He nodded once, satisfied, straightening his greatcoat. “Excellent plan. But, before you rush off to save your marriage, do you have a moment to say good-bye to an old friend?”

In her eagerness to get to Michael, she didn’t understand the words immediately. “Yes, of course.” She paused. “Wait. Good-bye?”

“I’m for India. The ship leaves today.”

“India? Why?” Her brows knitted together. “Tommy, you don’t have to go now. Your secret . . . it is yours again.”

“And for that I shall be eternally grateful. But I’ve passage booked, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

She watched him carefully. “You really want this?”

He raised a blond brow. “You really want Michael?”

Yes. God, yes. She smiled. “It’s to be adventure for both of us, then.”

He laughed. “Yours more challenging than mine, I suspect.”

“I shall miss you,” she said.

Tommy dipped his head. “And I you. But I shall send your children treats from faraway lands.”

Children. She wanted to see Michael. Immediately.

“See that you do,” she said. “And I shall regale them with tales of their uncle Tommy.”

“Michael will love that,” he replied with a great laugh. “I expect them to follow in my footsteps, becoming remarkable fishermen and mediocre poets. Now, go fetch your husband.”

She grinned. “I believe I shall.”

Michael took the steps to Hell House two at a time, desperate to get to his wife, berating himself for not locking her in a room at the club the night before and refusing to allow her to leave until she believed that he loved her.

How could she not believe him? How could she not see that she was wreaking havoc on his mind and body, that she had destroyed his calm and devastated him with her love? How could she not see that he was desperate for her?

The door opened as he reached the top step, and the object of his thoughts came barreling out of the house, nearly toppling him down the stairs. She pulled up short, her green cloak swirling around her, brushing against his legs, and they stared at each other for a long moment.

He caught his breath at the sight of her. How was it possible that he’d ever thought her plain? She was a jewel in the cold, grey mid-February sleet, all rosy cheeks and blue eyes and lovely pink lips that made him want to carry her to the nearest bed. To their bed. For it was time they had a bed. He was going to knock down the wall between their bedchambers so he never had to stare at that godforsaken door again.

She broke into his thoughts. “Michael—”

“Wait.” He cut her off, not wanting to risk hearing what she had to say. Not before he said his piece. “I’m sorry. Come inside. Please?”

She followed him inside, the sound of the great oak door closing behind them echoing through the marble foyer. Her gaze flickered to the package in his hand. “What is that?”

He’d forgotten he had it. His weapon.

“Come with me.” He took her hand, wishing they weren’t wearing gloves, wishing he could touch her, skin to skin, and climbed the stairs to the first floor of the house, pulling her into the dining room and setting the parchment-wrapped bundle on the long, mahogany table.

“It’s for you.”

She smiled, curious, and he resisted the urge to kiss her, not wanting to rush. Not wanting to scare her. She opened the paper carefully, peeling it back just enough to peer inside. She looked up, brow furrowed in confusion before she removed the parchment. “It’s . . .”

“Wait.” He reached for a match, then set the item on fire.

She laughed, and he relaxed slightly at the sound—music in the big empty room. “It’s a figgy pudding.”

“I don’t want it to be a lie, Sixpence. I want it to be the truth. I want us to have fallen in love over a figgy pudding,” he said, his voice catching. “In you I see my heart, my purpose . . . my very soul.”

There was a moment of complete stillness as she recalled the first time he’d said the words, and he thought, fleetingly, that he might be too late. That this silly pudding was too little.

But then she was in his arms, kissing him, and he put all his love, all his emotion into that caress, loving the way her hands came up to play in the hair at the base of his neck, loving her little gasp as he worried her lower lip with his teeth. She pulled away and opened her beautiful blue eyes to meet his gaze, but he was not ready to release her, and he stole another kiss before vowing, “I am yours, my love . . . yours to do with as you will. When I stole you in the dead of night and claimed you for my own, how could I have known that now—tonight—forever—it would be I who am claimed? My heart that is stolen?

“I realize that I am unworthy of you. I realize that I have a lifetime of ruin for which I must make amends. But I swear to you, I shall do everything I can to make you happy, my love. I shall work every day to be a man deserving of you. Of your love. Please . . . please give me that chance.”

Please believe me.

Her eyes glistened with tears, and when she shook her head, he lost his breath, unable to face the possibility that she might refuse him. That she might not believe him. Silence stretched between them, and he was desperate for her words.

“For so long, I have ached,” she whispered, her fingers at his face, as if to convince herself that he was there. That he was hers. “I have ached for more, dreamed of love. I have ached for this moment. I have ached for you.” A tear spilled over, tracking down one of her lovely cheeks, and he lifted his hand to wipe it away. “I think I have loved you since we were children, Michael. I think it was always you.”

He placed his forehead to hers, pulling her to him, wanting her near. “I am here. I am yours. And dear God, Penelope, I have ached for you as well. So very much.”

She smiled, so beautiful. “How is that possible?”

“How could it not be?” he asked, the words harsh and graveled with emotion. “For nine years, I thought it was vengeance that would save me, and it took you—my strong, beautiful wife—to prove that I was wrong and that love was my salvation. You are my redemption,” he whispered. “You are my benediction.”

She was crying in earnest, and he sipped at the tears before taking her mouth in one long, lush kiss, pouring all his love into the caress, stroking deep until they were both gasping for breath. He lifted his head. “Tell me you believe me.”

“I believe you.”

He closed his eyes against the wave of relief that coursed through him at the words. “Say it again.”

“I believe you, Michael.”

“I love you.”

She smiled. “I know.”

He kissed her, deep and quick. “It is customary for the lady to return the sentiment.”

She laughed. “Is it?”

He scowled. “Tell me you love me, Lady Penelope.”

“It’s Lady Bourne, to you.” She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and let her fingers tangle in his hair. “I love you, Michael. I love you quite desperately. And I’m very happy that you’ve decided to love me back.”

“How could I not?” he asked. “You are my warrior. Facing down Bruno and Langford to fight.”