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rest of yo-ur li-fe. I'll ma-ke yo-ur li-fe a li-ving hell, cha-ined to the
last of the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes. If that s not re-ven-ge I don't know what
is."
She fo-und she co-uld smi-le aga-inst the wrin-k-led whi-te-ness of his
shirt. "Didn't you tell me so-met-hing el-se last night?"
"I told you a gre-at many things last night, most of which you wo-uldn't
ha-ve he-ard. If you're by any chan-ce re-fer-ring to what I sa-id to you
be-fo-re you pas-sed out from the po-ison, that was two days ago."
She pus-hed away from him. "Two days? I've be-en sick that long?"
"You've be-en ho-ve-ring bet-we-en li-fe and de-ath, damn it. It's abo-ut
ti-me you ma-de up yo-ur mind."
"What abo-ut Mal-vi-ver? Are we sa-fe he-re?".she as-ked an-xi-o-usly.
"Yo-ur fri-end Mal-vi-ver is no lon-ger among the li-ving."
"Oh, no," she sa-id, se-ar-c-hing his fa-ce for the ble-ak-ness she
ex-pec-ted to see. In-s-te-ad he lo-oked both ex-ha-us-ted and cu-ri-o-usly
joyo-us. "Did you kill him?"
"You se-em tro-ub-led by his de-mi-se, con-si-de-ring you we-re do-ing yo-ur
best to po-ison him," he po-in-ted out.
"But I didn't want you to kill him," she sa-id. "You ha-ve too much blo-od
on yo-ur hands."
"As a mat-ter of fact, Tony did the ho-nors. Yo-ur fri-end Mal-vi-ver ma-de
the very di-re mis-ta-ke of thin-king he co-uld use El-len as a hos-ta-ge. It
was very tidy. I'm qu-ite res-pec-t-ful of Sir An-tony's ta-lent. I didn't
know he had it in him."
"But how will we get out of Fran-ce?"
"As fast as we can. Do you think you're up to ri-ding in a car-ri-age?"
"Oh, God," she mo-aned. "It se-ems I've spent half my li-fe in a
car-ri-age."
"Don't worry, my lo-ve. On-ce we re-turn to En-g-land we can stay put.
Tony's pro-mi-sed to spe-ak for me, and he's such a res-pec-tab-le
gen-t-le-man I ha-ve no do-ubt my na-me will be cle-ared. At le-ast in the
mat-ter of the la-te Mr. Har-g-ro-ve. If you wish, we can li-ve a
com-for-tab-le eno-ugh li-fe." He se-emed al-most dif-fi-dent, and she knew
the sud-den, shoc-king truth. The de-ar man was ac-tu-al-ly af-ra-id that she
wo-uldn't want him.
She re-ac-hed up and stro-ked his stub-bled skin. "What el-se did you say
when I col-lap-sed?" she whis-pe-red. "Be-si-des thre-ate-ning to be-at me?"
Her fi-er-ce de-mon lo-ver ac-tu-al-ly lo-oked abas-hed. "It do-esn't be-ar
re-pe-ating."
"It do-es if you ex-pect me to marry you. I lo-ve you too much to let you
throw yo-ur li-fe away on me."
"My li-fe isn't worth an-y-t-hing."
"It is to me."
He sta-red at her in mu-te frus-t-ra-ti-on. "All right, I lo-ve you, damn
it," he snap-ped. "Do-es that sa-tisfy you?"
She con-si-de-red it. "It's a start. But you'll de-fi-ni-tely ne-ed mo-re
prac-ti-ce. You ha-ven't le-ar-ned the pro-per in-to-na-ti-on. You ne-ed-" He
si-len-ced her, ef-fi-ci-ently and swiftly, his mo-uth co-ve-ring hers.
When he lif-ted his he-ad they we-re both bre-at-h-less. "I lo-ve you," he
sa-id aga-in, this ti-me a lit-tle mo-re softly.
She smi-led up at him. "Much bet-ter," she whis-pe-red. "I ac-cept."
Epilogue
The smell of fresh wo-od mi-xed with the rich scent of her-bal tea.
Ghis-la-ine sat at the well-sc-rub-bed tab-le and in-ha-led the aro-ma,
lo-oking abo-ut her with sim-p-le ple-asu-re. Char-bon lay at her fe-et,
sle-eping so-undly.
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It was autumn in Scot-land, and the ru-ined hun-ting lod-ge of the mad
Blac-k-t-hor-nes was slowly be-ing put in go-od he-art on-ce mo-re. She'd
in-sis-ted on the kit-c-hen first. Nic-ho-las had held out for the bed-ro-om,
but she'd be-en firm. They co-uld sle-ep and ma-ke lo-ve an-y-w-he-re, and had
pro-ven that to the-ir own mu-tu-al sa-tis-fac-ti-on. Co-oking was mo-re of a
chal-len-ge.
The new ro-of was com-p-le-te, the west wing al-most clo-sed in, and if the
la-bo-rers tho-ught it odd that Blac-k-t-hor-ne wor-ked si-de by si-de with
them in the brisk autumn air, they as-c-ri-bed it to the od-di-ti-es of the
gentry. They we-re even mo-re ta-ken aback when Tony and El-len vi-si-ted for
a we-ek in August, and the ho-no-rab-le Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening had
car-ted lum-ber and bricks, but Ghis-la-ine de-ci-ded it was all for the best.
She'd suf-fe-red thro-ugh so-me of the worst the re-vo-lu-ti-on in Fran-ce had
to of-fer. She co-uld ma-na-ge to gle-an the best too, and she was
de-ter-mi-ned to be very de-moc-ra-tic. Nic-ho-las was too self-ab-sor-bed to
ca-re one way or the ot-her.
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