He pressed her hand even harder to his chest. Her eyes grew wide when the armor collapsed there and transformed to cloth. “I could live with your first rejection, Lenore, because there was hope. I wasn’t giving up, despite your mule-headed insistence on me claiming an inheritance I didn’t want.” He closed his eyes, forcing back the fear that reared a cobra’s head inside him. She had kissed him and welcomed his embrace when she thought him nothing more than a Guardian. Surely, now that she knew all, she wouldn’t turn him away? “Were you to reject me a second time, it would have been because of who I’d become, not what I was born to. In that, I found no hope.”
Lenore lifted her free hand to trace the contours of his face. Cheekbones and jaw, eyebrows and forehead, the blade-thin bridge of his nose and curvature of his nostrils. Did she see a reflection of the old Nathaniel in the black expanse of his irises and scleras? She grasped his chin and tugged him down to her. “I hate Harvel for what he did to you.” Her breath caressed his lips. “Yet I’d thank him if he were alive because he gave you back to me.”
In this moment, with all his dreams sparking to life at Lenore’s words, Nathaniel thought he’d thank Harvel too—then disembowel him later.
Lenore freed her other hand from his grasp and slid both into his hair to cup his head and hold him in place, looming over her. “Nathaniel Gordon,” she declared in a fierce voice, “I will love you until I’m one of those spirits who whispers in your ear and bores you with my repetition.”
He laughed and gathered her into his arms, no longer armored but garbed in fabric that welcomed the press of Lenore’s body against his. He nuzzled his nose against the side of hers. “Love, by then we will be dust together.”
Lenore’s laughter chorused with his. “That’s because when my mother finds out my Nathaniel is back and keeping company with the dead, she’ll immolate us both with a single, well-aimed glare.”
EPILOGUE
One year and a day after her father’s death, Lenore Kenward became Lenore Gordon by marrying a man who guarded the dearly departed.
Having resigned herself to spinsterhood more than a half decade earlier, she never imagined she’d marry or that the ceremony would take place in a tucked-away grotto in a graveyard and be attended by an odd array of guests, both living and deceased. Then again, Nathaniel was an unusual groom and Lenore a flouter of society’s more rigid rules, so it seemed perfectly appropriate that the ceremony itself mirror the uniting couple.
Highgate’s rector, John Morris, oversaw the proceedings with his wife acting as witness. They were joined by Nettie, dressed in a far more conservative frock than what she usually preferred. It didn’t bare her knees and was a subdued shade of blue. She or someone else had tamed her wild hair into a neat chignon, though a beaded braid had managed to partially escape its prison of pins and bounced with every nod of her head.
Two Guardians attended as well, their presence the cause of wide-eyed astonishment, disapproval and unease from Jane Kenward and the Kenwards’ long-time housekeeper Constance. The two men introduced themselves by first names only and the cemeteries they guarded—Gideon of Kensal Green and Zachariah of Nunhead.
Lenore herself found it hard not to stare at them. Like Nathaniel, they had been remade by Dr. Harvel and possessed the same coloring—long white hair and Stygian eyes with pupils as bright as stars, and they wore the severe garb reminiscent of the clergy. They were, however, unique in both stature and demeanor.
While the more jovial Zachariah came alone, the taciturn Gideon had brought a guest. Almost as tall as Gideon with a dignified grace that put any aristocrat to shame, Rachel Wakefield had taken Lenore’s hands prior to the ceremony and given them a squeeze.
“My sincerest congratulations, Miss Kenward.” The woman smiled not only with her mouth but her eyes as well, exuding a warmth that made Lenore think of summer and meadows and wildflowers. “You are a fortunate woman to marry such a fine man.” Her smile widened. “And I’ve been informed he is an even more fortunate man to take you to wife.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wakefield. I’ve loved him for a long time.”
The ceremony was short and infinitely sweet. Lenore noted the tremor in Nathaniel’s hands when he held hers through the sharing of vows, but his kiss was firm and sure, promising so, so much more once they were alone.
Lenore invited their guests to the newly cleaned and furnished rectory Nathaniel once dubbed as nothing more than a place to occasionally take shelter from the elements. The dust and cobwebs were gone, and the clear windows caught the watery winter light, casting pale sunbeams throughout the parlor, made far more comfortable with a rug, furnishings and a fire in the fireplace.
Nathaniel had encouraged her to make the rectory hers and decorate it in whatever made her happiest. She had at first been hesitant.
“Nathaniel, I have no dowry or funds to bring to this marriage. We will live in Spartan surroundings.”
“I’m not without means,” he said gently. “I possess a hefty account funded by the Necropolis Company and the Mage Guild. There’s been no reason to touch it until now, and it’s grown impressively from lack of pilfering on my part.”
Lenore gawked at him. “You’re paid to guard Highgate?” She didn’t know why that news astonished her so. It was employment after all.
He grinned. “Handsomely. Guardians are social outcasts but valuable nonetheless. The Guild and the Company understand our worth and contribution. Even if they didn’t, Gideon would make certain to enlighten them.”
Having now met the dour, imposing Gideon, Lenore wondered what exactly his form of enlightenment entailed. She gave a delicate shiver and sipped the warm tea Constance and Rachel served to everyone.
Once the guests departed with good wishes and congratulations—even from Jane—the house settled into an intimate silence. Nathaniel reclined in a chair near the fire and tugged Lenore into his lap. Lenore wound her arms around his neck and stole a kiss from him.
“Are you glad it’s over?” she asked.
He nuzzled the warm spot near her temple, just above her ear. “I’m glad it’s just begun,” he said.
She melted in his arms. “You always did have a honeyed tongue, Nathaniel Gordon.”
He trailed a line of soft nibbles across her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “Care to taste?”
“Oh yes.”
He did taste of honey and the pomegranate wine he’d chosen over the tea served earlier, and Lenore savored the feel of his mouth on hers, his tongue gliding across her teeth to tangle with her tongue in a match neither won and at which both excelled.
She gasped into his mouth when he suddenly rose in one smooth motion, still clasping her tightly against him. “Bedroom,” he muttered when they took a second to breathe. She nodded and laid her head on his chest, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat as he carried her effortlessly up the stairs.
Their bedchamber, once an empty room shrouded in dust, held a bed, wardrobe, vanity and mirror. A chest footed the end of the bed. Lenore had proclaimed the room complete when she filled the chest and the wardrobe with personal items and clothes, including the precious ambrotype of a Nathaniel gone but not forgotten.
Her new husband set her down so that they stood pressed together by the side of the bed. His mouth curved up on one side. “I will give you anything you desire if you let me play lady’s maid.”
Her fingers walked across his shoulders. “You are a man of many talents, it seems.”