“You must,” he urged. “For this to work, you must.”
She sat up and stared at him. “My love, I have just brought you back from the brink of death. I simply refuse to ride away from this manor, where there is a poisoner on the loose, not knowing if I will ever see you again. Who is to say that the poisoner will not decide to use more traditional tactics—a knife, say? It will decimate me if I discover that something terrible has happened, for a second time, while I am miles and miles away. So, no, I am staying. Argue with me all you like, I will merely fume here in silence, tucked right into you like a limpet.”
“I’m not going to change your mind, am I?” he sighed.
“Not on this matter.”
He laughed and pulled her down, pinning her against him. “Well, my little limpet, you’re going to need some protecting, and if I can’t do it, it needs to be someone we can trust.” He kissed her. “And we should do it tonight, so I’m afraid there’ll have to be one more night where we don’t share a bed.”
“Is this an elaborate ploy to get me out of your bed?” She feigned irritation, squinting at him.
“My love, I wouldn’t poison myself just to avoid sharing your bed. I promise, I wouldn’t.” He chuckled. “If we can catch the wretch tonight, we’ll have our entire future to share together.”
She pretended to pout. “Very well. But if, tomorrow, you come up with another villainous scheme, I shall not forgive you so easily.” She cracked a smile. “Anna’s brother is here; he can stand guard over my bedchamber.”
“Anna has a brother?” An odd look passed across Albion’s face—something like jealousy.
“Two.Veryhandsome,verychivalrous.”
Albion flashed a dry smile. “Where do I find this larkspur? Remind me?”
She laughed merrily, pressing a fervent kiss to his lips. He wrapped her up in his arms, throwing the coverlets over their heads, and kissed her harder. She felt him wince through his pain, his breaths more ragged than she had heard them, but it did not stop him, his lips showing no agony whatsoever—only love and the promise of that shared tomorrow.
“I love you,” he whispered, sealing the words against her mouth.
“As I love you,” she whispered back, holding him close, dreaming of the possibilities.
“You should go,” he breathed a moment later.
“Yes, I should,” she replied, “but not yet. I have only just had you returned to me. Not yet.”
He kissed her more deeply, entangled together in the secret world beneath the coverlets, and though she knew there was a difficult night ahead of them, the soft caress of his lips gave her the strength she would need to endure it. She hoped he felt the same, for in his weakened state, if the culpritdiduse more traditional means of trying to kill Albion, he would need all the strength he could muster.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO
Matilda had played her part. Albion had heard her conversing with the staff who waited anxiously outside his bedchamber for news, informing them that he was extremely weak, still suffering a terrible fever, but that he would live if he was given absolute peace and rest.
“He is my son—I must be with him,” he had heard his mother insist.
“He must have complete quiet,” Matilda had replied. “We will both tend to him first thing in the morning. For now, he is safe to be alone. He will live, I promise you.”
By some miracle, Constance seemed to have accepted Matilda’s request, the hallway beyond Albion’s bedchamber falling silent at last. Not a creak, not a whisper, everyone no doubt confident enough to rest too.
As for the culprit—Albion knew they would be waiting until everyone else was asleep before they tried anything. Which meant a long night of waiting for him and using every scrap of vigor he possessed to resist falling asleep himself. His life relied upon it.
* * *
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed four o’clock in the morning when Albion heard the first hint of something stirring outside. Soft footfalls on the landing, still a fair distance from the door.
His heart lurched at the sound of the door handle turning, and the hesitant push that followed, to prevent the hinges from squeaking. It reminded him of a rushing breath of wind, cut short. The culprit only needed a small gap to slip through. Albion heard the moment that the poisoner did so, for there was the faint rustle of fabric grazing the edge of the door and a light creak of floorboards underfoot.
The assailant halted, and though Albion could not see the person, he felt their eyes upon him, checking for any sign of awakening. Albion did not move a muscle, his breathing steady and sleepy with a few light snores thrown in for good measure.
Time seemed to slow as the poisoner continued, on tiptoe, toward the bed. Cracking open one eye just a little, Albion glanced at the mirror that had been set up on the windowsill. A hooded figure was coming closer and closer, every sly step making Albion’s heart pound so violently, he was certain the assailant must have been able to hear it.
Something glinted in the wretch’s hand as they reached the edge of the bed.You’re not taking the risk with poison this time, then?Albion knew, intimately, the shine of a blade that was intended for his demise.
Still, he held his nerve, knowing he had positioned himself awkwardly enough that the culprit would have to climb onto the bed in order to sink the knife into him. And when the assailant did just that, Albion would strike, for he could not rely solely upon his diminished strength—he needed to have the advantage of balance.
