.

She'd been foolish to think love somehow beneath her. Because when love looked like this, stripped bare of pretence and malice and artifice, only beauty remained. Soul-deep beauty that had them silent as they watched one another, the rattling of the carriage fading into the distance until there were only their mingled heartbeats. His and hers. Theirs.

Jacob leant forward, pressing a butterfly kiss to her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids as she closed her eyes over tears that refused to stay inside her chest.

She turned her head, finding his lips with hers, and for another deliciously extended moment, they were still in everything except their breathing. He linked his fingers through hers and brought them to his chest.

Home.

She shifted against him and his attention focused razor-sharp on that point of contact. The carriage bench gave her more room to spread her legs, take him as deeply as she could, and experiment with angles. Shallow, rising and lowering herself, the sensation not quite enough, more of a tease than a relief. Need spiked, but she forced herself to remain slow, tilting her hips and angling herself so he brushed the spot inside her that sent her vision dimming.

"Annabelle . . ."

"Say my name again."

"Annabelle." It was a plea, a prayer, a blessing. "Annabelle. Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle."

Her climax came so quickly upon her that she didn't have time to prepare; it slammed into her in forceful waves. Endless, weightless. She was soaring, she was tumbling, she was suspended in glorious, wild, overwhelming pleasure.

"Annabelle." Jacob's voice was hoarse, and when she collected herself to look into his eyes, they were dark and wild. He was breathing heavily, on the brink of control.

"Arms around me, sweetheart," he said, guiding her arms from his shoulders to his neck. "Hold on tight. Tell me if it's too much."

At his words, her body, which had been languid after her climax, heated once more. Her core pulsed, her need almost agonising.

"Yes," he murmured. "Just like that." His hands gripped her hips, lifting her, setting his own rhythm. Her weight seemed to mean nothing to him, and it was all she could do to hold on.

Jacob had once thought that he would never again fall for a woman's charms.

That had been before he'd met Annabelle.

She consumed him and he drove into her with single-minded purpose. He was lost to the demands of his body and hers. They were in a moving carriage for heaven's sake, but he was animal first, man second.

No matter what she deserved, she had chosen him despite his flaws. He would endeavour to be worthy.

Her arms were tight around him, her breath hot against his neck, the tiny gasps and moans that escaped her lips driving him closer to the brink.

He slowed, not wanting it to end so soon. He was alive with desire, every nerve singing a song that sounded like her name.

Her fingers found his hair, nails scraping his skull, hands tugging, and the shock of it, bordering on pain, spurred him on.

All his life, he had been searching without realising; he had been an empty vessel, rejected by a family he could barely consider his own, and she had been the one to fill him.

For her, he would learn to be the man she had always wanted. It felt like a blessing to be finally free of his family's curse—not because he had destroyed the family name, but because through Annabelle, he would turn it into something good, something beautiful.

Underneath her skirts, his thumb found her slick centre, pressing and drawing slow circles. She tightened around him and his vision darkened. The pressure at the base of his spine tightened.

"Annabelle." He raised her and brought her back down on him, loving the little gasped moan she gave. "Annabelle, sweetheart, I need you to look at me."

Her eyes tilted up to his again. Blue, such a stark, lovely blue, like the sun against the clear sky. It reminded him of those hot summer days when he was a boy, before he knew how hard life could be. It reminded him of innocence, of happiness, of barely acknowledged joy.

He would acknowledge it now.

"One more time," he urged her. "For me, little bird. For me. Once more."

"Jacob." Her voice cracked.

"That's right, love. Say my name. Come apart for me."

The command was enough and she shuddered, gasping his name. He held on just to see her climax through before he broke, his fingers entwined with hers, her body cradled against his.

Mine.

The thought was primal, but for once, it didn't feel out of place. He was hers and she was his, and everything was right with the world.