Author's Note: Sorry about the wait! I have the best beta ever! You guys are awesome! Too much wine makes for too many exclamation points!
HELENA
They sat at the breakfast table for a long time after Margot left, hands clasped tightly, saying nothing. She felt like she was in a dream, floating through the world surrounded by sunlight and happiness. And Samson. Little sparks danced and tingled across her skin where she touched him. Those bright, golden eyes did not leave hers, not once.
A thousand words and thoughts seemed to pass between them. A thousand memories. A thousand smiles. The future seemed to be stretching before them, with the obstacles that had once loomed in their path fading into nothingness.
"I want to do this right, Helena," he said, breaking the silence with that deep, rumbling voice.
Lena smiled. "I know."
"I have nothing. No money, no land, no family, nothing," he added, voice soft, eyes weary.
Lena leaned forward and placed a soft kiss to his cheek, over one of the scars that bisected his face.
"You have me," she replied.
He lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips across her lips, over her jaw, ghosting along her neck. Lena felt her blood ignite at his touch, burning slow and languid beneath her skin.
"Are you sure?" he asked her.
Lena took his hand, pulled it from her neck and pressed a kiss to his scarred, calloused knuckles.
"Yes," she whispered. When he did not respond, she lifted her eyes up and found him frowning. Without thinking, she stood from her seat and slid down onto his lap, smiling at the look of surprise that crossed his face. "What can I say to make you believe me, Samson?" she wondered, tracing the scars along his collarbone, up around his neck, across his chin. "I love you. Nothing else matters. Whatever comes will come. We will face it together."
His arms slid around her, pulling her tight against his chest. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder. He radiated warmth, and he smelled like pine.
"I still haven't told you the truth about me," he said quietly.
Ah, that. Even now, she could feel him drawing back from her emotionally; he always kept this one barrier between them, this one last defense. Would he ever be free of it? Would he ever truly, completely trust her?
"Tell me tonight," she suggested innocently.
Samson narrowed his eyes down at her.
"I do not think that would be wise."
Lena smiled. "I will endeavor to behave myself." She sobered, and slid her arms up to clasp them behind his neck, leaning up to brush her lips over the thick white scar that bisected his neck. "Please, Samson."
He stiffened, though whether this reaction was due to desire or resolve, she couldn't tell. Perhaps both.
"Your parents trust me to behave honorably," he stated. Ah, definitely resolve. "I cannot break that trust."
Lena leaned back and narrowed her eyes at him. "Never bothered you before," she said archly.
Samson sighed. "They didn't know about me before, Helena," he said patiently. Clearly he had been expecting this conversation. "It is different now."
Lena slid her fingers into his hair and pulled his head down, pressing her lips to his without warning. Desire flashed to life like a wildfire within her, sending an electric tingle through her body. Sparks of static flickered across her skin.
For a moment, Samson froze. His arms around her grew rigid, his back straight, his lips unmoving against hers.
And then, a heartbeat later, a soft groan rumbled deep in his chest, and he gave in.
Instantly, the veneer of civility evaporated. His big hands slid down her back, skimmed over her hips, drawing out the fire that burned in her blood with every touch. His tongue danced with hers, and Lena whimpered at the sheer, overwhelming pleasure coursing through her body. She pressed her body against his, but it was not enough. Never close enough.
She gently nipped his bottom lip, and felt every muscle in his body go rigid and still.
He broke the kiss with a sudden gasp, grabbing her shoulders and holding her at arm's length as he fought to regain control of himself. For a moment she worried that she had hurt him, but then his eyes flashed open, and they were glowing, bright and hot, full of desire and desperation.
"You will be the end of me," he growled, taking deep and unsteady breaths.
Lena felt panic clawing at her. He was going to run away again. She could feel it. He was going to try to protect her stupid honor by putting physical distance between them.
"The gardens," she said quickly. "Meet me in the garden tonight at midnight. That is not nearly as scandalous as coming to my bedchamber."
A sudden, exasperated grin curled Samson's lips. "It is still scandalous."
"Please," Lena whispered, batting away his hands so that she could wrap her arms around his neck again, so that she could press herself against him and feel the warmth of his body, let it seep into her. "You can leave at any time; I swear I will not try to stop you." She leaned her head against his chest. "I'm begging you, Samson."
A long pause. She could hear his heart pounding in his chest. She waited and prayed.
"Very well," he said quietly.
Lena let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Thank you," she whispered. He wrapped his arms around her again, holding her close.
For a long while, they sat like that, in peaceful silence. Lena cherished their time together. She had missed him terribly. Every moment she was separated from him felt like agony, like some vital part of her heart had been ripped from her body, leaving her wandering in the darkness, lost and alone.
"I must speak with your father," he said after a while. That deep, baritone voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder. How she loved that voice, which had followed her in darkness for so long. She opened her eyes and leaned back slightly so that she could see his face, but did not otherwise move to get up from his lap.
"Do you want to speak to him alone?" she asked reluctantly.
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Would you think me a coward if I said no?"
Lena grinned, and lifted her head from his chest. "No. Trepidation is to be expected. And it is, I am told, a common occurrence."
He nodded, and then he went quiet again. He did not rush her. He knew that rushing her would only make her cling to him more tightly.
Finally, Lena found the strength to release him, standing from his lap. His hands lingered on her waist, and he looked thoughtful, as if he was measuring the benefits of releasing her and finding them negligible.
Then, with a sigh, he let her go and stood. He towered over her; everything about him was big, and powerful, and masculine, and yet she did not feel intimidated. Not by his size, not by his voice, not by the scars that shimmered over his face and arms or the way his eyes flickered and pulsed like the flame of a candle in the wind.
She had never been intimidated by him.
Together they walked to the library, and together they entered. Lena's father stood by the fireplace, and Greg sat nearby in one of the big leather armchairs. Though neither of them looked very surprised to see Lena on Samson's arm, Greg frowned.
"Lena, do please join Maman and Abby in the Blue Parlor," he suggested pointedly.
"I shall," Lena replied, "in just a moment."
Greg sighed. "Father?"
"Helena," their father began, "I love you, my dear, but this really is something we must discuss with Samson. Alone."
"Why?" Lena demanded.
Her father blinked at her. "Well, because… because, you see…"
And so the great Spymaster was rendered speechless by his daughter's one-worded question.
"Do you expect to deny Samson his request, Papa?" Lena demanded.
"I do not," Philippe replied instantly.
"Do you think I have any objections?"
"No."
"Do you deny that this conversation will, if at least in part, involve myself and my future?"
"I do not," Philippe said with a sigh.
"Then why must I leave? It makes absolutely no sense that I - "
"Helena."
One word, spoken in that deep, gentle voice.
That was all it took.
Lena felt her frustration and her words dissipate. She fell quiet, momentarily bewitched by the hypnotic power of his voice. An instinctive smile curled her lips, and her grip tightened on his arm. She glanced up and found his eyes on her, warm and bright and devilishly amused. He arched one dark eyebrow at her.
I'll take it from here, love.
Lena sighed. "Very well. Papa, Greg," she nodded her farewell to her father and brother, and sent one last arch smile up at Samson. "Darling."
Then she turned and walked out of the library.
SAMSON
In the stunned silence that followed Lena's departure, both Dubois men stood for a long moment with their eyebrows high and their eyes wide.
And then, after a long pause, Greg shifted his gaze to his father and said, "Well, that settles it, then."
Philippe cleared his throat and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Indeed," he murmured.
Samson's lips twitched. He stepped forward and clasped his hands behind his back.
"My lord," he began, his voice soft and hesitant, "I have not been entirely truthful about myself."
"You haven't said much of anything on the subject, if I recall," Philippe mused.
Samson sighed. "There is not much to say," he admitted. His heart ached in his chest, simultaneously weary of this charade of being a normal man, and desperate to have Helena in his arms again. "I have no land, no money, and no family. I have no history. I am no one."
Philippe frowned, but it was Greg who spoke.
"Were you disowned?" he wondered, looking concerned.
Grim amusement flickered inside Samson. "I suppose you could say that." He hesitated. "I have no blood relatives, no family to speak of whatsoever. My past is… a dark thing. My memories hold nothing but pain and misery. Except…"
"Except for the day you saved my daughter's life," Philippe finished.
Samson smiled. "And every moment I am with her now."
Philippe was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Your past is of no importance to me, Samson. Your shadows are behind you. Though they may have helped to make you who you are, they are not you. It is who you are, here and now, that matters."
But I am no one, even now. He did not say this aloud, but it must have shown on his face.
"You are a good man," Greg said, his voice soft.
"You are a bloody hero," Montford said from the doorway. Samson turned, and found Montford leaning against the doorjamb with a grin on his face. He nodded at Samson and strolled forward.
Philippe moved to the sideboard and poured amber liquor into four glittering crystal glasses. He turned and handed one to Greg, and then one to Samson, and one to Montford. And then he went over to his desk and picked up a sheet of vellum.
"Samson," he began, "I have decided to donate half of Bennington's fortune to charity." He paused, and lifted his gaze to Samson's, handing him the slip of paper; it had a staggeringly large number scrawled on it. "After conferring with my son and the Earl of Montford, we have determined that the second half… should go to you."
Shock numbed him through, dampening his heartbeat and silencing the world around him until all he could hear was his own breathing in his ears. That number, on that sheet of paper…All the doubts that had hounded him, the fears of stealing Lena from the comfort she had known her entire life, the terror of losing her because he was a nobody, a man without a name who could never possibly give her the life she deserved…They dissolved into nothing.
Philippe's expression softened, and his voice grew quiet. "I can never truly repay you for what you have done for my family, and this amount is paltry compared to what you deserve, but Gregoire was under the impression that you would not have accepted a larger sum. And Samson…"
"Yes, my lord?" Samson asked, his voice soft and disbelieving.
"I would be honored to have you as my son."
Samson's heart stopped in his chest.
For so long he had dreamed of having a family. He had wished, he had hoped, and he had cursed his stupid heart for wanting that which he knew he would never have. He had faced death, he had fallen lower than the demons of Hell, and yet he had continued to hope, despite the misery that had threatened to consume his soul.
And now, Philippe Jean-Marc, Vicomte de Millau, stood before him with a kind smile on his face.
"My lord," Samson said hesitantly, "the boys…"
"You mean your young nephews?" Greg asked with an easy smile. "Yes, I heard about what happened to your step-brother. Such a tragedy, that house fire in Bristol. It is good of you to take the boys, instead of shipping them off to an orphanage. The upstairs maids are half in love with you from the romance of it all, what with you rescuing damsels and sheltering orphans left and right. Think you're some kind of Viking Lord, like Beowulf."
Samson pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. That, at least, explained why none of the servants had reacted negatively to his presence.
"Albeit heavily-scarred and frighteningly large," Samson noted wryly.
Greg shrugged. "Isn't that what Viking Lords are supposed to look like?"
"Perhaps I should change my name to Ulfric."
Greg and Montford laughed.
Philippe cleared his throat and lifted his glass. "To Samson, my future son-in-law."
Greg stood and lifted his glass. "To my brother, the Viking Lord."
"Here, here," Montford said with a grin.
"Welcome to the family," Philippe said with a nod.
Samson lifted his glass and smiled.