Page 149

T he ship lurched to a halt, its timbers groaning as it settled against the dock.

Matthew wrapped an arm around Beatrice as the Boston harbor stretched before them, a landscape both unfamiliar and brimming with possibility.

It was a world apart from London, free of its soot-streaked facades and rigid formality, yet alive with an energy all its own.

The docks pulsed with movement, the cries of dockworkers blending into a cacophony of accents and the rhythmic clatter of hoisted crates. The air hung thick with mist, tinged with the sting of brine that clung to Matthew's skin and filled his lungs with each breath.

A damp chill curled around him, adding to the raw, untamed energy of the harbor. The scent of fresh timber mixed with the brine of the sea, a stark contrast to the damp, coal-infused air of England. After weeks at sea, this place felt both foreign and oddly invigorating.

He exhaled, letting the moment settle over him.

The sight of land before him should have felt like a reassurance, but instead, it made him acutely aware of how far he had traveled—how much had changed.

Was it the city itself, its foreign energy and unfamiliar rhythms, or was it something within him that had shifted?

He inhaled a slow breath, searching for clarity.

This was merely a pause—an interlude before they returned to the life awaiting them across the ocean.

The voyage had been long and fraught with trials, and while his heart yearned for the familiarity of home, he could not deny the strange allure of this new world.

Beatrice leaned into him, the wind toying with the dark strands that had escaped her hairpins. Her gaze, alight with curiosity, roamed over the bustling port, absorbing every detail. A flicker of amusement danced across her features as she turned to him.

"It seems we have arrived at last," she murmured, her voice threading through the sea breeze. "Dare we see what this city has to offer before we take our leave?"

Matthew studied her, the way the light caught the curve of her cheek, the way the crisp air colored her complexion.

"As long as you promise not to abandon me for some American adventure," he teased, reaching for her gloved hand and pressing a lingering kiss to her fingers. "I would not survive without you."

Her laughter, warm and rich, settled something deep within him, like the sun breaking through the morning fog.

It reminded him of stolen moments in candlelit parlors, of whispered confessions beneath starlit skies.

In her laughter, he found not just joy, but a tether to the life he never expected would be his.

It was a sound he had not realized he needed until it had become a constant in his life, a melody he now feared he could not live without.

Her smile broadened. “And here I thought you were the great and capable Lord Lorne. Have you grown dependent on me already?"

"Desperately so," he admitted, drawing her closer, feeling the warmth of her body against his. "I find I cannot go a single moment without longing for your touch."

She arched a brow, amusement twining with affection in her gaze. "Then it is fortunate we are wed, leastwise I might think you a most improper rogue."

He grinned, his voice low. "I am a rogue, my love. But I am your rogue."

They disembarked together, the solidity of the dock beneath them an odd sensation after weeks of constant motion.

The harbor swirled with movement—sailors hauling ropes, merchants haggling, the scent of fish and brine heavy in the crisp air.

Beatrice wrinkled her nose, glancing toward Matthew with a smirk.

"I do hope our ship home smells somewhat less… pungent."

Matthew chuckled. "I should hope so. Else I fear you might insist we remain here."

"Never," she said firmly, slipping her arm through his. "My place is by your side, wherever that may be."

He covered her hand with his own, squeezing gently as they wove through the thrumming streets. The energy of Boston was undeniable—the sharp voices of vendors hawking their wares, the laughter of children darting about, the aroma of fresh bread mingling with the crisp bite of morning, spring air.

A part of him felt drawn to this place. Yet, beneath that curiosity lurked a quiet longing for the life he had left behind, for the certainty and structure of England.

They paused before a flower vendor, Beatrice’s eyes softening at the sight of unfamiliar blooms—delicate petals in hues of crimson and gold, their scent a heady mix of spice and sweetness.

Beatrice reached out, brushing her fingers over the velvety petals, a wistful smile playing on her lips.

“I have never seen flowers like these before," she murmured, inhaling deeply as if committing the fragrance to memory.

"They remind me of something... though I cannot quite place what.

" Matthew, in turn, found himself captivated by the joy and wonderment etched upon her face.

As they passed a small bakery, she tugged at his arm. "Shall we stop for a rest?"

He led her inside, the scent of spice and warm pastries enveloping them. They settled into a quiet corner, the murmur of conversation a comforting hum. Matthew reached for her hand, tracing slow circles against the fabric of her glove.

"Are you happy?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She met his gaze, her expression turning tender.

"With you? Always." Her words wrapped around him like a soothing embrace, and his breath hitched, his grip instinctively tightening around her fingers.

A warmth unfurled in his chest, an ache both profound and sweet, as if the very foundation of his world had settled into place.

He brought her fingers to his lips. "I wish to give you the world, Bea."

She tilted her head, a knowing smile curving her lips. "My world is you."

The depth of his love for her overwhelmed him then, so much that words felt inadequate. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her, slow and reverent, savoring the moment as though it were the only one that mattered.

The days passed quickly, each moment weaving itself into the fabric of their memories.

They wandered through the winding streets, pausing to watch street performers as children clapped in delight.

One evening, they attended a small gathering at a tavern, where laughter and music spilled out onto the cobblestone streets, the scent of spiced cider and roasting meat curling through the air.

Beatrice danced with local women in a lively reel, her laughter mingling with the merry tunes, while Matthew found himself engaged in a discussion about English and American trade with an enthusiastic merchant.

The nights were filled with whispered confessions by the fireplace in their modest lodging, the flickering candlelight casting warm shadows as they spoke of their future.

"Do you ever wonder what our life might have been like had we never left England?" Beatrice asked, her voice soft, contemplative.

Matthew considered her words, running a thumb over the back of her hand. “Dreadful for we may never have reconciled our past and I cannot imagine a future where you do not love me.”

She smiled, the glow of the fire reflecting in her green eyes. "Nor can I. Yet, sometimes I think about the roads not taken."

"And do you regret the one we chose?" he murmured, searching her expression.

She shook her head, squeezing his fingers. "Never. Because every moment, every challenge, has brought me here—to you. And that is where I was always meant to be."

Matthew lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers.

"Then let us not dwell on what might have been.

Only what comes next." Each moment was fleeting, yet etched into their hearts, a reminder of the world beyond their own. As the morning of their departure dawned, Matthew found himself lingering in reflection. Standing at the harbor, he watched the ship that would carry them home, yet a strange wistfulness curled in his chest. Boston, with its foreign charm and relentless energy, had seeped into him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

There was a rawness here, a freedom untouched by the rigid expectations of England.

For a fleeting moment, he considered what it might be like to stay—to carve out a new life unfettered by duty and title. But the thought was transient.

Beside him, Beatrice gazed out over the bustling port, her expression contemplative. "It feels odd to leave," she admitted. "For all that I long to return to England, there is something… compelling about this place."

Matthew nodded, understanding the sentiment well. "Boston has its own charm, I will grant you that. But it is not home."

"No," she murmured, slipping her hand into his.

A warmth spread through him.

They ascended the gangplank, its weathered planks creaking beneath their steps.

The wind tugged insistently at Beatrice’s cloak, sending loose strands of hair whipping across her face.

Matthew tightened his grip on her hand, steadying her as they moved forward.

The scent of salt and damp wood filled the air, mingling with the distant call of seagulls.

Each step carried the weight of departure, of the journey behind them and the uncertainty ahead.

For a brief moment, Matthew hesitated, glancing back at the bustling port

As the wind filled the sails and the coastline faded into the horizon, Matthew held Beatrice close, breathing in the delicate scent of lavender that clung to her skin.

She rested her head against his shoulder, her voice a quiet murmur. "Do you think they will receive us well? After all that has passed?"

Matthew traced idle circles along her back, his voice steady with conviction. "They will see what I see. That you are my heart, my love, and that no force on this earth could change that.”

“And if they do not?” she asked.

He tugged her tight against him. “Then to the devil with them.”

She exhaled slowly. “You say that now…”

He cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Beatrice, love, I would face every scornful whisper, every raised brow, if it meant keeping you by my side.”

A smile ghosted her lips as she gazed up at him. "Then let us face whatever awaits—together."

He pressed a kiss to her temple, his gaze fixing on the endless horizon. “Always, my darling wildflower."