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"I told you to run!" he growled.

Temperance bristled. "I know you did."

"He could have hurt you."

"I know."

"You might be carrying my child, you foolish woman."

"I know that, too."

"I do not know what I would have done if he..." His voice cracked in the middle of the word. "What in God's name were you thinking?"

"I was thinking," she said, her voice not much steadier, "that I would rather he were on his knees than you."

"You risked your life⁠—"

"Of course I did!" she cried, her voice rising and cracking. She stamped her bare foot on the carpet. "And I would do it again in a heartbeat. I love you!"

"And you think I want that?" He released her shoulders, his fingers now clenched into fists. "Did you ever think about me in all of this? I would die without you. My soul would burn to pieces if you were hurt because of me. I love you!"

"Well, that is too bad." She jabbed a finger into his chest. "I am not going to hide in a bedchamber while the man I love⁠—"

He kissed her.

His hand at the back of her neck, he kissed her without gentleness. It was a kiss laden with seven years of anguish and suffering, two days of hard riding, and the taste of powder smoke. She kissed him back with everything she had, her fists knotted in his shirt, her whole body leaning into the only solid thing in the room. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, and he made a low sound in his throat.

When at last he lifted his head, his forehead remained against hers. His eyes were closed.

"You taste like chocolate," he said with a grin.

Heat flooded her face. "Apologies. I shan't drink it again. I know you abhor it."

He laughed, and his dear dimple appeared. His eyes opened, very blue and very wet. "No," he said. "I find I like the taste of it on your lips. It is the only way I shall ever drink it."

And he kissed her again.

The end.

After the End

It was past two in the morning before the house was quiet again.

The surgeon had come and gone. Whitlow was locked in the old game larder, with two footmen guarding the door until the constable could be fetched at first light. The housekeeper had sent Temperance upstairs with a glass of brandy she did not drink. Temperance sat on the edge of her bed for a full quarter of an hour, listening to the footmen carry cans of hot water past her door toward the earl's rooms.

Then she stopped pretending she meant to sleep.

The door between her bedchamber and his had not been opened in seven years. Why had he retreated to his room anyway? He could have shared hers.

She padded to the door, turned the key, and stepped inside.

He was standing beside a copper tub in front of the fire, in his shirtsleeves, fumbling with a cuff. Steam curled up from the water, gilding the room. He looked up, his eyes searching her face.

"Tempe. You should be asleep."

"So should you."

He glanced down at himself. He was caked in mud to his thighs. His shirt was still dark with rain at the shoulders, there was blood on one cuff that was not his, and a bruise was rising purple along his jaw.