“He gave it to me,” she corrected. “I didn’t have to wager for it. He wasn’t going to ruin you, Tommy. He stopped it.”
Tommy shook his head. “You stopped it. You loved him enough to show him that there was more to life than revenge. You’ve changed him. You’ve given him another chance to be the Michael we knew instead of the cold, hard Bourne he became. You’ve moved the mountain.” He lifted one hand to tap her on the chin. “He adores you. Anyone with eyes can see it.”
I choose you. I choose love.
The words she’d played over and over in her mind throughout the night suddenly made sense. And, as though a candle had been lit, she knew, without doubt, that they were true. That he loved her.
The realization made her giddy. “He loves me,” she said, quietly first, letting the words echo through her, testing the way they felt on her tongue. “He loves me,” she repeated, on a laugh, this time to Tommy. “He really does.”
“Of course he does, you silly girl,” Tommy said with a smile. “Men like Bourne do not falsely profess love.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s not exactly in keeping with his character.”
It wasn’t, of course. The great, dangerous Bourne, all cold and cruel, the man who ran a gaming hell and abducted women in the dead of night and lived his life for revenge was not a man who fell in love with his wife.
But somehow, he had.
And Penelope knew better than to spend another moment asking how or why . . . when she could simply spend the rest of her life loving him back.
She smiled up at Tommy, and said, “I have to go to him. I have to tell him I believe him.”
He nodded once, satisfied, straightening his greatcoat. “Excellent plan. But, before you rush off to save your marriage, do you have a moment to say good-bye to an old friend?”
In her eagerness to get to Michael, she didn’t understand the words immediately. “Yes, of course.” She paused. “Wait. Good-bye?”
“I’m for India. The ship leaves today.”
“India? Why?” Her brows knitted together. “Tommy, you don’t have to go now. Your secret . . . it is yours again.”
“And for that I shall be eternally grateful. But I’ve passage booked, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
She watched him carefully. “You really want this?”
He raised a blond brow. “You really want Michael?”
Yes. God, yes. She smiled. “It’s to be adventure for both of us, then.”
He laughed. “Yours more challenging than mine, I suspect.”
“I shall miss you,” she said.
Tommy dipped his head. “And I you. But I shall send your children treats from faraway lands.”
Children. She wanted to see Michael. Immediately.
“See that you do,” she said. “And I shall regale them with tales of their uncle Tommy.”
“Michael will love that,” he replied with a great laugh. “I expect them to follow in my footsteps, becoming remarkable fishermen and mediocre poets. Now, go fetch your husband.”
She grinned. “I believe I shall.”
Michael took the steps to Hell House two at a time, desperate to get to his wife, berating himself for not locking her in a room at the club the night before and refusing to allow her to leave until she believed that he loved her.
How could she not believe him? How could she not see that she was wreaking havoc on his mind and body, that she had destroyed his calm and devastated him with her love? How could she not see that he was desperate for her?
The door opened as he reached the top step, and the object of his thoughts came barreling out of the house, nearly toppling him down the stairs. She pulled up short, her green cloak swirling around her, brushing against his legs, and they stared at each other for a long moment.
He caught his breath at the sight of her. How was it possible that he’d ever thought her plain? She was a jewel in the cold, grey mid-February sleet, all rosy cheeks and blue eyes and lovely pink lips that made him want to carry her to the nearest bed. To their bed. For it was time they had a bed. He was going to knock down the wall between their bedchambers so he never had to stare at that godforsaken door again.
She broke into his thoughts. “Michael—”
“Wait.” He cut her off, not wanting to risk hearing what she had to say. Not before he said his piece. “I’m sorry. Come inside. Please?”
She followed him inside, the sound of the great oak door closing behind them echoing through the marble foyer. Her gaze flickered to the package in his hand. “What is that?”
He’d forgotten he had it. His weapon.
“Come with me.” He took her hand, wishing they weren’t wearing gloves, wishing he could touch her, skin to skin, and climbed the stairs to the first floor of the house, pulling her into the dining room and setting the parchment-wrapped bundle on the long, mahogany table.