Branches caught at the skirts of her pelisse as she went deeper and deeper into the trees. The stream lay ahead, framed by the blue splendor of its forget-me-not covered banks. It was as she stopped amidst the sweet-scented wildflowers, one hand clutched at her side, panting for breath that she saw him. A fine, tall gentleman standing along the edge of the water.

He was clad in breeches and top boots, the broad lines of his shoulders outlined by a dusky blue coat that had obviously been cut by a master tailor. He held his tall beaver hat loose in one hand along with his whip, looking for all the world as though he was waiting for someone.

For her.

At the sound of her tread on the grass, he turned to look at her. But she already knew who he was. There was no mistaking that golden hair glinting in the morning sun. No mistaking those stormy gray eyes and that lean, panther-like grace.

His name formed on her lips as she ran to him. His real name.

He reached her in two strides and caught her up in his arms, lifting her straight up off of her feet.

She clung to him, uncertain whether to laugh or to sob. “You’re here,” she whispered, breathless, against his cheek. “You’ve finally come home.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

St. Clare wrapped his arms around Maggie, holding her so close against him that the toes of her leather half-boots no longer touched the ground. He buried his face in her hair. She wasn’t wearing a bonnet. He had the vague idea that she’d dropped it when she ran to him.

Good lord, she’d run to him. And she shouldn’t be running at all. Not in her present state of health. Even now, he felt her struggling for breath.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why did you come back? You know you can’t—”

“Hush, love.” He slowly lowered her back to the ground. His concerned gaze moved over her face. Every curve and contour was as precious to him as his own life. More precious than any title ever could be. “Come and sit down.”

“Where?”

“Here. On the bank.” He stripped off his coat and laid it down upon the damp grass.

“You gallant idiot. You’ll ruin it.”

“Sit,” he commanded. As if he cared one jot about his coat. He had dozens more where that one came from, each of them as elegant as the last.

“Very well. But only because you insist.” Maggie reluctantly sank down onto his coat. She was wearing a fitted dark blue pelisse over a plain muslin gown, her thick hair tied back in a simple knot at her nape. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes extraordinarily bright. “What do you mean by coming here?”

“And what do you mean by striding about in this manner?”

“I’m walking off a temper fit.”