The Duke’s Perfect Wife (MacKenzies & McBrides #4)(81)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“El,” he whispered. “My El.”

He turned her face up to his and kissed her. The taste of him, so familiar, so much a part of her, broke her heart.

She squirmed out of his arms and thumped her fists to his chest. “Why the devil didn’t you send word? I was sick with worry, waiting and waiting…”

He had the gall to look surprised—so like him. “I sent the signal. I know you saw it.”

“Oh, do you? You were watching me?”

“Had someone watching you,” he said.

“Of course you did. Then why did you not let me send a message back? I scoured the square for any sign of who had left the flower, but no one noticed anything. Useless of them.”

“I heard that too. I did not want you to find him, or me, because it was dangerous.”

“Well, yes, I understand why you wanted no one to follow him to your hiding place. But you might have trusted me to be covert.”

“I mean, it was dangerous for you!” Hart’s usual shouting growl broke free. “What would have happened if an enemy knew I was still alive and you were communicating with me? He might have tried to use you to bring me out of hiding, might have tried to hurt you until you told him where I was.”

“I never would have,” Eleanor said. “Not even under torture.”

“Damn it, I didn’t want you to be tortured!”

Eleanor cupped his cheek. “Oh. That’s sweet.”

Ian came tramping toward them, boots grating on the gravel. “You are making too much noise.”

Hart caught Eleanor’s hand in his hard grip. “You are right, Ian. As usual. Come with me, El. I want to show you something.”

“Can you show me at home? It’s so very cold out here. It is all right now, you know. Inspector Fellows found all the assassins. At last. Do you know, I believe he is sweet on Isabella’s sister. We will have to make sure they are both at Kilmorgan for the summer—”

She found his blunt fingers on her lips, his hands now rough and calloused. “Eleanor, please stop talking for a fleeting instant, and come with me. It will be warm; I promise.”

Eleanor kissed his fingers. “What are you going to show me?”

He gave her a familiar, exasperated look. “Can you come along without asking questions?”

“Hmm, I can see that living rough hasn’t dampened your arrogance. All right, then. Show me. And then, we go home.”

Hart’s expression changed to the triumphant one. Oh, dear.

Hart started walking up the shingle, his arm around Eleanor. She liked being so warm against him, in the protective circle of his strong arm. She babbled because the release from her sickening fear wouldn’t let her do otherwise, but her heart sang.

“Ian,” Hart said as they walked. “Stop at the boat there, and tell Reeve he’ll get his money tomorrow morning. The publican by the bridge lets rooms—El and I will spend the night there. Then send word to Kilmorgan—discreetly—that I will be there soon.”

Ian nodded. He sank his fingers into Hart’s shoulder, then jogged away toward Reeve’s boat, disappearing into the darkness. Ian would do it, and not betray them.

The publican and his wife had already gone to bed, but Eleanor put several crowns into the publican’s hand. The man and his wife opened a room and started a fire in its stove, then shook out sheets for the bed while Eleanor stood by the shuttered window, out of the way.

Hart asked for a bath. The publican’s wife gave him a dark look, but another crown later, they brought a hip bath and some towels and filled the bath with cans of steaming water.

The publican asked no questions, but both he and his wife gave Hart and Eleanor curious stares before they left them alone.

“They believe I am a courtesan,” Eleanor said. “How amusing.”

Hart stripped off his soiled clothing. “Do you care what they think?”

“Not really,” Eleanor said. “But as happy as I am to be out of the wind, I will point out that your London house is warmer, and your bathtub larger. And you have running water.”

Hart fished a folded newspaper out of his coat pocket and tossed it on the bed. “That is why.”

Eleanor didn’t glance at the paper. Instead, she watched Hart peel off his trousers and the flannels he wore underneath, and then step, naked, into the bath.

Hart lowered himself into the heat, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. Eleanor’s gaze riveted to him, her large, handsome husband, now soaking wet, skin gleaming with water.

“Read the newspaper, El,” Hart said. He picked up the cake of soap and lavished it over himself.

Eleanor glanced at the bed. “I’ve read that one. The news about the elections is in it.”

“I know.” He let out a breath, collapsing against the end of the small tub. He had to raise his knees to fit. “That is what I want to show you, El. The coalition, the elections, the government… the world. They have moved on.” He spread his arms, letting water drip to the floor. “And I am still here.”

“True,” Eleanor said, her gaze back on Hart. “Some of your colleagues have scarcely stopped to mourn you. It’s rather disgusting.”

“Not what I mean. While I’ve been living on that boat, El, the world has passed me by. I always thought that, without me, it wouldn’t. Everything would crumble and fall, unable to get on without me managing it. But I was wrong.”

She watched him with a worried look. “And this pleases you?”

“Yes.” Hart vigorously rubbed his hair, droplets flying. “Because, love, watching the world from afar brought it home to me. I don’t have to run it. I have set things in motion and given Fleming his push. And now—I can stop.”

He heaved a sigh and slid down into the water, the suds closing over him like a blanket.

Eleanor had never seen him like this. He was relaxed in the ridiculously small tub, uncaring, his grin full of true mirth. Laughing at himself. Though Hart had teased and laughed when he’d courted her long ago, he’d been, in truth, propelling himself toward a goal. Always, Hart Mackenzie had an underlying drive that made anything on the surface just that—on the surface. Right now, he was… himself.

“Are you certain you are feeling quite well?” Eleanor asked. “Ian told me you’d taken a blow on the head from the explosion.”

Hart laughed out loud. He was delectable all wet, his hair slicked with water, his big limbs hanging out of the tub. And the beard. It had startled Eleanor when he’d first stepped into the light, but the softness of it against her lips hadn’t been unpleasant at all.