The Passion of Darius (Somerset Historicals 1)

He trembled a little, his bottom lip moving, distinct against the sharp lines of his jaw. This beautiful man, her man, her wonderful, loving husband, trembled before her, and the knowledge just split her heart apart…with even more love for him.

“Say it to me,” she commanded.

“Marianne loves…Darius with all of her heart.” He pushed the sentence out on a breath, his eyes growing shiny.

“She does indeed.” Marianne smiled at her husband with all of the love she had to give to him, and felt it shimmering out from her like a radiant aura. “So very much, for he is easy to love.”

“Will she tell me often?”

Marianne slowly nodded.

“I don’t think I can ever tire from hearing you tell me. In fact, it is what I need,” Darius said. “I need to hear it from you as often as you need to hear it from me. I s’pose we should be awash in declarations of love.”

“Fair is fair.”

His eyes glowed at her. “Start now.”

She leaned up for a kiss, whispering at his lips, “Ti amo, Darius. I—love—you.”

He cradled her face and kept her close. “You are perfect, you know? My Marianne. My love most beloved…il mia amore più cara.”

24th September, 1837

The most beautiful gift was given to me today. Darius is so wonderful all the time with his thoughtfulness. He had made a statue, of a mermaid angel, carved specifically for the garden wall. Jonathan’s tribute there for me to look at, and think of him fondly in his way, wherever he may now be. He is free…and in some small way, I feel the same.

MG

EPILOGUE

The Blessing

14th April, 1838

DARIUS awoke with a start. Marianne wasn’t next to him in the bed. God, would the panic of finding her missing ever abate? He doubted it. Propping himself up on his elbows, he scanned the room in the dim light of daybreak. There she was. Wrapped in her blue shawl, sitting on the chaise before the fire. She sat very still. So still he would think her asleep if her back wasn’t so ramrod straight.

He kept his eyes on her as he got out of bed and donned his robe. He could see her shoulders moving, just barely, and in a predictable rhythm that followed steady breaths. He came to her slowly and knelt on the rug at her feet. She kept her eyes closed, but he could tell she was wide awake. Her hands rested one on each thigh. He lowered his head onto her lap at her knees and felt the gentle weight of her hand touch him, beginning a soft, rhythmic pattern of trailing through his hair with her fingers.

Words weren’t necessary. Communication flowed through to their minds from their hearts, or so it seemed to him. Darius put his energy into savoring this precious moment with her because he suspected the time was very near. Everything was equipped, and had been for weeks. They’d pored over books together and prepared themselves with as much knowledge as they could glean. All that remained was the experience and for nature to take its proper course as had been done by women for millennia. He cared only about one woman though. His. He would not press her now. She would tell him when she was ready.

The finger-combing went on for a good five minutes, when she froze abruptly. He could feel her legs tighten under his cheek and her back stiffen against the seat of the chaise. Her fingers gripped a hank of his hair and formed a fist. She stayed like that until the spasm ceased, and he felt her relax.

Darius lifted his head and looked up at Marianne. Her eyes were still closed. He waited, watching her even breaths raise and lower the big swell of her belly. Their child safe inside her body. Her eyes snapped open and captured his. A very intense indigo-blue gaze held him—the gaze of a female warrior.

“Darius?”

“Yes, mia cara?”

“It’s time. Tell Mrs. West we need the doctor and the midwife. Our child will be born this day…”

The next fourteen hours were not a stroll through the garden for Darius. But he wouldn’t allow for acknowledgement of his own struggles because the strength that Marianne displayed while fighting to bring their baby into the world just stripped him down, bare to the bone, humbled at her feet. He had pause to consider how she had looked at him early this morning when she’d said it was time. He’d thought her a warrior queen then. The metaphor was an apt one because she was in battle now sure as any soldier could ever be.

Watching Marianne bear down through another pain, he felt drops of sweat roll down his back and his hand squeezed in a bone-crushing grip that defied possibility. Her strength was amazing! Hell, all women were amazing in their ability to create new life. The notion they were considered “the weaker sex” was sheer idiocy in his view. Maybe men who held such beliefs should present themselves at a birth and see if their opinions might not merit drastic revision.

He exhaled in relief when the birth-pain eased and she flopped back against him and the pillows that propped her. Marianne was set up in her bed, and he at her side, bracing her through every gripping contraction, and despite doctors’ and midwives’ disinclination to allow a father into a birthing room, he was going nowhere. Marianne wanted him, and he’d promised, so he was here for the duration. She so rarely asked for anything, that when she did so, he was more determined than ever to give her what she wanted. “So brave, mia cara.” He blotted the sweat and tears away and whispered at her ear. “That’s another done.” He pressed his lips to her damp brow. “You’re so strong. Breathe deep now, before the next one comes.” He looked helplessly at Dr. Winslow, who arched a brow at him as if to say, “I’d really like it if you took your irritating arse out of here.” Darius just shook his head in a definitive “no.”

“Thirsty…” Marianne panted, breaking through the tension and meeting his eyes, bringing him back to her.

“Of course, cara.” He held a glass of water to her lips, trying to hurry before the next pain took hold. In less than two swallows she was seized by another contraction—the biggest one so far. She bit out an agonized cry that rent his heart to further shreds.