“Ash?”

He looked swiftly over his shoulder. “Oh. I thought you were sleeping.” He glanced to the window. She followed his gaze, noticing the faint purple light of impending morning. “Happy Christmas,” he murmured, rising to his feet.

He offered her what he had been working on. A set of crudely carved figures filled his palms. She instantly recognized the three figures. She touched them with a shaking hand.

“I didn’t have time to craft all the figures.” His voice was rough with apology.

She took them from him, examining them as if they were the finest-crafted crystal. The small Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus fit snugly into her palms. “You stayed up making these for me?”

He shrugged. “I’ll finish the set for you someday. Perhaps next Christmas. If you like them.”

Next Christmas.

“I love them,” she managed to say, squeezing the words out thickly.

Her eyes burned at the thought of him finishing the set, and the Christmases to come when they could display them in their drawing room on a bed of holly. The children that would surround them, singing carols …

She stopped, shaking her head at the fanciful notion.

Before he saw the tears in her eyes and misunderstood, she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, speaking into the warm flesh of his neck. “I love them.” I love you.

His arms came up, surrounding her, making her feel safe, protected, loved. And she prayed that she would be. That nothing would tear her from what she’d found with him. That this could last.

His hand trailed through her hair, dragging through the dark snarls. “I almost hate to leave this place.”

She released a breathy laugh. “Me, too.” Resting her cheek on the smooth skin of his shoulder, she added, “But we must.” She had much to accomplish.

“Yes, I’m sure your father is worried about you.”

She snorted. “I’m certain he’s not. And even if he were, I would not care.”

“He is your father, Marguerite. He should be told.”

She stiffened in his arms. Yes, Ash would want him to know.

“Marguerite?” He pulled back to stare into her face. “What is it?”

She studied him closely. Was it still about that for him? Revenging himself on her father? Showing her father that he could be denied nothing?

“You’re anxious to see my father?” she asked, her voice halting and suspicious. She could not help herself. “To inform him of our marriage?”

“Marguerite.” A touch of exasperation laced his voice. He clearly read her suspicions. “It’s not like that.”

“Indeed?” She shrugged free of his arms, calling herself ten kinds of fool to let herself be seduced into thinking he actually cared for her. That this had become about them.

“Indeed,” he echoed crisply, pulling her back into his embrace, indifferent to her stiff and resisting body. “You’ve come to mean more to me in this short time than any resentment I harbored toward your father. Than any matter of business.”

“Such matters bore weight before. Why should I believe they no longer do?”

He slid a hand over her cheek, gripping her face. “You’ll come to believe me,” he vowed, his eyes glittering down at her. “If keeping you meant I had to turn everything over to Jack, renounce my share of the hells, the mine, the factory, then I would. I was angry before, determined to get as much of the properties as I could for myself, but now I know that I can stand on my own. I don’t need Jack Hadley. I need you.”

She glanced down at the carved figures in her hand, and realized that perhaps she needed him, too.

He continued, “I’ve not felt this way—” Stopping, a stark look came into his dark eyes. In a more even voice, he said, “I mean to be a true husband to you, Marguerite. I will make you happy.”

He kissed her then. A fortunate circumstance. Closing her eyes, relief stole over her that he could not see the tears gathering. Because she wanted what he promised with every fiber of her being, craved the happiness he spoke of but doubted its possibility.

A sensation seized her then as he deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth against hers. She slid her fingers into his thick hair, kissing him back with equal fervor.

Burning conviction filled her. Determination.

As soon as they reached Town, she would return to St. Giles and confront Madame Foster. Marguerite would glean every bit of information that she could about her demise and do whatever necessary to stay alive. To stay with Ash. It was no longer for herself. It was for the both of them.

Chapter 19

Ash guided Marguerite to a long cushioned bench before a crackling fire at the inn where they stopped to change horses.

Sighing her relief, she slipped her gloved hands from her muff and extended them to the warming flames. It has been a hard day of travel, but they were close to Town.

“I shall see to a repast while we wait,” Ash said. “Warm yourself.” With a caressing stroke to her cheek, he ventured off to see to her comfort. The journey south had been full of smiles and caresses and decadent kisses, convincing Marguerite that she had made the right decision. She lifted her fingers to her lips, tracing a secret smile there, imagining she could still feel the warm imprint of his mouth.

She looked up at the sound of her name, her hand dropping away. The blood washed from her face at the sight of the man striding toward her, his cloak whipping about him like a dark wind. A coldness swept through her that rivaled the winter winds outside.

She staggered to her feet, then dropped back down at the unsteadiness of her limbs. Her dry and aching eyes swept over the man as though he were a terrible apparition come to life.

“Marguerite, is it truly you?”

“R-Roger.” A quick glance beyond his shoulder showed no sight of Ash. Much to her relief.

He grasped her by the arms and pulled her into his embrace. “I feared something ill befell you when you vanished.”

“I am well,” she murmured, arching away from his arms.

“What happened to you?”

She shook her head, struggling for words.

Roger pushed on, heedless of her explanation. His eyes swept over her hungrily, his voice husky. “Whatever the case, you are a vision. Did I not have my sisters with me, I would claim you now—take a room upstairs and not emerge for days.”

She shook her head harder. “Roger, you don’t understand—”

“Unfortunately, the girls are stretching their legs out in the yard and I am not free to do so.” He cupped her cheek and dared to slide his thumb over her mouth. With a small cry, she pulled her head free from his bold touch and opened her mouth to apprise him of her recent married status.

She did not have the chance.

Roger was ripped from her side and tossed through the air. He crashed into the bench with a horrible gurgled cry, shattering it to splinters. Ash jumped upon him before Marguerite could even move.

She cringed at the first smack of Ash’s fist, the terrible crunch of bone on bone reminding her of that day in St. Giles when she first spied him beating another man to an inch of his life.

“Ash! No!” She grasped hold of his arm and hung on, stopping him from striking Roger again.

Ash sent her a quick glare. “He gave you insult.”

“You don’t understand!” she cried. Aware of the gathering crowd in the public room, she leaned closer, hissing hurriedly in his ear, “He is my protector.

Or rather, I had intended for him to be. He’s the one I was journeying to Spain with …”

Ash’s sinewy arm tensed beneath her fingers, turning to stone.

Then, he moved, slamming one final blow that snapped Roger’s head back. The viscount fell to the floor. Ash stepped forward, his legs braced wide. Roger stared up at him with unfocused eyes, blood dribbling thickly from a misshapen nose.

Ash reached down and grabbed him by his bloodstained cravat. “She is no longer your concern. Look at her, touch her, and I shall kill you. She’s mine now.”

Roger clasped a hand to his gushing nose and nodded fiercely.

“Ash,” Marguerite breathed, making a move toward Roger, concerned only that Ash had not hurt him beyond repair.

Ash grabbed her hand and swung her around before she could attend to the viscount.

“Come,” he growled in a voice she had never heard from him before.

“I only seek to see that he is not—”

“You are not to go near him again, Marguerite,” he snapped, his voice humming with barely checked violence.

She bristled. “Is that the way of it then? Am I to follow your commands as though I’m mindless chattel?”

“Don’t,” he spat, pulling her outside and across the yard to their carriage.

“Don’t what?” Her feet tripped to keep up. “You promised me a marriage where I would have freedom, independence. This hardly smacks of that!”

He flung her into the carriage ahead of him, following close behind. With a rap on the ceiling, the vehicle lurched into motion.

She stared across the carriage at him and was brought to mind of a deadly coiled snake, ready to spring. “Indeed, you are right,” he said in a voice that was clipped and tight. “Thank you for the reminder. I seem to recall ours is a marriage of convenience. I’ve no call to expect or command anything of you—”

She shook her head, feeling as though everything were unraveling around her. “That’s not what I meant—”

“In a reasonable time,” he pushed on as if she had not spoken. “In a few months, we shall go our separate ways. I only ask that until then you refrain from making a fool of me. I’ll be no cuckold whilst the two of us wait to part ways.”

She shook her head, staring at him helplessly. Even as she sat across from him, she felt a gulf rise between them, an ever-yawning chasm that she could not cross.

Eyes burning, she shook her head, bewildered, marveling at what had become of her. Suddenly, the fate she had sought so desperately to avoid was no longer the worst thing that could befall her.

A week later, ensconced in her new home on Cavendish Square, Marguerite sat in the solarium. She’d quickly designated the room her favorite, with its sunny wallpaper and framed landscapes of sunlit Italian orchards. Colorful floral and striped pillows crowded the brightly upholstered sofas and chairs, beckoning her to sit. As a sick nurse she’d worked in many a fine home, but nothing compared to Ash’s townhouse. She could almost convince herself that all was perfect in her world. If only her husband were speaking to her. If only a certain diviner had not filled her head with dire prophecies.

On this afternoon she resigned herself to the task of penning a letter to Fallon and Evie. The elusive words were slow to flow from her pen. As she didn’t want to particularly worry her friends, she avoided mentioning the particulars involving her marriage to Ash. A skillful bit of subterfuge on her part to avoid mention of her abduction.

She looked up as Mrs. Harkens entered the elegant room pushing a cart laden with more tea and biscuits than Marguerite could possibly eat in a score of days.

Marguerite smiled. The housekeeper had been most solicitous since their arrival. “Mrs. Harkens, you are much too kind, but you needn’t wait on me.”

The wiry housekeeper batted a hand, stopping the cart near the crackling hearth. “Just happy to have someone here during the day. The master works such long hours. Even with servants to spare, this place feels empty and quiet. This great mausoleum needs children, if you ask me.”

Marguerite’s cheeks burned at the candid speech.

“Ah, forgive my runaway tongue.” The housekeeper rushed to apologize. “I’m just over the moon that the master took a bride … only anxious for the next step. You must admit, this place needs a little life in it. Nothing like babes to put life in a house.”