Page 43 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

“Say it again,” he demanded.

“I love you.”

“And the other bit.”

“I w-want to be with you always.”

He let out a sound, something between a laugh and an exclamation, before pulling her close again. Burying his face in her hair, he clung to her. “My love, my love, my love,” he murmured. “My dearest Sally.”

Bea felt tears streaking down her face, but she knew she must not prolong the moment, no matter how much she wished to, for these words were for Sally, not Bea, and she must not allow that to continue. “M-My name is n-not Sally,” she said haltingly.

Stonehaven’s head came up, a frown creasing his brow. “What? What do you mean?” he asked impatiently, for he did not wish to speak anything but the future.

Sally had come! She had followed him. He had done nothing to force her, she had come of her own free will, because she loved him and wanted to be with him always.

But now she was talking in a way he did not understand, not when he wanted only to kiss her and hold her and revel in the feel of her in his arms again.

“Do you remember that day, the first day we met? You had fallen and—”

“And you came to rescue me,” he said, feeling his lips curving wryly. Lord, what a spectacle that must have been, yet by some miracle she did not think him a fool. “How could I forget my guardian angel?”

“Y-You assumed I was a servant and… and I did not correct you. I knew how deeply offended you would be if you h-had realised it was… me.”

Stonehaven’s brows drew together. His heart, suddenly aware she was genuine in her desire to impart information she deemed vital to them both, gave an erratic thud against his ribs.

“What do you mean, if I’d realised it was you?” With a lurch of panic, he released his hold on her. “Who are you?”

The world seemed to spin as uncertainty rocked him back on his heels.

If she was not Sally, if she had lied to him.

The woman he had believed to be so genuine, so earnestly sincere in the things she said to him, in her feelings for him…

. Panic gripped him and he stumbled backwards, feeling the bed ram into his legs. He sank down upon it with relief.

“I-I am Beatrice H-Honeywell,” she said haltingly, her voice choked.

Stonehaven felt her name as a visceral shock. Good God. She was the diamond. The beauty destined to marry a duke. The young woman who had looked at him with such shy admiration.

“Beatrice,” he said dully, his feelings a tangle of confusion and indignation. He could not comprehend it. “Why?”

“I—” she began, but he did not let her finish, too angry to do so. Hurt and rage blazed through him. The realisation that he had believed in a fabrication, had made a fool of himself over her, that she had made a fool of him— it was too much to bear.

“Was it a lark? A great joke to tease the blind man by pretending to be someone you were not?”

“No! Oh, n-no!”

He jolted as she threw herself at him, her hands grasping his, her head pressed against his knees.

“Oh, I would, never… never ! But you were so proud, and I knew you could not bear for me to see you so discomposed, and then the next time you recognised my voice and thought I was Sally and… and I felt bolder, being someone else. I felt able to say things I could not say before. I know it was very wrong of me, a wicked and thoughtless thing to do, but I… I only wished to be near you.”

Her slight frame shook as she wept against him, her misery real and undeniable to him despite his rage.

Stonehaven’s heart hammered so fast he felt giddy and unsteady, uncertain of himself in a way he never had before the accident. Yet he heard the sincerity of her words, felt the way she trembled against him, her slender hands gripping his own as she sobbed.

He took a breath, forcing himself to consider the evidence, to listen to her words.

He remembered that day all too clearly, his misery and frustration, and remembered her calm, steady presence, a balm to his wounded pride.

How mortified he would have been if she had told him she was Miss Honeywell, though.

He would not have allowed her to help him, not allowed her to stay beside him.

No doubt he would have bellowed and sent her away, desperate to retain some shred of dignity.

I only wished to be near you.

His mind snagged upon the words as he remembered their interactions, the tenderness with which she had treated him, all whilst allowing him his pride, making him feel he was still whole, still a man worth her regard.

“Why are you here?” he asked, hardly daring to articulate the words. Had she come only to confess her sin? Had perhaps her father discovered her perfidy and demanded she make amends? Yet, if so, where was he?

“I was too afraid to tell you the truth before. I was afraid you would despise me and… and yet feel honour bound to marry me, after…” She trailed off, and whilst he could not see her blush, he felt certain he could feel the heat blazing from her.

“Quite,” he said, the words clipped.

“But this morning I spoke to Anne. She was in a temper and quite out of sorts, and she… she unwittingly intimated that you were in love with Sally.”

“Damn her eyes, I told her that in confidence!” he exclaimed, exasperated.

“I know, and she was so mortified to have betrayed you. She swore me to secrecy, not realising I was Sally. But when I realised, and when I discovered you had gone, I could not bear it. I had to come, to tell you I love you— me, Beatrice Honeywell—and that I always shall, no matter if you revile me for what I have done. I know I deserve all your rage, and I would not blame you if you never trusted me or wished to speak to me again. But…but I would far rather that you kissed me, and allowed me to make you happy, for I should spend the rest of my days dedicated to that endeavour, should you wish me to.”

Stonehaven’s heart seemed squeezed in his chest, his throat growing absurdly tight. Good God, what was this? Tears? Surely not. Yet, as he reached up, swiping impatiently at his cheeks, he felt wetness there.

“I’m blind,” he said crossly, ridiculous as it was.

“I know that,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice. “And it only makes me love you more. The way you have risen to the challenges before you, with such humour and grace, is quite humbling. I admire and esteem you to quite an outrageous degree, my lord.”

“Hmph. Found your tongue, I see,” he managed, afraid to say more in case the words quavered. Perhaps his sarcasm was unkind, but he dreaded making a fool of himself, that horror outweighed only by the fear of losing something so terribly precious, now she was within his grasp.

“I have,” she agreed. “Sally allowed me that privilege, and I mean to keep it.”

Stonehaven considered this. “How outrageous a degree?”

There was a soft huff of laughter. “It’s quite appalling,” she told him ruefully.

“I think only of you, of how it feels to be held in your arms. Letting you go was the hardest thing I have ever done, but I determined I must be noble. It turns out I’m not half so noble as I thought.

I’m a wicked, selfish wretch who cannot bear the thought of my life without you in it.

I cried myself to sleep last night, else I would have heard you leaving the vicarage and come out to stop you, but I was so exhausted I didn’t stir. ”

“So, you came after me,” he said softly.

“I did.”

Stonehaven smiled, fingers seeking her hair. He jolted as he encountered something dry and prickly, not the soft mass of curls he’d anticipated.

“Ugh!” he said, snatching his hand back.

“Oh, it’s just my hat,” she said quickly, but he took it from her before she could remove it. Turning it in his hands, he scowled.

“I know I can no longer see what is fashionable and what is not, but unless things have changed dramatically since I went blind, this is not a lady’s hat.”

“N-No,” she said, sounding nervous again.

“Beatrice?” he said, his voice stern as a sudden thrill of terror lanced through him.

“How precisely did you come to be here and— Hell and the devil! You are alone with me in my bedroom at a public hostelry!” he exclaimed, incensed all at once as his faculties finally registered the appalling situation.

“Well, yes, but there is no need to fret, my lord, for I am dressed as a boy.”

Stonehaven felt his jaw hanging open. He snapped it shut.

“You are what now?” he repeated, keeping his voice deliberately calm when inside his chest was roiling with horror as he considered all the misfortunes that might have befallen her.

“Dressed as a boy,” she repeated placidly.

“And I had the greatest stroke of good fortune, for Mr Marwick saw me and took me up in his dogcart. He is such a kind young man—I am acquainted with his sister, you see—and he recognised me at once, though how I do not know, for my disguise is rather a good one. Though I suppose George realised too, so perhaps I am wrong. But Mr Marwick was on his way to Sevenoaks and when he understood the dreadful fix I was in, he insisted on bringing me all the way to you.”

“Did he now?” Stonehaven said hoarsely, wondering if the fellow had blackmail in mind or something still more nefarious.

“Yes, and I am afraid I have been a sore trial to him,” she said sadly.

“Oh, God,” Stonehaven said, utterly lost. He reached for her, pulling her up and onto his lap so he could hold her and feel that she truly was safe in his arms. The horrendous risk she had taken to get to him made him feel sick and overwhelmed and quite dreadfully sentimental.

“If you ever, ever, do such a reckless, foolhardy and dangerous thing again, I shall not be responsible for my actions,” he growled, though the tender way he was stroking her hair probably did nothing to make her believe he meant the furious words.

“Then you had best keep me near,” she said, sounding remarkably sanguine. “For I shall follow you, my lord.”

“And stop my lording me,” he added crossly. “I told you my name was Lawrence.”