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Nov 14, 2025

Dream Drifter- Final Part

Hey guys, before anything, I just wanted to apologize for the delay in posting. I have been navigating the sale of our place, finding a new place, and moving in. At the same time, I wanted to tie all the loose ends to this story. Hope you enjoy this final chapter!

Warnings for this chapter: intrigue, fight, war, death, and smut (in this order).

The paper in John's hand was soft and stained with her perfume. A note. Nothing remarkable. Nothing damning. Just her handwriting. Just his name written once, without formality. No ‘Mr. Delaney.’ No decorum. Only ‘James,’ and a curve at the end that could have been part of a word, or just the tremble of her hand. He had found it behind a book of sermons in her escritoire. She had not meant to hide it there, not carefully. And to him, that was the cruelty of it. The carelessness. A woman no longer afraid to be discovered. He folded it once, twice. Then tucked it into his coat pocket like a man tucking a blade against his ribs. Outside, the house creaked against the wind. The fire in the fireplace hissed as if it were trying to speak. He didn’t follow her that night. He sent someone else. A man he employed for tasks that required discretion and no conscience. A man named Kirk, who understood that loyalty had a price, and that the price must never be measured in coin alone.

She went to the church. Alone, cloaked, walking fast through the fog. The man followed at a distance. Watched from the shadows of the nave. Listened from his alcove. Then he saw them. Delaney arriving through the vestry, all in black, as if mourning the world. Grace stepped toward him without hesitation. They spoke in low voices, inaudible to the watcher. But then Delaney reached up and touched her face — just once. Fingers along her cheek, thumb at the edge of her jaw. Not possessive. Not lustful. Something worse. Tender. Grace closed her eyes under his hand. The man waited until they parted. Then he left. And by morning, the story was delivered in full to John Chambers.

John listened without interruption. He poured his brandy in silence and drank it without grimacing. When Kirk was finished, he said nothing. “Sir?” the man asked. John stood and walked towards the window. His reflection stared back at him — small and ghostlike in the glass, the color of old bruises. His voice was calm when he spoke. “Thank you. That will be all.”

♘♞

The East India Company’s headquarters was a cathedral to control — high ceilings, hard floors, the smell of old wood and older money. Stuart Strange kept his office warm as a womb, a gesture of luxury in a city that liked to punish. When John arrived, he was expected. Strange looked up from a stack of ledgers and narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Chambers. You look like a man who’s swallowed something sharp.” “I bring you information,” John said. Strange gestured to the chair opposite him without smiling. “Do sit.” John sat. Removed his gloves slowly. Chose his words as a surgeon chooses instruments. “My wife is in contact with James Delaney,” he said. Strange raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “She has access to my shipping records. My company’s trade routes. She’s been feeding him information. And he’s using it to smuggle poisoned opium and to divert suspicion onto the East India Company.” “Do go on,” Strange said, folding his hands. “They’re planning to flee. To Nootka Sound.” Now Strange smiled. “Ah. There it is.” John leaned forward. “I want them stopped. Quietly. I want to be protected. I want my name preserved.” “You want the whore punished and the husband made a hero,” Strange said, matter-of-factly. John’s lips barely moved. “I want to testify. I want to help the Crown bring them down.” Strange poured two glasses of wine and slid one across the desk. “Do you know what I like about you, Mr. Chambers?” he said. “You always know when to cut your losses.”

♘♞

Stone and silence. The world had narrowed to cold air and iron bars. Grace sat on her cot, pale and still. Her hands, once smooth, were bruised along the wrists. Her eyes, once quick, stared at the walls. Then — several footsteps. Most heavy. One familiar. The cell next to hers open, she heard someone being shoved inside, then the door closing and footsteps leaving. She rose slowly and crossed to the opposite wall, climbing a bucket and reaching small bars, above a painting of the king. “James? You returned? What did they do to you?” He moved into view. Thinner. Blood still at the edge of his collar. But alive. “I’m here,” he said. “They’ll hang us,” she whispered. “No, they’ll make a show of it,” James replied. “John did this,” she said. James didn’t react. “I know.” “He turned us in. Went to Strange. Offered to testify. To be the victim.” “He is a victim,” James said. “Of cowardice.” Grace gripped the bars. “They told me I’d be spared. If I behaved like I was ashamed. If I said you manipulated me.” James stepped closer. His voice was a thread of darkness in the cold. “You should.” She stared at him. “Would it matter?” He tilted his head. “Only if you wanted it to.” There was a pause. “I let him find us,” Grace said. James blinked once. “What?” “I knew he’d send someone. I wanted him to panic. I thought… it would buy us time. But I was wrong.” James gave the barest smile. “No. You weren’t wrong. You were just early.” Their eyes met across the distance. A plan unspoken. A promise.

It was near midnight when they came for him. Two guards, silent, no lanterns. They unlocked his cell with a clink that echoed like a pistol in the dark and marched him through corridors that smelled of ash, lime, and secrets. James said nothing. He had begun to recognize each hallway by the way his boots landed on the stone — some echoed, some did not. This one was soft. Hidden. They stopped before an iron-banded door. One guard knocked once. A voice from within, flat and sharp: “Enter.” They shoved James through and closed the door behind him. Inside, a single candle flickered on a metal table. And seated before it, back straight, powdered wig pristine despite the hour, was Solomon Coop, personal advisor to the Crown. He didn’t stand. He didn’t smile. His fingers drummed softly on the tabletop. “Mr. Delaney,” he said. James sat across from him without invitation. Coop looked him over with mild distaste. “You smell like smoke.” James said nothing. “You’ve been given every opportunity,” Coop went on. “And yet you persist in this delusion that you can negotiate from your knees.” James tilted his head slightly. “You presume I’m on my knees.”

Coop gave a cold, almost fatherly smile. “You’re in the Tower of London. You’ll die here. If not at our order, then from time. Or rot.” James leaned forward. “I’ll give you what you want,” he said. Coop’s fingers paused. “And what do I want?” “You want names. Ships. Dates. Trade records. Ports where opium was poisoned. You want to bring the Company to its knees without putting the Crown on trial beside it.” Coop raised a brow, surprised. James continued. “I’ll give you every ledger. Every route. I’ll name the magistrates who turned their heads. The lords who accepted East India coin. You can clean the filth from your doorstep and tell your king you saved his name.” A pause. Coop's voice cooled. “And the price?” “I want to speak with Stuart Strange.” The pause stretched. Coop blinked once. Slowly. “You’ve asked me for that before.” James didn’t move. “And I ask again.” Coop stared at him. “Why?” James’s lips curled faintly. “Because he’s the one who set the fire, and now you’re standing in the ashes asking who lit the match.”

Strange came late, cloaked in sable, with the expression of a man arriving to find himself named in a will. The guards left the room, and the door shut behind them with the soft finality of a coffin lid. James sat, wrists still chained, writing on a piece of paper. By its side, several pages had already been written on, James’ expression unreadable. Stuart Strange remained standing, as if to suggest superiority through height alone. “You’ve caused quite a mess,” Strange said. James said nothing. “They say you have demands.” “I do.” Strange laughed softly, almost condescending. “You’re not in a position—” “Sit down, Mr. Strange.” The words were quiet. But Strange stopped speaking. James’s eyes were wild now, dark and sunken, but sharp with the clarity of a man long past pain. “You’ve used Company boys. Press-ganged orphans. Thieves. Runaways. And shipped them to the Americas. Not for King or trade or even profit. For your brother’s land. His plantations. Human property, fed into the soil to grow sugar and cotton.” Strange’s lips parted. The color drained slightly from his face.

James leaned forward. “I have names. Manifests. Letters. If I speak to Coop again, I’ll be dead by morning—but not before I say the words that make you a stain on your family crest.” “You can’t prove…” “I can. And you know I can. You think I survived Africa without learning how to listen. You think my silence was ever bought? You were never paying me off, Strange. You were fattening a wolf.” Strange's voice dropped. “What do you want?” “I want you to hand over John Chambers.” Strange blinked. “Your lover’s husband?” “I want him alive. Delivered to my men, wherever I name it. In exchange, I won’t need to tell Coop anything. Everyone goes home clean.” Strange exhaled slowly. “And the woman?” “Grace walks with me. Or I’ll tell them everything.” Silence. Then, slowly, Strange turned and knocked on the door, angrily.

♘♞

Solomon Coop read the envelope twice before breaking the seal. It was marked with Stuart Strange’s wax insignia — clean, precise. Inside, a single note. Brief.

To the attention of Mr. Solomon Coop,

It is with some regret that I must inform you that John Chambers has disappeared. The safe house was found emptied of all his personal belongings. A clerk reports he booked a passage to the colonies three nights ago. His current whereabouts are unknown.

Yours in loyalty, S. Strange

Coop folded the letter in half and set it on the table. He did not sigh. He did not swear. But the candle beside him flickered as if someone had breathed on it.

♘♞

The sky over London bled grey as if mourning something not yet dead. Atticus waited in the alley behind the crumbling warehouse near the Thames, a dog chewing something unholy at his feet. He was smoking a pipe, thick-lipped and motionless, when the carriage rumbled up — black-lacquered, the kind used for funerals and cowards. The door opened. John Chambers fell from it like a drunk or a sack of flour. His hands were bound. His face had been hit — just once, cleanly. The man who’d delivered him tipped his hat to Atticus without a word and climbed back into the carriage. Atticus looked down at the silk dealer sprawled in the mud. “You look worse than your linens,” he said. John spat blood and soil. “James won’t kill me,” he muttered. Atticus shrugged. “Not his job anymore.”

They took John to the old cellar beneath the brothel, where the foundation still smelled of oysters and salt. James waited, standing near the stone arch, arms folded. Grace stood at the threshold, cloaked in darkness, silent. When they dragged John in, he straightened his shoulders. Blood at his collar. Defiant still. “You’re no better than me,” he hissed at James. “You stole what was mine.” “She was never yours,” James replied. John turned toward Grace. “He used you.” “I chose him,” she said. “No,” John snarled. “You chose madness. You chose ruin.” He lunged at James then, breaking Atticus’ grip. He had a small dagger hidden in his sleeve that he took out. He caught James across the face with a fist, then, when he was about to stab Delaney— wild, savage, useless—a gunshot echoed like judgment. John froze. Grace lowered the pistol slowly. A bloom of red spread beneath his ribs. He staggered, turned to her — as if still believing this might be a dream — and sank to the stone floor with a sound like prayer broken mid-sentence. Grace was shocked. A tear shedding. “You left us no choice.” John didn’t know if “us” had meant James and Grace or him and Grace. She didn’t look sure either. James looked at her, then knelt beside the body, closing John’s eyes with a thumb. “You could’ve let me do it,” he said. “He was mine to take,” she whispered.

♘♞

The fire had burned low in the hearth, and the shutters still clattered loosely in the wind. James sat in his parlour, coat damp, his boots leaving marks on the wood where the Thames had soaked into the soles. He hadn’t slept in two days. The house was quiet now. Abandoned of plans. Emptied of future. When he had pushed open the door and entered the house, something was already waiting. A letter. It sat on the edge of the desk, unopened but clearly handled. The seal had been cracked. The paper smelled faintly of lilies and rain. He didn’t need to check the signature. He knew the hand. He knew the weight of it. Zilpha. He unfolded it slowly, like unwrapping a wound. The ink was smeared in places, as if her hand had trembled or the rain had touched it.

James,

I dreamed again of the house. Of us in the water. But the water wasn’t dark this time. It was clean. It forgave us. You were always waiting for the punishment, and I was always waiting for the absolution. But neither came.

I want to say I love you. I want to say I understand now that it wasn’t just madness. That something in us was broken long before we ever touched.

But I can’t carry it anymore. I can’t carry us.

Forgive me. And always keep a piece of me inside of you.

Yours eternally,

He sat with it in his lap, staring at the fire as if the flames might spell something he could believe. The front door opened. Soft steps. No panic. Just the familiar rhythm of someone who had lived with grief long enough to know not to disturb it too quickly. Lorna Bow. Dressed in her long red coat, her gloves still on. She held a folded letter in one hand. “Musgrove gave us safe passage. We can sail now, but we have to leave immediately. The blockade will lift long enough to slip through.” Still, he said nothing. Lorna’s voice softened. “I told Grace. Atticus is making the arrangements. Everyone is ready.” James moved slightly in the chair, just enough to reach for a bottle, half-empty. He didn’t pour it. Just held it like a man might hold a relic from a time when he still believed in God. “I think she’s dead,” he said. Lorna tilted her head and looked at the letter. “Zilpha,” she half-asked. A long pause stretched silence between them. “She left a letter,” James said. “I think she wanted me to stop looking for her. Or stop waiting.”

Lorna approached, placed the Musgrove letter on the desk beside Zilpha’s. “You don’t need to stop mourning her to leave.” James looked at her, eyes rimmed red, not from weeping, but from exhaustion of the soul. Lorna leaned in. “She gave you permission to go, James. Don’t turn that into another prison.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t know who I am without her shadow.” Lorna’s voice sharpened. “Then stop being a shadow. Be something else. For Grace. For the others. For yourself.” He opened his eyes. The fire crackled. For a moment, the silence returned — a silence shaped like Zilpha’s absence. And then slowly, quietly, James stood. He looked once more at the letter in his lap. Then folded it, tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. And nodded. “Then we should leave now, Mrs. Delaney.”

♘♞

An order arrived at noon— not by the East India, but by the king. The man who delivered it was dressed like a mourner, black coat buttoned to the throat, gloves worn thin from too many unspoken errands. He did not speak. He did not bow. Coop remembered still the harsh, illogical orders he had received earlier. “Nootka be damned. Kill the bastard. No questions.” It was the same hand the king had used during the Highland rebellion, when mercy had been abandoned in favor of message. The Crown had made its decision: James Delaney, thief of treaties and poisoner of empire, was now an error to be erased. Not tried. Not questioned. Not allowed to speak. Dead. Disappeared. Dust. Coop set the letter down and lit a fresh candle. The flame took with a crackle. “Fetch them,” he whispered to the darkness. “Tell the dogs to run.”

The docks were quieter than usual. No one on the streets, except for Delaney’s men. No bells rang. No gulls cried. Even the fog felt different — heavy, still, as though London itself was holding its breath. Then came the boots. Twelve men. Then fifteen. 50, maybe 70. It was hard to tell — they moved in pairs, armed like ghosts, faces covered in determination, uniforms informing their purpose. They were not coming to arrest. They were coming to clean. And yet—James Delaney had expected worse. He stood at the docks, coat torn at the collar. His face was blooded — not fresh — a scab along the jaw where John had struck him earlier. A relic now. But his eyes were sharp. The men he had gathered were harder than the fog, dressed in the kind of black that doesn’t shine, with muskets strapped to their backs and ropes hanging from their belts like relics of older wars. Atticus, his shoulder freshly bandaged, paced with a pistol in each hand. Helga stood to the side, silent, her mouth pulled taut like string across a bow. And at the center of it all: Grace.

She was not dressed like a woman ready to flee. She was dressed like a general. A long navy coat stolen from a naval officer wrapped around her, cinched tight at the waist. Her hair was pinned. Her boots — black, leather, and blood-worn — crunched the gravel as she walked the length of the dock. Her hand rested on the hilt of her own weapon. A map had been nailed to the crates, flapping slightly in the wind. James had plotted this escape with ink and cunning, threading the ship’s path through slivers of river traffic, blind spots in patrol routes, and the breathing rhythms of the tide. “We move in six minutes,” he said to the crew. “Not sooner. Not later.” The men nodded. And then—Gunfire. The first shot cracked the air like a curse. It shattered a lantern, sprayed flame across a crate. The second shot came faster. The third missed. James did not flinch. He smiled. “Time to go,” he said. And then the battle began.

It was not a war of armies. It was a war of intentions. The King’s men surged forward with knives drawn and pistols out. But Delaney’s crew did not break. They had planned for this. They had starved for it. Bullets struck wood, crates exploded in showers of silk and opium dust, Cholmondeley’s explosives effective as always. All men fought, while the women were directed to the ship. All except for Grace. The ship loomed ahead — waiting, breathing, alive. Atticus took a shot to the shoulder. Again. Same place. He swore and kept firing. A Company man fell into the water, gurgling. And then—from the smoke and ruin—a dozen more of men.

One of them, a commander, had a mad expression. Blood crusted his temple. His coat was torn, his shirt burned at the collar. But the fire in his eyes was not dimmed. He looked less like a man and more like something cursed — a revenant dragged from the pit of his own betrayal. He screamed James’s name — in rage. Grace turned, pistol already rising. She shot, but he was faster. The blade in his hand was rusted, probably cursed. He lunged toward her. And James — behind her — moved to protect her. The blade sank into James’s side, deep, ragged, bone-scraping. He screamed— not from pain, but anger. And then—Bang. Grace fired James’ gun. This time she didn’t miss. The bullet struck the soldier in the chest, slightly left of center. He stumbled, dropped the knife, then dropped himself — to his knees first, as if praying for some last moment of clarity. But none came. His mouth moved once. Nothing came out. And then he fell. Face-first into the mud. And stayed.

Grace didn’t look away. Not even when James collapsed beside a crate, one hand on his side, blood blooming beneath his fingers. She ran to him, caught him before he could fall fully. “We have to go,” she whispered, breathless, trembling. James grimaced. “You’re... bleeding.” “I’m not the one stabbed,” she hissed. He laughed, almost — a breath, nothing more. She looked to the ship, already half-prepared to sail. “The tide’s turning,” she said. “If we miss it, we’ll die here.” James looked at her — really looked. Her face was dirt-smeared, eyes wild, hair loose, coat torn. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He nodded. And together — smoke behind them, fire at their backs — they ran for the ship.

♘♞

The sails groaned under the weight of the wind as the ship cut westward, away from London’s flame-lit shores. The sea was a tapestry of ink and moonlight — endless, ancient, indifferent. Below deck, the wounded rested. Atticus grunted curses in his sleep, arm tied up in blood-soaked cloth. Anita and Edward Gonçalves shared nostalgic stories. Helga sang low to herself, something in German, half lullaby, half prayer. Winter by her side. The crew moved like shadows — quiet, efficient. No one asked questions. Not anymore. Above, at the prow, Grace stood alone. Her hair was damp with sea spray, lashes crusted with salt. She wore James’s coat — too large, the shoulders falling just slightly — and beneath it, her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the sudden lack of it. Behind her, the door to the captain’s quarters opened.

James stepped out. He was still pale, the wound bound tightly beneath his shirt, the pain stitched into every movement. But his eyes—sea-colored—were clear now. Focused. He joined her wordlessly. For a long moment, neither spoke. Just the sound of the sea. The creaking of the wood. The echo of all they’d left behind. Then: “She’s gone,” Grace said, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Zilpha,” she turned to face him. James nodded slowly. “I know.” “She came to me. Before we left.” That surprised him — a flicker of tension in his shoulders. “In the flesh?” he asked. Grace turned toward him with a shocked expression, thinking to herself why he would ask HER that. But that was James, “Yes. Dressed in black. I think she knew.” James didn’t ask what she said. He didn’t have to. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his coat — slowly, carefully — and pulled out the letter. Zilpha’s final words. He handed it to Grace. She took it, turned the folded paper over in her hands, but didn’t open it. “You’ve read it?” she asked. He nodded. “Twice. Then I stopped.” “Why?” He looked out across the water. “Because it wasn’t meant for whom I was becoming. It was meant for whom I had been.” Grace nodded, then quietly moved. Her fingers closed over the letter once, then she let it go. She released it into the wind. The parchment danced through the air, like a falling bird, then touched the sea — and vanished. James didn’t flinch. “Do you think she’s at peace?” he asked. “I think she finally gave you permission to be,” Grace replied. Silence again. But not a heavy one. The kind that fills space, not wounds.

Footsteps approached. Lorna Bow. Her coat was still speckled with ash from the dock fires, but she wore it like a medal. Her eyes moved from Grace to James, then out across the black sea. “I hope you two know,” she said, “this isn’t happily ever after. It’s just... ever after.” Grace smiled faintly. “That’s all I ever wanted.” James looked at Lorna with something like gratitude. Or perhaps it was apology. “I never thanked you,” he said. Lorna shook her head. “No need. You gave me purpose once. I repaid it. We’re even now.” They stood there, the three of them, like war survivors, watching the waves break below. Eventually, Lorna excused herself. “I’ll check the supplies,” she said. “Some fool packed gin instead of water.” She disappeared below deck.

Alone again, Grace turned to James. “You still doubt,” she said softly. “I doubt everything,” he answered. “It’s how I survive.” She moved closer. Their shoulders brushed. “Then learn something else.” He studied her. And for the first time in days, in weeks — perhaps longer — he smiled. A real one. Tired. Crooked. But his. “I love you,” he said. Grace didn’t answer right away. She reached up, touched his face — gently, like testing to see if he was real. Then she leaned in and kissed him with quiet certainty. When they parted, she whispered, “I know. And I’m still here because I love you too.” Far in the distance, Nootka Sound waited — wild, unspoiled, untouched by kings or crowns. The wind carried them onward. The ghosts stayed behind. And somewhere below deck, Atticus cursed at a barrel of spoiled gin and asked who packed the damn thing anyway. James laughed. Grace laughed. And the ship sailed on. Grace Chambers stood on the deck of the ship, the cool sea breeze whipping her long, chestnut hair around her face. She had left everything behind for this man - her life, her husband, her very identity. But as she watched James Delaney bark orders to his crew, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his dark jacket, she knew she had made the right choice.

♘♞

The voyage had been long and arduous, but now, as they approached their destination, Grace felt a sense of anticipation building in her gut. James must have sensed it too, because he turned to her suddenly, his blue eyes blazing with intensity. "Come with me," he growled, his voice low and commanding. He took her by the hand and led her towards the captain's quarters, his long strides forcing her to quicken her pace to keep up. As soon as they were inside, James pushed her up against the door, his body pinning her there as he captured her mouth in a searing kiss. Grace moaned into his mouth, her hands tangling in his short, dark hair as she returned the kiss with equal fervor. James' hands roamed over her body, sliding under the fabric of her dress to caress the smooth skin of her thighs. "I want to take you one last time aboard this ship," he murmured against her lips, his voice rough with desire. "To have you here, in my quarters, with no one to interrupt us." Grace gasped as his fingers found the hem of her skirt, sliding it up to reveal the creamy expanse of her legs. She could feel the heat of his arousal pressing against her belly, and it made her own desire surge through her veins like liquid fire. "Then take me," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm yours, James. Now and always."

That was all the encouragement James needed. With a low growl, he pushed her skirts up around her waist, exposing her most intimate parts to his hungry gaze. "Beautiful as always," he rasped, his fingers sliding between her thighs to caress her already slick folds. Grace let out a sharp cry of pleasure as he touched her, her hips bucking against his hand. Her body aching for his touch. James' fingers dipped inside her, stroking her inner walls with a firm, steady pressure that made her see stars. He groaned, his breath hot against her ear. "I can't wait to feel you wrapped around my cock." Grace's mind was spinning with lust, her entire body trembling with need. She fumbled with the buttons of his pants, desperate to free his hard, throbbing length.

When she finally succeeded, she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking him slowly from base to tip. James shuddered against her, his hips jerking into her touch. "God, Grace," he panted, his voice strained with pleasure. "You're going to be the death of me." And then he was lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he pinned her against the wall. Grace could feel the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, hot and hard and demanding. "Please," she whimpered, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you inside me." James obliged with a swift, powerful thrust, burying himself deep inside her with a guttural groan. Grace cried out at the sensation, her walls stretching to accommodate his thick girth. It was almost too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. But then James began to move, sliding in and out of her in long, deep strokes that had her seeing stars. He set a brutal pace, pounding into her with a force that shook the very foundations of the ship. "Fuck," he panted, his hips slapping against hers with each thrust. "You feel so good wrapped around my cock. I don't know how long I can last."

Grace could only moan in response, her head falling back against the door as she lost herself in the sensations coursing through her body. She could feel her climax building, winding tighter and tighter in her core until it was almost unbearable. "Don't stop," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. "Please don't stop." James didn't need to be told twice. He redoubled his efforts, pounding into her with a force that shook the very foundations of the ship. Grace could feel herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her body trembling and taut with impending release.

And then it hit her, crashing over her like a tidal wave of pure ecstasy. She cried out, her body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her. James followed seconds later, spilling himself deep inside her with a low, guttural moan. They collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, both panting heavily as they came down from their highs. Grace could feel James' heart pounding against her chest, his breath hot and fast against her neck. "I love you," she murmured, pressing soft kisses to his jawline. "I love you so much, James," she repeated. He smiled against her skin, his arms tightening around her waist. "I love you too, Grace," he replied, his voice rough with emotion. "More than anything in this world." And as they lay there in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Grace knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead once they got to Nootka, they would face them all together. James Delaney was only hers, just as she was finally only his, and nothing would ever change that.

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