Page 26 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Coming up beside her, he dipped his head and brushed his lips over hers, then looked down at their daughter.

Griselda leaned against him; he slid one arm around her, lightly held her.

A moment passed, then he murmured, “Do you really want to help with this investigation? Are you really interested?” Angling his head, he met her eyes. “Or are you simply following—supporting—Penelope?”

Lips twitching, Griselda studied his face. “She is something of a force of nature, I grant you, but”—she sighed—“I really do feel a need of a sort to . . . do something. To contribute in however small a way.” Shifting to face him, her arms going around his waist as his settled about her, she tipped her head back and looked into his eyes. “I’m happy here, with you, with Megan. It’s not that part of me that needs to be involved. I could, very easily, simply stay at home, keep busy with the shop, and be happy and content, but . . . I have to wonder if, years from now, I’ll look back on that and . . . feel ashamed.”

As if searching for the words to make him understand, her eyes locked with his, she paused, then went on, “I have . . . everything my heart could desire. I have a life that’s not just good but wonderful. The future beckons, and there are no clouds on my horizon. You might say, in a sense, that it’s a way of honoring that—all that I have, all my good fortune—a way of feeling that I deserve it, or perhaps that I’ve earned the right to such happiness, by doing what I can to . . . make the world about me a better place. By helping others.” Her lips softened, lightly lifted. “By helping you, and Barnaby, too, to see justice done.”

He tightened his arms about her, feeling her warmth, the inexpressible trust with which she sank against him, something that, now he’d found it, he never wanted to lose. “I can’t claim not to understand, although I have to wonder if I’ve infected you with my calling.”

She smiled. “More likely it’s a reflection of the people we are—that I’m the right match for you precisely because we do have similar thoughts, wants, and ideals, similar ways of seeing the world.”

His lips tightened, but he forced himself to ask, “So what do you think to do? Involving yourself in all my cases—”

“No—I don’t want, or need, that.” She searched his eyes. “I know that many, perhaps most, of your cases are petty to violent crimes perpetrated by established criminals. Neither I nor Penelope would have useful insights to offer in such cases. But in cases like your current one, there’s considerable scope for us to help—as we did tonight.”

“I can’t, and won’t, deny that. Your explanation of why that family might be as it is will be a real help.” He paused, then nodded. “Very well. Let’s see how this develops.”

“And if there are areas in which we can assist, we will.”

For a long moment they simply looked into each other’s eyes. Then his lips lifted. “There’s one area you might assist me with tonight.”

Her smile deepened, then she stretched up, pressed her lips to his in a swift, challenging kiss, and murmured, “Lead on, Inspector.”

Stokes laughed—softly, so as not to wake the baby. Swiftly stooping, he swept Griselda into his arms, surprising a shocked gasp, then a smothered peal of laughter from her as, leaving the door ajar so they would hear if Megan awoke, he carried Griselda out of the nursery and on into their bedroom down the hall.

He dropped her on their bed. She reached up and pulled him down.

And the warmth they’d found together flared and engulfed them.

They gloried in the heated moments, sharing and giving, relearning again, reminding themselves of the elemental wonder, the effervescent joy.

The sheer, unadulterated glory of physical intimacy.

Sharing again the ecstasy and the bliss, and, at the last, settling, sated and content, to sleep in each other’s arms.

Stokes listened to Griselda’s breathing slow.

Uncertainty hovered, of a sort he’d never encountered before. He felt as if he was embarking on a new and potentially dangerous personal journey, one heading into regions unknown. The implications of what he’d agreed to slid through his mind, flitting like dark shadows. Fears, silly and unfounded, but real nonetheless, that in agreeing to her involvement—not just in this case but in others to follow—he might have opened the door to some fundamental upheaval that would, somehow, threaten this—this splendor, this comfort, this signal joy.

This closeness.

Something he valued more than his life.

Yet he would give her the world were he able, and if she wanted, needed, this . . . then he would stand by her side and they would find a new framework, one that would incorporate all they both required, one built on the foundation they’d already laid.

He would try, as would she, and together they would make it work. Commitment wasn’t something they lacked.

Somewhat reassured, he let sleep have at him.

As he started to sink, the sight of Griselda’s face smiling her madonna-smile filled his mind. That smile carried such a wealth, such a depth, of love, one no other relationship could evoke. No wonder the link between mother and child was held sacred.

So what had happened with the Halsteads?

The thought brought him awake, awake enough to clearly see that in that family’s case, in at least one instance, possibly more, the mother-child link had been broken.

He—they—were investigating a matricide.