Page 30 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

A rchie felt every cobblestone on the route from Leeds to York, the jolts from the hired hack’s wheels reverberating up his spine to the ache in his head. When they rolled to a stop in front of his office, his relief was palpable, and he exhaled with a groan. “Thank you, Owen,” he said. “You didn’t need to stay with me.”

Owen huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, doing his best to look supremely put out while simultaneously not letting Archie evade inspection for any maladies the doctors in Leeds hadn’t noticed. “Ye were whinging non-stop, an’ I didn’t want to give the nurses too much trouble.”

“I was unconscious , Owen.”

He pursed his lips. “I’ve seen worse. A few bruises and a headache is nothin’ to complain about.”

Archie touched his fingers to the bandage wrapping around his temple and winced. “Don’t forget the stitches.” From what he’d pieced together from Owen’s recalling of the injury and the doctor’s assessment, he had been fortunate. A few bruised ribs and half a dozen stitches across the brow were a trifle compared to what could have happened.

Owen grunted. “Go to sleep before ye hurt yerself again. D’you need help getting up there?”

The windows on the second floor of his office-turned-flat were dark, and something shifted and died in his chest. He didn’t know why he’d allowed himself to hope someone—hell, not someone, but Marigold—would be waiting for him upon his return. But the streets were deserted, the hour long past midnight, and why would she be there? She had her children, her life to attend to. He’d never even given her a key.

Because what were they? He was her barrister, and she was the woman he had fallen in love with, against all logic and sound advice. Shared pleasure was all they could ask of each other, all they would ever have.

But she’d been at the match, a vision in that yellow dress, like a bolt of sunlight that put the actual heavens to shame. He had wanted to take her hand, introduce her to Owen and the team, claim her proudly and boldly.

Instead, he settled for a wave.

Days ago, he’d been satisfied with having her kisses, with bringing her to climax on his desk and taking his own in return. But now?

It wasn’t enough. But nothing was ever enough for him, was it ?

“I’ll be fine getting in,” he said finally, and Owen gave a gruff nod.

Archie shuffled out, cringing as an ache rattled through him when he extended himself to his full height after being contained in the carriage for so long. With a last wave, Owen’s hack departed, and Archie made his way to the door, fumbling with his keys before unlocking it.

“Archie?”

He spun, and there she was, turning the corner and walking towards him, eyes wide and searching.

He must still be unconscious, because only in his wildest dreams or deepest hallucinations could Marigold be here, at night, her long hair tied back in a plait and a dark cloak around her shoulders. “Were you waiting? It’s not safe here at night.”

“I was in my carriage around the corner,” she interrupted, her gaze settling on the bandage across his temple. “Can I come inside?”

He led her past the shadows of Jasper’s desk and the closed door to his private office, up the rickety stairs to the second floor where he spent his nights dreaming of her. Imagining her at the simple range where he prepared his meals, in the winged chair in front of the cold coal stove. Leading her towards the humble bed, a castoff he’d purchased for a pittance from the previous owners and barely fit his rangy frame.

After lighting the gas lamp on his nightstand, he sat on the edge, propped his elbows on his knees, but didn’t break eye contact with Marigold. She stood several paces before him, still examining him without touch.

“Why are you here?” he asked again, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

Her eyes shimmered in the low light. “I hated t-today.”

His chuckle lacked mirth as he touched the bandage. “So did I.”

She shook her head, stepped closer, reached out her hand as though she meant to touch him, but retreated. “I was so frightened that you could have b-b-been…”

When she trailed off, he nodded, let his head drop. “I know.”

“You were alone.”

He was still looking at the floor between his feet when he spoke. “I had Owen.”

“I d-don’t know who Owen is, but he doesn’t love you like I do.”

He lifted his head, far too quickly, because the change in elevation sent blood rushing to his ears and head, making his wound throb. He winced and groaned, and Marigold caught his hands before he could reach the source of his agony.

“Don’t touch it,” she said. Her fingertips grazed the bruised skin of his temple as she brushed around the bandage, soothed the abraded flesh around the wound. “Where else?”

He hesitated, unsure of her objective. He raised his right arm and indicated the side of his ribcage. “Here.”

“I can’t see. Will you stand?”

He did, and he towered over her, aware of the difference in their sizes but utterly cowed by her. There was something in her stance, about the determination in her eyes, that stayed him while sending fire racing through his veins. She radiated conviction, power , and he wanted to be drunk on it, on her , give her whatever she needed in this moment.

In one move, he gripped the collar of his blood-stained jersey and tugged it over his head, then tossed it to the floor. The movement shifted his ribs, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning, but her eyes widened, watched the play of muscles across his arms and chest.

Well worth the pain.

“Here?” she asked, gesturing to the raised welt on his chest where the Leeds player had collided with him. The bastard had a hard head.

He nodded, and she traced her fingers around the bruise before laying her hand over the discoloration.

Then she leaned over, braced one hand on his abdomen, and kissed his skin, a featherlight touch that made his knees weak and his muscles clench. She kissed him again, higher on his ribcage, again on his sternum. Once more on his pectoral, over his heart.

“I knew you could get hurt,” she said against his chest, nuzzling the coarse hair she found there. “I didn’t like it, but… that wasn’t the worst part.”

Her body was a hair’s breadth from his, and his cock pulsed, desperate for her touch. But he held himself in check. Whatever she needed to say, he needed to listen. “What was the worst part?”

She looked up, held his gaze, her lips parted and eyes red-rimmed. “Not being able to call you mine.”

The breath rushed from his lungs. “Marigold… ”

“I couldn’t see you, couldn’t b-be with you.” Moisture was building on her lower lashes, her bottom lip trembling. “And I hated it. I wanted everyone to know that you are mine and I am yours, b-but I couldn’t.”

She broke off, her nose wrinkling as she pressed her lips together, and his heart cracked open. After so many years restraining her emotions, now she was sharing, vulnerable for him , because of him.

She took one step back and met his eye, as though she were facing down a formidable foe. “I want to be yours in every way. I’m t-terrified of it, but I do.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I love you. I love you, and I’m so frightened.”

He cut her off with a kiss, kissing her with everything he had, everything he wanted. A whimper fell from her throat as he cupped the back of her head. He wrapped his aching arms around her waist and pulled her close.

Archie groaned, winced and curled into his right side, and Marigold gasped. “You’re hurt,” she said, guiding him towards the bed. “I shouldn’t be here. I should go.”

“Don’t you dare go,” he growled, catching her hand before he sat again. “I’ve waited so long to have you here. Am I dreaming?” He stretched up to kiss her, pulled her forward between his spread knees. “You’re here,” he whispered as he kissed down her throat. “And you love me.”

Her laugh was watery. “I do. And you—”

“I love you,” he breathed against her lips, the relief of saying it out loud like breaking through the surface when he thought he would drown, sucking in fresh air when he thought he would suffocate. “I love you.”

Her kiss was greedy, desperate as she cupped his cheeks, her fingertips stroking through the hair of his beard, over his cheekbones, hesitating at his wound. “I don’t want to hurt you more.”

“You can’t,” he said, his elation making the ache dissipate far better than any medicine. “You won’t.”

His hands skimmed over her sides to cup her breasts. “Will you undress for me? Please?” He wasn’t above begging, not now, not with her.

But there was no need, as she was already working at her collar, down the long line of buttons on her shirtwaist. He helped her pull the fabric from the waistband of her skirt, then tossed it aside. He chuckled. “How many layers are there?”

Marigold scowled, but it lacked heat. “Far too many.”

He dragged his thumb along the upper edge of her corset cover, where the delicate lace met the creamy swell of her breasts. “I’ve never been patient enough to undress you before. I intend to change that tonight.” He glanced to her to ensure her consent. Her parted lips, her nod, gave him permission to unbutton the cover, pull at the hooks of her corset until he’d loosened it sufficiently, then let the corset and her hooked petticoats tumble to the floor. She separated the panels of her pantaloons and let them fall on top of her discarded clothing.

The sight of her in a chemise and stockings punched the air from his aching chest. He wanted to take his time with her, savor every inch of exposed skin, every catch of her breath and shuddering sigh, discover where she was most sensitive, but the hunger that had been growing in him for weeks became too powerful, too all-encompassing.

His hands slid down to her bottom and led her forward, helping her to straddle his hips with her knees, kneeling on the bed. Her chemise rose enough with the motion to expose the bare skin above her garters, the heat of her core searing his trouser-clad cock until his vision blurred.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his lips skimming the length of her neck, the delicate arc of her collarbone, the divot of her shoulder. “And you hid this beauty under all those layers .”

He nipped at the upper swell of her breast and she gasped a laugh. He cupped her ankles and brought his hands up as slowly as he could manage over the curve of her calves, the bumps of her knees and the soft, ample flesh of her thighs to reach the hem of her shift. “Yes?”

Another nod, her breath coming faster as he lifted the fabric up over her waist, to her—

“Wait.”

He froze, dropped the fabric back in place.

She bit her lower lip, splotches of pink growing on her cheeks and down her neck. “I’ve had t-two children.” She clasped her hands over her stomach. “I d-don’t look…” She trailed off, and he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, then raised her gaze to meet his.

“You’re the strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and if your body has changed because of it, it’s only proof of your strength.” He kissed her again, chastely. “And I love you for it, because of what you’ve been through, not despite it.”

Her fingertips dragged down his cheek. “I love you.”

He rubbed his nose against hers and took the hem of her shift in his hands once more. “May I?”

“Yes,” she said with a gravity and confidence that made his heart swell.

When he’d lifted the chemise over her head and tossed it aside, he exhaled in a rush. With their proximity, he couldn’t see her clearly, so he explored with his hands, his lips. The heavy swell of her breasts, the flesh around her middle. The silvery lines on her thighs and belly. All of it a sign of her womanhood, her resilience and strength.

“Do you realize you’re humming?” she whispered.

He paused with his mouth on the side of her breast. “I am?”

She smiled, a soft huff that might have been a giggle escaping. “You are.”

“Ah, yes. Whenever I find something new that I like—” His thumb brushed over the tight furl of her nipple and she gasped, arching her back to press herself into his hand. “I must show my appreciation somehow.”

His lips closed over the peak, and her gasp became a low moan of pleasure, increasing in volume as he swirled his tongue, sucked, then razed his teeth over sensitive skin before giving the other breast similar attention. Her hips were rocking, the bare, heated flesh of her mound pushing against the ridge of his cock, and he thought he might die like this, on the edge of a precipice so intense he worried he wouldn’t survive it.

“Love, I can’t—” He swallowed hard, pressed his brow to her sternum as she shuddered against him, and another wave of electric pleasure arced down his spine. “Lay on the bed, darling, please. I need to taste you again.”

She blinked and nodded, then he helped her off his lap. He stood then shifted on the mattress and, focused as he was on protecting his injury as he moved, he didn’t immediately see the vision Marigold created. When he did, his entire world stopped.

She was propped on her elbows, her lush body completely nude except for her silk stockings, the yellow satin ribbon of her garters brilliant against her skin. She was curves and angles, strength and fragility, everything he’d never known to want, but what he could never again do without.

“You’re not humming,” she said, a nervous smile pulling at her lips.

“Hmmm, I will be,” he said as he lifted one knee then the other, spread her thighs and kneeled between them.

His first taste of her was like sampling ambrosia, how she arched her back and cried out heavenly music to his ears. “Do you like this, darling?” he mumbled against her thigh, rubbing his beard there and earning another gasp of pleasure. “I could spend my life worshipping you like this.” He licked a long stripe through her intimate skin, pausing to flick his tongue over the bud at the peak of her sex.

“ Yes, ” she breathed. “So good. More, do that more. ”

“Anything you ask for.” He continued to work the nub a moment longer until it swelled under his tongue, then slid a finger into the heat of her channel. “Anything I can give is yours.”

Her breath caught, but then she was moving, shifting her hips to take him deeper. Christ , but she was wet, ready for him. He joined another finger with the first and thrust slowly, twisting his fingers to reach the rough circle of flesh behind her clitoris, and she bucked.

“Yes, oh please, yes!”

“You don’t need to beg,” he said, “never. Ask and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“I want you,” she keened, “I want…”

“I’ll spend my life between your legs,” he murmured against her swollen labia, “sucking your perfect pussy until you come, again and again.”

But her internal muscles were fluttering around his digits, and he lapped at her clitoris, pulling it between his lips to suck. He removed his fingers and held her thighs wide to keep them from closing on his head, and soon her body tensed, everything stilling before she burst, a hot flood of her release soaking his tongue as she trembled, cried out and shook.

Archie crawled up the bed, ignoring the ache in his side and head to drag her into his arms, stroking her hair and kissing her, again and again. His cock seemed to have a mind of its own as he ground against her thigh, but he was close to making a fool of himself again over this woman .

He’d do anything for her. Sing from the spires of York Minster, dance in the middle of St. Helen’s Square, profess his love from the top of the castle—but the world had to know how he felt about her, how she’d cracked open his chest and filled a void he hadn’t realized was there.

“Archie,” she said, “you’re hurt, you should rest.”

“I’m not too hurt for this, not for you.” He was kissing her neck now, tracing the tendon where her neck met her shoulder with his tongue, nipping at her clavicle.

She hummed but shook her head, nudged his arm until he rolled with a pained groan onto his back. His cock was a dangerous thing, and he palmed the length, but she caught his hand and took it away. “Let me,” she said, straddling his hips with her knees.

This was it. He was going to die like this, watching this incredible woman unbutton his trousers while wearing only her stockings . He might come just from the sight of it.

When she had his placket open, his cock surged and he moaned, throwing his head back on the mattress. Her slim fingers skimmed over the swollen tip before she wrapped her hand around him. He pressed his eyes closed, knowing that if he saw this, he’d finish far too soon, and he wanted this to last forever. Not merely how she held his cock (although that was pretty damned delightful) but being with her , nothing between them, honest and vulnerable and authentic, and—

Good heavens —the hot, soft touch of her lips on the crown of his erection almost undid him. “Jesus,” he hissed, and she paused.

“May I? I should have asked. ”

“This is one thing you never need to ask,” he said through clenched teeth, desperately trying to maintain a shred of control. “Any time—good lord! ”

She’d licked him, an exploration around the flare of his crown then down the length of him, and he wondered if every nerve in his body had relocated without him knowing it, because this was by far the most erotic, overwhelming experience of his scant existence because of Marigold , the furrow between her brows, the way she licked her lips before taking him into her mouth.

“Oh god, love, it’s so—you’re so…” He was stammering, blubbering, an absolute fool as she bobbed her head, the movement unpracticed and awkward and so fucking incredible .

Surely he would come like this, but not yet.

He cupped her jaw, reluctantly lifted her head. “I won’t last another moment like that. You’re perfect. That was perfect, but I need you.” He breathed, his lungs and throat raw from the effort of holding himself in check. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you come on my cock.”

“Yes.” She nodded, climbed eagerly up the bed and kissed him soundly.

He rolled her onto her back, gingerly arranging himself in the cradle of her thighs while favoring his injuries. The head of his cock notched at her channel, and he froze. “Damn, I don’t have any protection for you.” His cheeks burned. “I haven’t… been with a woman in some time.”

She kissed him as she lifted her hips, bringing the flared tip inside her slick heat. “I trust you. ”

Her trust slayed him, scraped out his heart and gave it over to her keeping. As he slid forward, the tight grip of her channel pulling him deeper, he lost all sense of self, all concept of being Archibald Grant, and simply became hers . Hers to keep and cherish, hers to throw away, hers to destroy if she saw fit. Because nothing could be better than being one with her, with his Marigold.

She moaned, a deep, guttural sound as she arched against him, pulled him deeper, her hands clambering over his shoulders to circle his neck. “Please…” she whispered, her breath ragged. “It’s so much.”

“I won’t rush you,” he gritted out. “Breathe, love. You can take me.”

She held his gaze, and he watched the trepidation slide from her expression to be replaced by strength, determination. Her lungs filled, and when she released her breath, he pushed further, and with a shuddering gasp from both of them, he was buried to the hilt.

“That’s it, love,” he crooned, his body trembling with need as the sensation overwhelmed him. “So good. I’ll take care of you.” He kissed her, slid his tongue against hers. “Always. Whatever you need. I’ll never let you be alone.”

His forehead pressed to hers as he began to thrust, propping himself on his elbows on either side of her head, the slow grind of his hips all he could manage without sending bolts of pain through his rib cage. But it was so much, so right his breath was already catching, electricity pooling at the base of his spine. “Marigold, I can’t wait, I can’t— ”

“Don’t wait, please, come for me,” she breathed, and he was done for, lost, the climax past debilitating, turning him inside out as his vision turned white. He pulled out and came, his release slashing over the inside of her thighs, over her mound, marking her, claiming her.

He panted and groaned, her hips still rolling as his seed painted her. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this.” He dragged his thumb through his cum, swirled it over her swollen pearl. She gasped as he stroked, bucking against him, her eyes widening as they met his. “Your turn,” he said, almost a growl. “One more for me, love.”

She took her pleasure so beautifully, rocking her hips against his slicked thumb until her clitoris throbbed beneath his touch. Her release was quiet, like a contained explosion as her head rolled back, her breath escaping in fast puffs as she seized then collapsed against the bedclothes, a sheen of perspiration coating her skin.

When he had her tucked against his chest—on his good side, as she was being overly tender with him—he sighed, a heretofore unknown sense of relief settling over him. She loves me , he thought, again and again, as though he could tattoo the words on his mind and leave room for nothing else. She loves me, and I love her. What could be simpler, more pure?

But what would it mean?

“I’m going to clean you up, then we’ll rest for a bit.”

She lifted her head, her eyes glazed. “And then what?”

He stroked his finger down her cheek, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. For once, he saw the next steps in his life extending before him, a path that would bring him the satisfaction and fulfillment he’d craved for so long. With the woman he loved at his side. “Then, I’ll win your case. You’ll be free.”

Her lower lip rolled between her teeth. “What about you?”

“I was offered a position at Chapin and Baines, my old firm.” Telling her this news made it feel more real, and a sense of peace settled more fully over his shoulders. This was the right decision for him, for his mother and sisters. He would support her, the boys, make her dreams come true. “I’ll close my firm, start there. Earn a heap of money, so you never have to worry about a thing.”

Her cheeks flushed the most lovely pink. “Then what?”

This part was tricky, and he hated that he didn’t have a plan, a clever solution to alleviate her worries. He’d sworn to never lie to her, and he wouldn’t start now. “I spend the rest of my life loving you.”

A slight divot appeared between her brows, and he knew she hadn’t missed his hesitation or the murkiness of his answer. “Here? In England?”

“I know you’re worried about what the marquess might do to the boys, but I won’t let him. I’ll protect you, fight for you, for as long as it takes. There’s nothing I want more.” This he could promise her without equivocation.

She searched his face. “I need to be your partner in this.”

“Of course, love.” He kissed her once, twice. “You’re brilliant and strong. No one makes choices for you anymore.”

Her lips parted in a smile. “And the boys—”

“I think Matthew will be a great rugby player some day,” he interrupted, and her eyes sparkled. “And I can teach Reggie a thing or two about chess.”

“Best of luck to you,” she said with a chuckle. “The boys would love to see the farm.”

Archie grinned and rolled onto his back, and she curled against him, laying a gentle hand on his bruised ribs. He hissed, but settled under her soothing touch. “They can chase Petunia together, then my mother will feed them until they burst.”

“We’ll find a home together,” he hazarded, and when she remained languid at his side, he continued. “Somewhere you can keep a hive.”

She hummed, pressed a kiss to his pectoral. “I’d like that.”

His chest was close to bursting with happiness, everything he’d never planned but now couldn’t live without was laid before him. A family he’d never expected, being a stepfather. A life he hadn’t anticipated for himself, but one he suddenly craved. But, as her eyes closed and breath slowed, Archie remained awake, staring at the ceiling for hours. Their shared future depended on him , his preparation and focus, what would happen in that courtroom in two days’ time.

Because if he didn’t win her case, their first night together would be their last.