A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(100)
She flew across the belfry into her husband’s arms. “You came. She nearly pitched us both over, nearly…but you came.”
She burrowed into Sherbourne’s embrace, and mashed her face against the soft wool of his coat, and let the tears flow.
*
“I can walk,” Charlotte said, as Sherbourne carried her up the front steps to their home. “I’m not an invalid.”
“You are my wife,” he replied as a surprised Crandall opened the door. “Carrying you on occasion is my privilege.” Still he did not set her on her feet—could not—but continued straight to the library, doubtless leaving a trail of snow and mud on the carpets.
He’d finally carried his bride across the threshold of their home, and that…that helped.
“Lucas, it was a bad moment, and—” Charlotte fell silent long enough to lift the door latch.
“It was an awful moment,” he said, kicking the door closed behind them, “one I’ll relive in my nightmares until I’m so old I can’t recall my own name.”
Sherbourne set her on the sofa, cloak and all. Thank God that Charlotte had given orders the library fire was to be kept roaring at all times, for the room was relatively warm. Sherbourne went no farther from Charlotte’s side than the distance to the sideboard, where he poured her a tot of brandy.
“Drink this,” he said, setting the glass down so he could unfasten her cloak. He untied her bonnet ribbons next, and put the damned hat on the floor before the fire. Her boot laces were the worse for being wet, and when he finally had her footwear off, he wanted to toss the damned things across the room.
He set them around the end of the sofa, where the fire’s heat would do little damage.
“You don’t have to drink the brandy,” Sherbourne said, “but I need to do something for you to calm my nerves, so you will please at least pretend to take a sip.”
Charlotte held the glass beneath her slightly red nose. “I’m well, Lucas. I came to no harm, and Heulwen came to no harm, thanks to you.”
He settled on the hassock before her, drew her feet into his lap, and searched beneath her skirts for a garter.
“You were nearly pitched to your death by a maid grown hysterical over a situation that developed under my very nose. All I could do was stand outside that belfry and listen, pray, curse, and hope.”
He’d also heard Charlotte’s speech about money—and love.
He gathered Charlotte’s feet and bent over them. He’d nearly lost her, nearly lost everything that mattered. Inside, he was shaking, but as long as he could touch his wife, the shaking did not overpower him.
“Drink this,” Charlotte said, holding the brandy out to him. “The quality is excellent, but at the moment, it might not agree with me.”
Did she know she was breeding? Suspect? Something in between? Had he been wrong?
Sherbourne took the brandy, downed half of it, and set it aside. “I’ve realized something.”
“I’ve realized a few things too. You first.”
If she’d realized their marriage was over and that the rest of her life should be spent under her papa’s roof rather than in a household where maids developed fatal passions for stable lads and titled scoundrels got rich off the labor of others, Sherbourne would…
Convince her otherwise.
“Brantford is a disgrace of the first water,” Sherbourne said. “The mother of his child—the mother of his child—came to him for aid and he all but tossed her from the steeple. Tomcats don’t prey on their own young, wolves, snakes…I know of no creature under all of heaven that would behave thus.”
“Brantford did, Lucas. Many men do, and some women aren’t much better. This matters to me.”
“You matter to me.”
She brushed her fingers through his hair. “What of our offspring, whom Brantford would see tossed into penury? You exaggerated for the sake of argument, but your point is valid: Brantford can ruin you.”
This too had come clear for Sherbourne as he’d listened to his wife trying to reason with a hysterical young woman, as he’d recalled that Charlotte was terrified of heights and had scaled the highest building in the village in hopes of rescuing a flighty maid, as he’d raced to the vicarage next door and shouted for help.
“Brantford can ruin my reputation as a businessman, which reputation is overstated at best. He cannot ruin me. I can ruin your respect for me, by choosing what’s expedient over what’s right. Only you can ruin me.”
Charlotte scooted closer, emerging from her cloak to climb into Sherbourne’s lap. “You say the most gallant, romantic things.” She twined her arms about his neck, and the panic that had been building inside Sherbourne for weeks subsided minutely.
He shifted, so he and Charlotte were in her favorite corner of the sofa. She pulled the quilt off the back of the couch and arranged it around them.
“I cannot ruin you,” Charlotte said. “That was my great insight. I don’t want to ruin you, I don’t want to be right at the cost of your regard for me or your self-respect. You should be able to trust that one person—at least one person—will not betray you. We might argue and feud, but we must not ever fear that we’ll betray each other.”
“You did not want to betray the memory of your friend.”