Pennyroyal Green: The Legend Of Lyon Redmond Part 18

She drew in a breath.

And then it was like a cloudburst.

"Oh, Lyon. I'm sorry I behaved like such a child. It's just . . . the gloves were so beautiful and thoughtful, and I . . . I've been wretched thinking about how I hurt your feelings. And I thought-"

"It's my fault," he interjected hurriedly. "I just didn't think it through. I never, never meant to hurt you. And all I wanted-"

"-I thought . . . what if I never see him again? What if he had a carriage accident or rode his horse into a ditch and lay there, broken and alone?"

He gave a startled laugh. "That's quite a vivid picture, but I'm a very good rider."

"Don't laugh! And I'd been so beastly to you, and you wouldn't have anything to remember me by, as you lay in the ditch alone. So . . ."

She fished about in her ap.r.o.n pocket, and then drew in a steadying breath. "Before another moment goes by I wanted to give this to you. If you'll accept it. Hold out your hand."

Eyebrows raised, he hesitated, then did as ordered.

She settled something into his palm. And then bit her lip, waiting for his response.

He looked down. From his cupped hand, her sweet face looked up at him: the blue eyes, the soft clouds of dark hair, lovely and so vibrantly alive. The miniature wasn't nearly as beautiful as the original standing before him, of course, but the spirit of her was captured so perfectly in strokes of paint he was too moved to speak. It was the best, most perfect thing he'd ever been given.

He was a grown man, but he didn't quite trust himself to look up yet.

A little hush had fallen over them.

He cleared his throat. "I shall cherish it forever, Liv."

His voice had gone a bit husky.

He closed his hand gently around it, and tucked it into his coat.

"I should hope so," she said, sounding a bit more like herself. But her voice was husky, too.

He looked up then. They smiled at each other, and his world and hers began to restore itself to rights, but she was still shadowed.

"Liv," he said abruptly. "There's something you're not telling me."

She went still.

And then alarmingly, she brought her hands up to her face and covered it.

And then she took a deep breath, sighed it out, and when she swiped her hands down again her grief was plain and frightened him.

"Very well. I may as well tell you . . . Lyon . . . it's just . . . it's the Duffys' baby. She's so ill. I don't think she's going to live. And it's so heartbreaking. She needs a doctor. And they don't even have enough money for the rent this month. That's not unusual, of course. Except that they're so late they'll likely be evicted and then the baby will die for c-c-certain."

She drew in a shuddering breath.

His gut clutched. By now he felt as though he knew every Duffy intimately and was invested in their collective well-being.

He produced his handkerchief and gave it to her just as the tears welled, and the wheels of his mind began turning. Relieved that he'd found the source of what was troubling her, because now he could set about fixing it.

"I'm so terribly sorry to be so weepy, Lyon. It's just been difficult to witness. She's such a pretty baby, doesn't fuss at all, and she hasn't a prayer of a decent life, really, even if she does live. I've asked my father for help with them before and he's been indulgent with me but they're hardly the only poor family in Suss.e.x and he says they'll simply come to expect it and he can't feed everyone. I can't ask him again."

"Sounds very much like my father."

Lyon was, at his core, pragmatic. He agreed with both fathers. Some families navigated poverty with dignity and resourcefulness. The Duffys, thanks to Mr. Duffy, weren't one of them.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from doing what he did next. It was more reflex than thought, born of need.

He thrust his hand into his pocket. "Take this." He pressed his pocket watch into Olivia's hand.

"Your watch? Why?"

"Take it," he insisted. "Give it to their landlord. He'll be able to p.a.w.n it for a year's rent, at least. Instruct him to return the balance, if any, to an attorney in London named Bartholomew Tolliver, to be held in trust for the children. Good sort, Tolliver."

She stared down at the watch, dumbstruck.

"But . . . your initials are on it . . . Lyon, you love this watch . . . was a gift . . . I can't . . ."

"It was a gift to me, and now I'm giving it to you. If I had a sack of guineas in my coat pocket right now, I'd give that to you, but I don't. If I could, Liv, I'd feed all the hungry myself, and wipe out the Triangle Trade forever for you. But the need is now and urgent, and we have a solution. Take the watch. I'll have another watch, one day."

And still she hesitated. "But Lyon-"

"Olivia."

She looked up at the tone in his voice, her eyes widening.

"You must allow me to give you something." He said this slowly, a subtle anguish thrumming through all of those words.

She closed her fingers over it.

"I don't know what to say," she whispered.

"Say thank you."

"Thank you." She looked down at it, running her thumb gently over the satiny metal he had opened and closed countless times. He'd cherished that watch. And somehow he felt only relief that he could ease her troubles.

She looked up at him, smiling faintly. "It's round. Like the moon."

"So it is."

He smiled at her, too.

"What a ninny I am, Lyon. I didn't mean to cry."

"Ninny?" He was incensed. "What 'ninny' walks into a house, gets their heart shredded, and still goes back, over and over again because she's needed? You're a tigress."

And that's when the tears spilled again in earnest.

He didn't remember doing it, but one moment she was glowing up at him, tears beading her eyelashes, the next his arms were circling her and she was clinging to his coat. She tipped her forehead against his chest. He cradled the back of her head with one hand, and slid the other down her spine to rest in that sweet small scoop right before the curve of her a.r.s.e, and murmured things he'd never dreamed would ever pa.s.s his lips.

"Oh, Liv. Liv. My heart. My love. Please don't cry. Please don't cry. It will be all right."

She wept a little, quietly, for a time. And at last heaved a sigh.

And then he simply held her.

It was as perfect a moment as he'd ever known. It seemed an astonis.h.i.+ng privilege to be the person who could comfort her.

He'd never known there was much pleasure in simply quietly breathing with another human being.

"I missed you so," she whispered.

His heart broke, then regrew three times bigger.

The soft press of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his body, the rise and fall of her breath beneath his hands. The sheer glory of having her in his arms was well nigh unbearable. It was like the sun had taken up residence in his chest.

And he held her and murmured things, and his hands moved soothingly over her back.

And without thinking, he brushed a kiss over the top of her head.

He felt her breathing stop.

And then her back moved again in a great exhale, and she slowly tipped her head back and looked up at him.

"Liv?" he whispered.

A warning.

The only one he was going to give her.

But she rose up on her toes to meet his lips as they lowered.

He brushed his lips across hers so softly, and even that much was playing roulette with his control. A heaven of petal-softness and give, her mouth.

He tightened his arms around her. His limbs were suddenly awkward, thrumming as he unleashed, just a little, what felt like a lifetime's worth of desire.

His lips sank against hers more determinedly, this time claiming. He parted them with a little nip of a kiss.

She made a little sound. A sort of gasp that was both surprised and wholly carnal.

It went to his head like bolted whisky, that sound.

He kissed her again, and this time he touched his tongue to hers, then twined his with it softly, exploring, teasing, arousing. Her head tipped back into his hands, to allow him to take the kiss deeper, and, oh G.o.d, she kissed him back as if she'd been born knowing how.

He took his lips from hers briefly to breathe.

"Did I do that correctly?" she whispered.

"G.o.d, yes," he rasped.

"Can we do it a-"

He took her mouth before she could say "again." Fiercely now. She met him with full hunger. Desire was a thing with claws and it spurred him on. His hands wandered her shoulder blades beneath her muslin, the warm satin of her skin just a fine, fragile layer of fabric away from his hungry hands, and he wanted to tear it away like a savage and bury himself in her.

She wrapped her hands around his head and pulled him close. Her mouth was honeyed sweetness and he was dizzier, drunker with each kiss, pulled deeper and deeper into a maelstrom of need.

He backed her up against the elm tree. And now they were nearly climbing each other, the kisses swift, rough, plundering.

They paused between each kiss to breathe raggedly against each other's lips. He heard his own breath like a distant storm in his ears.

Her hands slid down to his waist and she pulled herself tightly against him, and his c.o.c.k was so hard her slightest movement sent an agony of pleasure through him. He hissed a breath in through his teeth.

"Liv." He b.u.mped his lips softly against hers.

Her eyelids were heavy, and her breath came hot and swift between her parted lips. She moved against him, seeking her own pleasure, not quite knowing how to find it.

He knew if he hiked her skirt he would find her wet and hot, and he could slide his fingers between her legs, and he could make these woods echo with his name as she screamed it.

He was losing his mind.

She arched against him.

"Liv . . . I . . ." His voice was a shredded rasp. "You mustn't . . ."

Her head went back and her eyes were closed, and he could see her pulse in her throat, and her breath came swift and hot through her parted lips as she pulled him harder against her body, her hands sliding down to his hips.

"Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d."

His voice was in shreds. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and bit his lip hard as his release tore through him. Wave after wracking wave of unimaginable pleasure. He soared out of his body, somewhere over the Suss.e.x downs.

The shame and glory of it.

Despair and euphoria each had one end of him and were tearing him in two.

He hadn't come in his trousers since he was thirteen years old.

And yet he'd never felt so frightened, and somehow infinite and powerful.

What in G.o.d's name was he going to do?

They breathed for a time.

"You're shaking," she whispered.

He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. He couldn't yet speak. Their breath mingled, hot and swift, then spiraled whitely in the cold air.

He finally opened his eyes. Hers were blue, still kiss-hazy, worried.