The Unknown Beloved(125)

Dani didn’t squeal or flare her fingers to study the effect as he’d seen other women do. She closed her hand into a fist, curling her fingers around the loose band as if she was afraid it would slide right off again, or worse, that it didn’t mean what she thought it did.

He brought her clenched fist to his chest, pressing it to his heart, and made himself meet her gaze. She was silent as her eyes searched his. She needed him to say the words.

“Will you marry me, Dani Flanagan?” he asked, his throat tight.

“Yes, Michael Malone. I will.” No hesitation. “But we’re going to have to live here. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She exhaled in gusty relief. She must have been holding her breath because she hiccuped and then giggled.

Joy bubbled up in his throat, and his heart swelled beneath her fist. He smiled, unable to help himself, and Dani pulled her hand from his and gripped his face, pressing her mouth to his. But she was smiling too, making the kiss more shared laughter than intimate caress. He wanted to kiss her senseless, but try as he might, his mouth would not form the proper shape to accomplish the task. So he let himself grin like a fool and nuzzled her throat instead, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her down onto the bed.

The scent of her skin, so dear and so distinct, flooded him, and he stilled, his face buried in the crook of her neck. He wanted to pray. He wanted to confess. To moan the Rosary in humble adoration, but he suddenly didn’t trust himself to speak. His emotions were too close to the surface. Dani was whole and well and in his arms, and he was home.

“You aren’t going to tell me no again, are you, Malone?” she asked, her pulse thrumming against his lips, her hands stroking his head.

“No, Dani,” he said.

They laughed again, like children up to no good, awake past their bedtime, struggling to be quiet yet unable to quiet their delight in each other. He just wanted to touch her. To trace every beloved line. He brushed his fingers over the tip of her nose and the swell of her lips, his mouth following his hand. He continued down her throat and across her breasts, resting his rough face against her soft heart, and their mirth dissipated into the mellow light of the room and the reverence of adoration.

He rose over her and kissed her the way she loved, the way he loved. He kept his mouth on hers even as he dispensed with her nightgown and slid her silk underthings from her body. He proceeded slowly, aware of the house breathing around them, the creak of old walls and old women, and when he reared back slightly, just to drink her in and find his self-control, she divined his thoughts.

“They won’t disturb us,” Dani whispered. Her languid eyes and parted lips beckoned him, and he withdrew from her long enough to check the lock on the door and to shrug out of his clothes. He watched her as she watched him, rosy and rumpled, naked and trusting, and his love swamped him again, making him quake and struggle for breath.

“Ah, Dani,” he murmured, completely ensnared, completely undone. “Are you sure, lass? Are you sure you want me? Because I won’t survive you changing your mind. I won’t be strong enough to leave again. I won’t be able to. Even if you tell me to go.”

He was babbling. He didn’t babble. And yet . . . he babbled on. “I’ll drive you crazy. I’ll be constantly underfoot, like that damn cat. You won’t get any rest. Or space. I can’t stand the space even now.” She was only a few feet away from him—lips and limbs, smiling eyes and copper curls—and he couldn’t bear it. “I’ll be a burden,” he warned, folding his arms to hold himself back.

“Oh, Michael. Come here, my darling,” Dani said, reaching for him, and his name, uttered so tenderly, was all the urging he needed. He obeyed, a man committed, and stretched himself willingly on the rack of his devotion, his body covering hers. Dani welcomed him, undaunted, meting out the torture and the transcendence with her hands and her mouth and her trust. And he returned it in full measure.



Beyond the room in the aging house on Broadway, where Dani slept with his kiss on her lips and his scent on her skin, past the morgue where the nameless were brought, and down the steep gully into Kingsbury Run, the embers of shanties and the stink of burnt rubber permeated the soft summer air. A few men moved through the rubble, kicking at the debris, looking for treasure where no treasure remained. Where no treasure had likely ever existed. Malone moved among them, peeking at the sooty cheeks beneath soiled caps, looking for Francis Sweeney. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to be sure, and he didn’t know if he ever would be.

He’d been unable to stay asleep, happy as he was. Buoyant as he was. It was something he would have to get used to. He’d lain in the darkness listening to Dani breathe, so weightless he thought he might float away. After a while he rose and tiptoed through the house and down to his room, Charlie padding behind him. He thought Dani might wake and follow him, and he briefly considered rousing her so that if she found him gone from her bed, she wouldn’t think he’d been eager to leave it. But she didn’t wake, and he was grateful. It was better if he went to the Run alone.

He left a note on his desk.

I know I promised I’d be here when you wake, but if I’m not, don’t worry. I needed to walk. I won’t be gone long.

The note had seemed cold and impersonal, considering that he felt neither of those things, and he stared down at the words. He added, I love you, and felt like a child. But he left it.