“He didn’t!” Cecelia cried. But her heart leaped at the same time.
“Rumor has it that he did.” Milly clucked her tongue. “They might send for the vicar this very evening.”
Nothing would make Cecelia happier. It had been more than a month since she’d seen the man she loved more than life itself.
Claire had gone into the painting more than an hour before to bring them back. Cecelia expected them to return right away. But it wasn’t to be, apparently.
Cecelia flopped down on the settee to wait. After another hour, her eyelids grew heavy. She laid her head down on the arm of the settee and waited. She tried to stay awake, but it was simply too difficult. Certainly, she would wake when Marcus came through the painting.
She let her eyes close and drifted off to sleep.
***
Marcus had never seen a sight more beautiful. Part of him didn’t want to wake her, but she was waiting there for him. She’d fallen asleep waiting, apparently, and he loved her even more for it.
Good God, she was beautiful. Her hair spilled over the side of her face, and he reached out to tuck it behind her ear. She stirred, reaching for his hand. He took it in his and looked at her face.
Suddenly, her eyes shot open and she sat up. “Marcus?” she squealed. And she launched herself into his arms. He picked her up, spinning her around until he was certain he would make them both dizzy. “I missed you so much,” she admitted when he finally set her down and looked into her face.
“Not as much as I missed you,” he said. He’d missed her like he would miss his right arm if someone took it. Every day, he’d debated about going through the painting to see her. He’d considered it so many times. But there were days in the beginning when his presence was needed. And there were days at the end of his stay with her father when he didn’t want to miss the healing process. He wanted to witness it all so he could recount it to her. So he could tell their children about their grandfather’s triumphs. So he could tell them how strong he was and how much he’d overcome.
There was also some truth to the fact that he wanted to see the man punished. But they’d spent hours and days and weeks talking. They’d talked about Mrs. Hewitt’s death and the utter devotion Mr. Hewitt felt for her. They’d talked about how he felt when Cecelia was born. How he’d never been disappointed he had a daughter and no sons, because his daughter was bloody perfect.
Mr. Hewitt told him about the day of her birth, and how frightened he’d been the day she went on her first mission and how angry he was at himself for hurting her. It wasn’t until Mr. Hewitt learned to forgive himself that he could heal. So, Marcus stayed to help him with that.
Cecelia jerked him from his reverie when she reached up and pulled him down so that his lips could meet hers. In that moment, he felt like he’d come home. She kissed him, her lips soft and welcoming, and her arms were strong and open. And he’d never loved her more.
“Where’s my father?” she asked when he finally let her breathe for a moment.
“He’ll be along in a moment,” Marcus said. “I wanted to see you first. Your father will arrive with Claire momentarily.”
She nodded.
“Cece, I love you so much,” Marcus said.
“I love you, too,” she repeated. “I thought I would die if you didn’t come to me soon.”
Marcus pulled her down to sit beside him on the couch. He took her face in his hands and said, “I want to be inside you so badly.” His voice shook with the strain of his words.
“Marcus,” she scolded. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“But it’s true,” he said. And he took her hand and placed it on his trousers where he was rigid for her already. A blush crept up her cheeks.
“Will you come to me tonight?” she whispered.
He would love nothing more. “I thought you would never ask.”
Claire walked through the painting, and Marcus looked at Cecelia and said, “Your father will shoot me if he catches us like this.” A grin tugged at his lips.
“I doubt he could care.”
After her father had sobered up, he’d threatened Marcus’s very life over his daughter. And Marcus had a healthy fear of the man. Or at least of the father of the woman he planned to marry.
“Your father is coming through,” he warned. He kissed her quickly and left the room.
***
“Thank you, Claire,” Cecelia said, as her father entered the room. His appearance was that of the man she used to know when her mother was alive. His face was clean shaven, and his hair was combed and slicked back with pomade. He was dressed for dinner, and he’d never looked more handsome. “Papa,” she acknowledged hesitantly. She probably sounded more than a bit cold, but she couldn’t help it. He’d done some terrible things. And they couldn’t be taken back.