Page 60 of Gone with the Rake

Determination etched on his features, he leapt from the carriage step with the grace of a predator and… slipped on the wet, dirt-streaked road. His momentum carried him backward as his feet slid out from under him. His arms fighting for balance, his expression transformed from fierce determination to comical surprise as he landed with an undignified splash, right onto his arse.

Lydia couldn’t help but laugh.

She stepped forward, extending her hand to help him up. He raised his head and looked at her with that gaze full of wonder again, as if he couldn’t believe he was seeing her. Then his fingers wrapped around hers, but instead of rising to his feet, he pulled on her arm, causing her to lose her balance.

She fell with a shriek and landed on his lap.

Art wrapped his arms around her, locking her in a tight embrace. Lydia raised her eyes to his and was caught in the endless depth of his gaze.

As he stared at her, dark and silent, and full of hope, she felt a tiny, shriveled, last vestige of hope unfurl within her, too.

Chapter 17

“Lily,” Thorn whispered reverently, his voice hoarse, his breathing labored, forming small clouds in the frigid air. Raindrops hammered against them like tiny, icy bullets, plastering their clothes to shivering skin.

Sitting on his lap, drenched and trembling, surrounded by the circle of his arms, it felt… oddly right. Except…

“It’s Lydia now,” she whispered.

“Just like in that book,” he murmured. “I remember.”

He brushed a sodden lock of hair from her face, his fingertips warm against her chilled skin. Then, a smile—no, a mischievous, boyish grin—spread across his face. He plucked a lily from his front pocket, still intact if a bit wilted, and tucked it behind her ear.

Lydia couldn’t help but chuckle at the innocent gesture.

“You’re still my Lily,” he said, his voice barely audible above the storm.

She didn’t answer. She only stared at him as the rain fell over them, rivulets running down their bodies, seeping into their already-soaked clothing.

He remembered her favorite book—the first novel she had read on her own. That meant something, didn’t it?

“I’ve been looking for you for so long,” he said, his voice breaking.

She swallowed. “How come you haven’t found me?” The question tore from her soul. She didn’t even know why she asked. She had waited for him for years, prayed for him to find her—yet he never did.

“I’ve found you now, haven’t I?”

She shook her head. No. I found you.

“I scoured the earth for you,” he rasped, pulling her closer. “I never would have stopped, but I thought you were dead.”

A crash of thunder punctuated his words.

She frowned, raindrops trickling down her face like tears. “Why would you—”

“The headstone,” he interrupted. “In Yorkshire.”

“Oh.” Lydia grimaced. She didn’t want to remember. That had been the worst year of her life. “It’s my mother’s,” she admitted. “I had to…” She cleared her throat, no longer certain it was just the rain running down her cheeks. “I had to lay her to rest under my name.”

“Why?”

She looked away. Because I was hunted. Because I had to disappear.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not yet. All that matters for now is that you’re in my arms.” Then, with a smile in his voice, he added, “Now, we need to get home, or we’ll perish from the cold.”

He rubbed her upper arms briskly, trying—and failing—to warm her. Then, tugging on her hands, he helped her up before standing himself.

They faced each other, toe to toe, hand in hand, neither willing to let go.