by Quinn, Paula
His jaw dropped and he stared at her, eyes wide.
“What, did you not expect the City woman to have a conscience or a thought to anyone but herself? That seems to be a characteristic of the high born. Such behavior is normal for your kind, isn’t it? But you have no consideration, no thought to anyone but yourself and your selfish needs. I am a woman, Harry, and I still have dreams. My future won’t include you. Go away now, and don’t come back.”
Before the tears fell, she stormed into the powder room and slammed the door.
*
When Matilda returned from her long visit to the powder room, which included a hearty bout of tears and donning the only gown there, a loose morning sacque she wore when nobody else was around, she expected to be alone. But she wasn’t.
Harry stood in the middle of her bedroom, hands on hips. He was stark naked. His broad chest, the narrow hips, strong thighs and magnificent—everything else—were on proud display.
Matilda tried not to look. She spun around. Before she could leave in search of a room that didn’t contain him, he banded his arms around her and held her tight.
“Let me go.” Her throat was tight, and tears leaked from her eyes. “I thought I made myself clear.”
“You did. Now let me do the same.” A touch on the top of her head told Matilda he had dropped a soft kiss there.
Since he showed no sign of leaving or releasing her, Matilda had no choice. She sighed. “Very well.” But she wouldn’t turn around and let him see how bitterly upset she was.
“Matilda, I never meant what you thought I said. I want to take you to Rome as mistress—and wife. I thought you understood.”
“Haven’t you offered for Delphi?”
“No and I don’t intend to.”
“Then what…?”
“Matilda, my love, turn around. Let me say what I need to your face.”
She swallowed back her tears, but a few remained, wetting her cheeks. When she was as ready as she’d ever be, she did as he asked.
Harry kept his arms around her. He gazed down into her face, his expression completely open, and, dare she think it, loving.
“Dear heart, I’ve never been in love before. I love my daughters, that is true, but this is different.”
“What about your first wife?”
He shook his head. “She and I had a perfectly amicable relationship, and I mourned her when she died. But no, we were not in love.” He touched her chin. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. If you really don’t want me, I won’t force you to do it. But I love you. My life will be complete with you in my life every day. I desperately want you for my wife, mine to care for and cherish for the rest of my days.”
Matilda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But you talked to Delphi about taking her to Rome.”
“So I did. With you as my wife, her brother might agree to her going with us. My daughters are going, too.” He grinned wryly. “I promised them, so there’s no getting out of it.”
Her brain seemed to be working particularly slowly today. “You want to marry me? What about making an heir?”
“I have a perfectly good heir in my cousin. He is in the army, but he will have to learn to cope with both positions. There have been soldier dukes before and I daresay there will be again.”
She wanted to scream yes before he changed his mind, but there was one more thing. “And what about dowries and portions?”
He rolled his eyes. “I can settle enough on you to make it look respectable.” He concentrated on her. “Matilda, I have plenty of material things, but I’ll be forever impoverished if I don’t have you. Name your price. I demand nothing but love from you. Am I wrong? Can you at least try to love me?”
Only then did she break into a broad smile. “Of course, I love you, you foolish man! Haven’t I been breaking my heart over you?”
He wouldn’t let her talk then, claiming a deep, passionate kiss, then another. Five minutes passed before either of them spoke again.
“Marry me, Matilda, my only love.”
What else could she say? “Yes.” Then she told him how much she was worth.
Harry’s eyes opened wide. “Ten thousand pounds? Good Lord, Matilda!”
She could smile now. “Did you think only dukes have fortunes? I inherited an estate from my great-aunt, who was married to a rich Guild master. I don’t think society will care how much I bring you.”
“Oh, yes, it will, and I can’t wait to see their faces! But not for a while, my darling. Would you have any objection if we secured the doors and went back to bed?”
“Oh, absolutely none in the least.”
And so, before they rose and faced their astonished but delighted families at breakfast, Matilda and Harry celebrated their love in the best way possible.
THE END
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Lynne Connolly
The Daring Dersinghams Series
A Touch of Silver
A Hint of Starlight
About the Author
I write stories, and I always have. And I love a happy ending, especially a well-deserved one.
I’m an award-winning, best-selling author of historical romance. I fell in love with the eighteenth century when I was nine years old, and it’s my dream job to write about the people who lived and loved back then.
I used to work in marketing, and I have more letters after my name than in it, but I don’t use them much anymore.
I live in the UK with my family, including my muse, Frankie the Nonsense, a ragdoll with no decorum. I love traveling, and I get over to the States at least once a year.
My website is at lynneconnolly.com. Twitter @lynneconnolly and my Facebook page is here: facebook.com/lynneconnollyuk. My blog is at lynneconnolly.blogspot.com.
I also have a newsletter. If you’d like to join it, email me on [email protected] or fill in the form on my website.
Lynne Connolly on Amazon
A Solitary Candle
Avril Borthiry
~ o ~
~ Let light shine out of darkness. ~
2 Corinthians 4:6
Prologue
Allied Field Hospital, Ferme de Mont-St-Jean,
Waterloo, Belgium
Monday, 19 June, 1815 AD
“While my prognosis might be somewhat troubling, Captain Northcott, you may consider yourself otherwise fortunate.” The doctor gave Aldous a sober smile. “Two inches lower or a fraction deeper and the outcome would have been far worse.”
Aldous remained silent as he mulled over the doctor’s prognosis. His heart drummed in his ears. Fortunate?
In truth, he couldn’t disagree. When weighed against the price so many others had paid, he had to admit that he’d been extremely fortunate.
Wellington’s victory at Waterloo had come at an incalculable cost. The loss of life on both sides had been appalling, many of the survivors sustaining catastrophic injuries that would yet finish them off. Aldous didn’t need to be told that the field hospital was completely overwhelmed. Sounds of human suffering had become a permanent background noise, and the nauseating stench of battle hung in the air like a rancid fog, so thick, he could almost taste it.
Aldous’s personal battle souvenir was a small shell fragment that had bitten into his lower abdomen. He’d clamped his jaws onto a thick leather strip as his wound had been stitched and taped, his head resonating with a silent scream. But not a sound had escaped his lips.
The doctor placed a small cup to Aldous’s mouth. “This will help with the pain.”
He winced as the bitter-tasting laudanum assaulted his tongue. “Thank you,” Aldous murmured, trying to recall the doctor’s name. Had he even supplied one?
Exhaustion shadowed the physician’s unshaven face and sweat glistened on his brow, adding a sheen to the grime that filled the furrows between his eyes. Yet, despite the carnage he’d undoubtedly witnessed, the man wore a reserved, almost passive expression—a direct contrast to the violent blood spatter t
hat covered his once-white apron. He looked as if he’d just butchered a herd of cattle, though the stains, of course, were entirely human. Aldous wondered, vaguely, when the man had last slept.
“I should also warn you, Captain, that things might yet deteriorate.” The doctor tucked the bottle of laudanum into his battered leather bag. “Gut wounds are notoriously unpredictable, so you’re not in the clear yet.” The bag snapped shut as if in affirmation.
Aldous drew a soft breath. “I understand.”
The man grunted. “No sudden movements,” he said, lifting the tent flap to leave. “Myself or someone else will check on you later. In the meantime, try to get some sleep.”
The flap fell shut and Aldous closed his eyes. His pain, while harsh, he could handle. It was the doctor’s prognosis—the ‘somewhat troubling’ part—that chilled his blood.
For it had raised a childhood ghost from its grave.
Could it be that a vow made seventeen years earlier had returned to haunt him? He hadn’t even spoken the damn words out loud—although other things had been said at the time, things he’d regretted ever since. As for the rest, he’d merely thought them in a moment of childish peevishness. But what if simply thinking the words all those years ago had cursed him somehow? Creating a promissory note, with payment due at a predetermined time in the future. If the doctor’s suspicions had merit, perhaps that time had come and the debt had been exacted.
“The hell it has, Aldous,” he muttered, the sound of his voice startling him. The remark had spilled out unbidden, as if spoken by a separate entity.
Opening his eyes, he smiled at his foolishness and allowed his dark thoughts to sink beneath a burgeoning sense of euphoria. He acknowledged the cause and welcomed it. The bitter taste of laudanum belied the pleasantness of its subsequent effects.
No, he told himself, a moment of childhood thoughtlessness had nothing to do with this injury or the potential consequences of it. It was ridiculous to suggest a connection between one and the other.
Simply put, he was a casualty of a bloody struggle between nations that had been going on for years, culminating in a final, hellish battle. He’d fought and survived, limbs intact, and still able to see and hear. Not a curse, by God, but a blessing.
Fortunate, indeed.
He heaved a sigh and slid deeper into a pleasant stream of tranquility that allowed his thoughts to wander without fear into the past. His brain conjured up a window in the tent wall, and he gazed out in wonder across the moor, a view he’d last witnessed almost seventeen years earlier. It appeared unchanged. Sunlight spilled across a purple carpet of heather that stretched to the far horizon, and a delicate scent of flowers carried on a fresh breeze, erasing the stench of death. Aldous filled his lungs with the illusion and looked about.
Off in the distance, the solitary oak stood beside the stone tower as it had for centuries, two ancient signposts pointing the way to Highfield. A heartbeat later, he found himself standing beneath the great tree and gazed up into the foliage.
‘Julian? Where are you?’
But Julian didn’t answer.
From somewhere nearby, a man screamed—an agonizing cry that caused Aldous’s vision to ripple and fade. The scent of flowers changed to the stench of war and threatened to haul him back to the hospital. “No,” he said, not yet willing to return to that place. “Stop it. Now.”
The screaming stopped, the ripples ceased, and Aldous peered up into the mighty tree once more.
“Julian?”
Still no answer. Instead, another sound drifted across the land, a feeble mewling cry. That of a newborn child. Aldous winced and pressed his hands over his ears, but the sound persisted. It came from a distant stand of trees. It came from Highfield.
Remorse pushed tears to Aldous’ eyes. A familiar sense of shame threatened, and he glanced about wildly, seeking escape. “I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know. Please forgive me.”
A door appeared before him and swung open, offering sanctuary in the darkness that lay beyond. He heaved a sigh of relief and, without looking back, stepped over the threshold and into blessed silence.
Chapter One
Seventeen Years Earlier
Northcott Manor, Yorkshire
Wednesday, 12 September, 1798 AD
“Have a care, young master.” Mr. Hattersley glanced skyward and then squinted at Aldous from beneath a peaked cap. “We might have had a few fine days, but there are parts of yon moor that never dry out, so be sure to keep to the paths.” He patted the pony’s neck. “You wouldn’t want this little chap getting stuck in a bog. And be sure to be back well before dark.”
Aldous gathered up Comet’s reins and nodded at the stablemaster. “I will, Mr. Hattersley.”
He nudged Comet’s belly with his heels, and trotted out of the cobbled yard onto a rutted laneway hemmed in by tall hedgerows. Excitement fluttered in his stomach, countered by a milder sense of regret. His three-week stay in these wild, northern lands had almost come to an end. Two days hence, on Friday morning, he’d be heading back to his father’s house in London, and from there to a boarding school in Essex.
“Two more days,” he grumbled as Comet trotted along the grass verge that ran down the center of the lane. He gazed up at the sky. “Please don’t rain till after I’ve gone.”
A short while later, he came to the familiar opening in the hedge and steered Comet onto the narrow dirt path beyond. As the land rose up from the valley floor, Aldous leaned forward and kept the pony at a steady pace. At the top of the rise, he reined in and surveyed his surroundings, his young heart racing like a captive creature turned loose.
The windswept moor lay before him in waves of purple heather and wiry grass, undulating and rolling like a vast stationary ocean. The desolation exhilarated him. There were no crowds, no conveyances, no muddied cobbles or stinking gutters. And none of his father’s country properties had ever stirred his spirit in quite the same way.
According to his mother, Aldous had actually visited Uncle Percival’s Yorkshire estate once before. Being not quite a year old at the time, however, he had no memory of it. But he swore he’d not forget this visit. Not ever. Given a choice, he’d stay here forever and had announced as much the previous evening in the blue parlor.
“Assuming I’m still on God’s earth, you can come back next year.” Uncle Percival had winked and ruffled Aldous’s hair. “If your father will allow it, of course.”
Aldous had looked to his father, whose nose had been buried in a book of some sort. “Father?”
“I’ll consider it,” came the non-committal reply, accompanied by a slight frown. Aldous had bitten back a sigh and said nothing. He knew better than to pester his sire.
For now, he resolved to enjoy what little time he had left. He already knew which way he’d be going that day. He’d decided the day before, having spotted an intriguing landmark on the distant horizon. It looked to be a little further than he’d usually go, but as long as the weather remained clear, he had no fear of getting lost. He glanced back at Northcott Manor, its two rows of windows sparkling like diamonds in the morning light. The house sat amid well-kept gardens at the foot of Monk’s Tor, a prominent hill that could be seen for miles around. As long as Aldous could see the tor, he’d knew he’d be able to find his way home.
Reassured, he turned and fixed his gaze on his target. He couldn’t quite make it out. A tree, for sure, but there was something else besides. A tower of some sort, and what looked like a wall that snaked over the land and then disappeared. Who would build something like that out in the middle of nowhere, and for what reason? He meant to find out.
“Let’s go, Comet,” he said and urged his pony onwards.
Heeding the stablemaster’s warning, he kept to the visible paths that cut through the swathes of heather like a maze without walls. Few of the paths traveled in a straight line. Most of them twisted and turned, often doubling back to cross other paths that led off elsewhere.
No wonder people got lost, Aldous thought, steering the pony onto a path wider than any he’d seen. His hopes lifted. This path did run straight and looked like a main thoroughfare. Wide enough to take carriages, certainly. Indeed, wheel ruts could be seen in the soft earth. Better yet, it appeared to lead directly to his destination.
Closer now, he could see the mysterious objects were a single, large tree and a stone tower—or the remains of one. Something to explore! Aldous cast a swift, self-assuring glance back at the now distant Monk’s Tor, and then pushed Comet into a canter.
Grinning with a sense of achievement, he at last tugged the pony to a halt beneath the spread of the tree and dismounted, his attention drawn to the stone tower that stood several feet away. It was obviously a ruin, missing a roof, but capped with a thick tangle of dark ivy that tumbled over the top edges. Lichen and moss caked one side of the tower, which appeared to have two upper floors, each punctuated with a narrow, glassless window. The small, square doorway had been bricked up, a sight that stoked the darker side of his imagination and sent a prickle across his scalp.
The tree and the tower, he realized, served as gateposts, marking the beginning of another cart path—it was too rugged to call it a driveway—that sloped away in an arrow-straight line before disappearing into a distant patch of woodland. Bordered on both sides by weathered, stone walls, the cart path, unlike the tower, showed signs of recent use. Aldous wondered what lay at the end of it.
The answer seemed to come a moment later when he noticed a wooden signpost pointing toward the mystery destination. He wandered over and peered up at the faded name that had been painted onto the weather-worn wood.