Thea Devine - Captivated

The minister's voice was a pompous drone. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…"

Robert leaned against the wall and waited for his cue.

"… Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace."

Robert stepped away from the wall into the aisle. "I have just cause."

The slender back underneath the dove-gray silk grew even more stiff; suddenly Abigail pivoted, caught on the train of her gown. She floundered for a second before catching her balance.

Brown eyes were snared by pewter gray.

If it was possible, she turned even paler. Then bright crimson flooded her cheeks.

Shocked murmurs filled the dark room.

The minister lowered his spectacles. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said I have just cause to stop this wedding." He held up the beribboned silk package. "Twelve reasons, to be exact."

Abigail knew what was inside the pretty white-and-silver box. She had left behind her twelve issues ofThePearl.

The bright red color drained from her face. "Robert"

It had been three weeks since he had heard her voice. Not one single person had used his christened name since she had left him.

He didn't want to hear her sayRobert with that cold, polite ring of command. As if they had never been as close as it was possible for two people to be.

He wanted to hear his name husky with her passion. Or on a scream when she found release.

"Twelve reasons," he repeated. "If you can accept this gift, Abigail, and marry that man, then I will accept the fact that what meant more to me than life itself was nothing more to you than ananomaly caused by a storm. And I will heartily beg your pardon for this intrusion."

"Who is this man?" The groom raised a monocle and stared at Robert from an eye the size of a saucer.

Robert ignored him.

"On the other hand, Abigail, I have in my pocket two other gifts. One goes on the ring finger. The other gift is a favorite device of Lady Pokingham."

Shocked masculine gasps carried on the tide of feminine whispersso-called respectable gentlemen who recognized the name taken fromThePearl. Robert could feel the male attention swivel from him toward Abigail, cold eyes no doubt filled with hot speculation.

Crimson color flared anew in Abigail's cheeks. Her head jerked back as if she had received a slap in the face.

"Sir." It was the butler's voice. "Sir, if you will follow me, please."

Robert's gaze did not waver. "And last but not least, Abigail, I have edition number thirteen."

Three footmen joined the butler. The silk-wrapped package slithered to the floor as Robert struggled to free himself.

Abigail silently watched.

Damn her. She wasn't going to accept either him… or his gift.

She stood there, pristine and remote like the lady she had confessed she wanted to become.

He should be content that he had accomplished one goal, at least.

Her secret was out.

Sir Andrew Tymes would not marry a woman whose name was whispered in the same breath as the name of a heroine out ofThePearl.

But Robert did not feel relief at saving Abigail from a lifetime of ruffled pianos.

For a searing second he hated her.

Hated her with all the passion in the soul that she had given back to him.

She had given him everything;she was his.

He had resigned from active duty… so that he might live.With her.

Fury gave Robert the strength of two men… but not the strength of three.

He refused to look away from Abigail's eyes, losing the battle, both with her and the footmen. He struggled to look back at her over his shoulder as they hustled him out of the funeral-dark salon. Then he struggled to stand up on the cobble stoned sidewalk as pain arched along the entire left side of his body and the sharp closure of the town house doors echoed through the street.

Damn.

Hewould land on his bum leg.

"Ye need 'elp, guv'nor? Cost ye a ha'pence."

Robert stared down at the three-foot-tall street urchin whose age could range anywhere from five to fifteen. A kaleidoscope of activity burst around himhorses trotting, carriage wheels rolling, a man hawking his waresthe vivid awareness that only comes before death.

"No," Robert said shortly. He pulled out a shilling and tossed it to the boy.

Hell, it didn't matter if he gave out all of his money.

Dead men didn't need it.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out everything he had on him.

The boy's too-old face lit up with greedy life. Before the military mort with the scary gray eyes could change his mind, the street urchin grabbed the money and ran.

Without warning, the door to the town house slammed open.

As if in slow motion, Robert turned.

Abigail raced down the steps in a jiggle of silk and bustle. She carried in gloved hands the silk-wrapped package, her dreams, his life.

She was breathless. "You forgot your package, Colonel Coally."

Death did not harbor so much pain.

Neither should life, Robert thought bleakly.

"The package is for you, Lady Wynfred."

"That cannot be, Colonel Coally," she said briskly. "You offered me three gifts, not one."

"I am afraid I am at a loss, Lady Wynfred," he said stonily, imagining her with Sir Andrew Tymes, imagining him pistoning up and downinside Abigail. "Does this mean you are rejecting or accepting the package?"

"It means, Colonel Coally, that I am accepting… all three gifts."

For the first time that day, Robert noticed how very warm the sunshine was and how clear the sky was when free of fog and soot.

"I take it you know what Lady Pokingham's favorite toy is."

Face flooding with bright color, Abigail reached out, lightly touched the front of his scarlet trousers with white-gloved fingers before hurriedly withdrawing her hand. "Oh, yes, Colonel Coally. I know what Lady Pokingham's favorite toy is."

"I am not a gentleman," he warned her stiffly. "Nor am I wealthy. Though I have enough to live in comfort."

"Colonel Coally." The brown eyes staring up at him glowed with amber. "What you have is far more important than wealth or a title."

"And what is that, Lady Wynfred?"

Robert held his breath, not daring to hope, afraid he could not bear the pain if she rejected him now.

A curse rang out on the streeta coachman soothed the lead horse that a lady's parasol had frightened.

Abigail smiled, the smile he had come to love, wild and free as the storm."ThePearl, Colonel Coally."

"Do you take me, Abigail?" The sound issuing from his throat was stark and raw.

"I take you, Robert."

Suddenly the streets of London disappeared and there were only the two of them, a man and a woman.

Laughing, oblivious of the curious, shocked stares, Robert picked Abigail up and swung her over his head. "You are quite wrong, Miss Abigail. Lady Pokingham has another favorite toy, one that can be gift-wrapped without requiring amputation. But you can only have it after we are married. And if I insert it."

BERTRICE SMALL is the author of over twenty-four novels of historical romance. She is a New York Times bestseller, and the recipient of numerous awards. In keeping with her profession, Bertrice Small lives in the oldest English-speaking town in the state of New York, which was founded in 1640. And because she believes in happy endings, she's been married to the same man, her hero, George, for thirty-six years.