Hello! I realise that it has been FIVE YEARS - YES, FIVE - since I last updated this story. But since I have a lot of time on my hands right now, I decided to finish it. This will be the last chapter. I am so very thankful for all your wonderful reviews, and I am sorry if I never responded to you - I shall endeavour to do better this time around.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this :)

CHAPTER 5

Marianne awoke with a start. She placed a hand on her chest, feeling her heart thump against it. Willoughby. The man had even entered her dreams. Sitting up, the blanket someone had placed over her fell away, and she realised they'd also removed her spencer which she had fallen asleep still wearing. As she looked around her, something caught her eye. She gasped. Dark and angry bruises marred the creamy skin on her upper arms. It was then she recalled how tightly Willoughby had held her, how she had cried for him to stop hurting her. But he had ignored her pleas. Instead, he had forced his mouth onto hers. A shudder went through her as she thought of what else he might have forced on her had she not had the wit to kick him hard on the shin.

Willoughby had shown his true nature up on that hill; he was a man who wanted everything his heart desired but did not care who he wounded in the process of getting it. If he had truly realised how much he had broken her heart, he would never have come to Delaford; he would not have tried to ruin the happiness she had found with Christopher. But he had come close to doing just that.

Her throat tightened as she climbed from the bed. The sun no longer shone through her bedroom window, so she knew it was late in the afternoon; she must have slept for two hours or more. She crossed the room and sat down at her dressing table, studying her reflection in the mirror. The mark on her cheek was still red, and as she reached out to touch it, the unbidden memory of Willoughby's rough, unwanted kiss filled her mind. She instantly squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to expel the image. Oh, how she hated him for what he'd done.

A light rap on the door jolted her from her thoughts, and Willoughby slunk back into a dark corner of her mind. She reached for a shawl draped over the back of her chair and quickly wrapped it around her shoulders. It was probably already common knowledge amongst the servants that she had bruises on her arms, for undoubtedly one of the maids had removed her spencer. Nevertheless, she did not want them on show.

"Come in."

Alice, one of the younger maids, entered and bobbed a curtsey. "Would you like some tea brought to your room, Mrs Brandon?"

"No, thank you, Alice," she replied, "but I would like a bath this evening."

"Yes, Mrs Brandon. I'll inform Mrs Craig you'll be wanting one."

Marianne nodded. Mrs Craig was the housekeeper, and she did not like having surprises sprung upon her. "Would you also tell Colonel Brandon that I am awake now and shall be downstairs presently."

"The colonel's not here; he went out over an hour ago and hasn't come back yet."

An odd pang settled in Marianne's stomach. "Did he say where he was going?"

"He might've told Mr Patterson," Alice said, referring to the house's stalwart butler. "I can ask him, see if he knows where the colonel went."

Marianne decided against creating a fuss. "There is no need to bother him."

"Is there anything else you'll be needing, Mrs Brandon?"

No, Alice. Thank you."

The maid curtseyed again then left the room, closing the door behind her.

Marianne stood up and went to the window that looked out over the gardens and cast her gaze beyond them. Where had Christopher gone? He would have told her if he had business to see to; he always did. As she stared out over what she could of the estate, the pang she had felt twisted into a knot of worry, and she wasn't sure why.

She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. Perhaps Christopher had ridden to Barton Park to see Sir John, although it stung to think that he would want to talk with Sir John and not with her. Or maybe her husband was angry with her for what had happened, and that is why he did not wish to speak with her. No. That was foolishness. He had seen her tears and the mark on her face; he had seen how frightened she was. It would have been obvious to anyone that she had not reciprocated Willoughby's advances.

Indeed, she recalled the ferocity in Christopher's eyes when he learned it was Willoughby who had hurt her. But despite that, his manner had been calm – too calm, in her opinion. While she knew her husband was not prone to outbursts of emotion, she had expected some kind of reaction from him, yet she remembered how soft his voice had been: Come, Marianne, I will take you home. He'd sat behind her on the horse in brooding silence; the only sign of his outrage was that his body had been a rigid wall at her back. She had tried to speak with him, to tell him what Willoughby had done, but that only caused him to retreat further into himself, so she had fallen quiet. When they finally reached the manor house, he had urged her to rest in her bedroom, and that was the last she had seen of him.

After glancing out the window again, she knew she would only torment herself if she kept trying to figure out where her husband had gone and why. So, she left her room and went downstairs.

Soon she found herself sitting at the pianoforte in the drawing-room. Just last night Christopher had taught her a new duet; if they were not already married, the whole thing would have been nothing short of scandalous, for the composer had written the piece in such a way that Christopher had to lean in close and even stretch across her at certain points. Nevertheless, she had enjoyed every moment of it, especially when he whispered beside her ear that they would play it at the next ball in Barton Park. To those who do not know us, we shall pretend we are mere acquaintances. She'd laughed and called him a 'wicked thing'.

She wished she could relive the previous evening over again, and then when the morning came, she would not venture further than the gardens; Willoughby would never have dared set foot in them. But it was nothing but a fanciful dream. Instead, she placed her fingers on the ivory keys and began to play the very first sonata Christopher had given her to learn – it had come with the piano he had bought for the parlour in the cottage. She closed her eyes, pouring her heart into every note. And, as her husband did, she allowed the music to speak for her.

When she opened her eyes after playing the last note, Christopher was standing by the piano. She started at the sight of him, but at the same time, relief washed over her that he had returned. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on that morning; usually, he changed in the afternoon. She also noted his boots were muddy, and his beige breeches were stained with dark flecks of...she didn't know what. What on earth had he been doing?

"I apologise for startling you, but I heard you play when I came into the hall and did want to interrupt."

She lifted her gaze from his boots to his face. "Where have you been?"

He hesitated, and she knew that if he had not heard her playing he would have gone straight upstairs and gotten changed. "I had something I needed to attend to."

"Did it involve rolling around in a field?"

A grim smile tugged at his mouth. "Not quite. I would have told you I had business to see to, but you were at rest, and I did not wish to disturb your sleep."

It was then she noticed the bruising on his knuckles. "Christopher, your hand! What happened to it?"

He curled his fingers into a fist. "It is nothing."

Rising from the stool, she took his hand in hers, inspecting it. She was beginning to think that perhaps he had been thrown from his horse. "Nothing? You are fortunate it is not broken. Maybe it would be wise if I sent for Dr Lewis."

"There is no need for that."

"But you are hurt."

He made a dismissive sound in his throat, and when she went to press him again about summoning the doctor, he said, "I assure you, Marianne, my hand is in a much better state than Mr Willoughby's face currently is."

Her head snapped up, and she stared at him incredulously. If his aim had been to stop her fussing, then it had worked.

"You hit Willoughby?"

"I did – several times, in fact."

Marianne opened her mouth then closed it again. She looked down at his hand, lightly running her fingers over the bruise. He had hit Willoughby. If anyone else had told her that she would not have believed them, and even though the words had come directly from her husband's mouth, she was still finding it hard to grasp. But then, he had served in the army, so she supposed it was possible…

"Do you disapprove?"

She looked up at his question. "No, I…I…" She groped for a response but couldn't find one, so she asked, "Tell me what happened?"

For a moment she thought he would refuse to answer her, but then he said, "I wanted to ensure Mr Willoughby had left the estate; he had not, as you are now aware. I found him sunning himself in a meadow, and that is where I confronted him."

Her heart started to beat faster. "What did you say to him?"

His jaw clenched. "I told him that taking liberties with you was nothing short of villainous," he began, then reached for her shawl and pulled it away from her shoulders before she could stop him. "But that he did so forcefully – that was unforgivable."

How –" Realisation dawned on her. "You removed my spencer while I was sleeping."

There was a flicker of fury in his eyes, but otherwise his countenance was as calm as it always was. "Yes."

At that moment, her husband's brooding silence on the ride back to the manor house made sense to her; he did not wish for her to witness his anger. But he had not shown Willoughby the same consideration; no, indeed, she imaged Christopher had unleashed a storm on him. And it was no less than the scoundrel deserved.

"Are you hurt anywhere else apart from your hand?" she asked, concern for him slipping in alongside her shock at what he had done.

The corner of his mouth twitched in the hint of a smile. "No, I am not. I suspect Mr Willoughby was quite taken aback that an old soldier could move so quickly."

She looked at him in mock annoyance. "I do not think you are so old, Christopher."

"I should hope not."

She laughed at his quip, then looked down at his breeches. "The mud on your boots I understand, but what is that?"

He cleared his throat as he stared at nothing in particular over the top of her head. "Mr Willoughby has very vulgar ways of expressing his aversion of someone - one of them is spitting. And he was clearly displeased with me that I broke his nose."

Gasping and feeling somewhat queasy, Marianne said, "That is his...spittle and blood?"

He nodded but still kept looking out the window. "I had hoped to spare you these details, but I see now there should be no to be secrets between us."

Marianne placed a hand on his arm. "Then I must make a confession to you."

A frown creased his brow as he shifted his gaze to her. "What is that?"

"I wish I could have seen Willoughby's face after the first time you struck him."

He said nothing, and she thought that perhaps she had offended him, but then she heard a rumble of amusement in his throat. "I must admit, he did have something of the look of a landed fish about him." Then his countenance darkened. "But I do believe he will not dare to trespass on my land again."

"For that, I am thankful," she said as she reached out to caress his cheek. He turned his head, pressing deeper into her touch, and his whole body seemed to relax. "And I am grateful that you defended my honour so."

Indeed, grateful was a vast understatement to how she felt; it stirred her to the depths of her soul that Willoughby's actions had evoked such emotion from her husband. And then for him to confront her former suitor...Well, it was something she had only ever read about in novels, but it excited her in a way that was wholly improper. To think, she had once thought of Christopher as the dullest man alive!

He removed her hand on his cheek, bringing it to his lips and kissing it softly. "My only regret is that I did not come to you sooner and spare you having to face Mr Willoughby at all."

"You must not blame yourself, Christopher; neither of us had any idea he would come here, although I do take consolation in that I was able to tell him I am happier now than I have ever been."

The last traces of outrage faded from his gaze at her words, replaced instead with a desire that sent a delicious shiver down her spine. She closed her eyes as he ghosted his fingers across her cheek to her neck, teasing the creamy skin at the nape of her neck before entwining them in her hair. Tugging her face closer to his, he covered her mouth with his, kissing her with more passion than he ever had before.

When he finally drew back, she was left breathless, and she stared up at him in astonishment.

He arched an eyebrow slightly. "Must I not endeavour to ensure that you remain happier than you have ever been?"

She gave a half-hearted huff. "You are incorrigible, Christopher Brandon."

Seemingly pleased with himself, he stepped back from her. "I will go and change now, but when I come back down, I would like to continue practising the duet I taught you last night."

After he left the room, she sat down at the piano again, thinking back to a time when she had been mortified by Mrs Jennings' suggestion that she and Christopher play a duet together. Now, she relished the thought.

"Ready to begin, Mrs Brandon?" he said when he sat down beside a short while later, dressed in fresh, clean clothes.

She placed her hands onto the ivory keys beside his. "Of course, Colonel."