by Louise Clark
She sighed and said, “I guess we should head back.” But she didn’t make any move to leave his embrace.
“In a minute.” He dropped a light kiss on her chin, then he eased her out of his embrace so he could reach into his pocket. “Liz, this morning, when I asked you to marry me, I had no token, no ring to give you.” He pulled out a velvet covered jeweler’s box and flipped open the lid. Inside was a stunning square cut diamond ring. Liz gasped, her gaze riveted to the box and the ring inside.
He slipped it from the holder and held it between his thumb and finger. “Liz, will you wear my ring, today and for the rest of our lives together?”
“Oh, Mike! Yes, and yes, and yes again!”
Feeling giddy at the step they were both taking, and perhaps a little shaky, he slipped the ring on her third finger. He noticed, with some relief, that her hand trembled as well.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, touching the diamond gingerly with a finger.
Relief washed over him. He’d spent an hour choosing the ring. Fretting over cuts and styles, worried that she wouldn’t like what he’d chosen. He’d even extracted a promise from the jeweler that he could bring it back and let Liz choose the ring she actually wanted if she wasn’t happy with it. Still, her reaction added to his confidence, making him feel that he understood her.
He brushed his fingers along her cheek, then down to her chin in a tender caress. “I think the trackway is the key to our future, but why don’t we go back to your Beacon and find out?”
She turned her face into his hand and kissed his palm, before she said, “Mark will never tell us. He’s not allowed.”
Mike’s mouth twitched up into an amused smile. “He’s not supposed to, but I bet there’s things we can coax out of him if we try.”
Liz laughed. “Today proved something to me.”
“What?”
She looked at her ring, then at Mike. “Let’s live our lives and let the future take care of itself.” She held out her hand.
He took it and they started walking. “No counting babies, then?”
“No more than three,” she said casually, letting go of his hand as she scrambled up the side of the gully.
Flummoxed, he stood frozen, then he shook himself back to life and followed her up. “Three?” he said, as he reached her.
She grinned at him. “I don’t think I could handle more than that.”
“Three kids,” he said, as they walked back the way they’d come. He was still shocked, though he knew he shouldn’t be. After all, he’d met his grandson this morning. To have a grandson you had to have a son or daughter to start with. Still… “When do you want to start?”
She shot him a look, then laughed. “Not right away. I want lots of practice, first.”
“I have to admit, that’s a relief,” he said. They were nearing the area where Liz’s beacon had been before. “Is it there, your light?”
She nodded. Stopping, she turned to face him. She caught hold of his hands and looked up into his eyes. “I believe in you, Mike. I believe in us. Whatever the future brings.”
He squeezed her fingers. “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, Liz. I love you.”
She glowed with emotion. “I love you, Mike.” Then she laughed. “Shall we go into our future and show our grandson my ring?”
“He’s probably seen it,” Mike said, dryly.
She laughed again. “So what? I want to show it off. Besides, his grandfather, who is way more romantic than I ever expected, probably told him to be waiting with a bottle of champagne to celebrate.”
“And maybe all the rest of the family too,” Mike murmured. He watched Liz’s eyes widen. “After all, now that we’ve decided how many kids we’re going to have there’s no need to keep them all a secret.”
“Oh!” She was positively bouncing with excitement. “Come on, let’s go!”
“In a minute,” he said, drawing her into the circle of his arms. “I think I need to calm you down, first.”
And he did, with a kiss that pledged his love now and into the future before them.
Claim Time for Love
The Forward in Time Series
Chapter 1
“This will end, Mary Elizabeth.” Though George Strand’s features showed no emotion, his tone was full of arrogant demand and he skewered her with eyes that were a pale, icy gray.
She stood before him fighting the panic clawing through her, trying not to show this man how anxious he was making her. This was her father. Why was he so cold toward her? Why did he not care about her desires? She was his daughter. His only child.
She stared back at him, defiant, even though her heart was pounding and she had to fight to keep the hands she clasped in front of her from trembling. He sat stiffly; ramrod straight on a ladder-backed chair behind a walnut desk, the glossy sheen of the wood the only ornament to the solid construction. The desk was designed to intimidate—and it was working. He watched her silently, his thin, carved features expressing nothing but disdain mixed with a little boredom. She squared her shoulders, struggling to keep that defiant expression, and not let him see how dismayed she really was. If he knew, he’d push her harder, tell her how selfish her behavior was, how it was upsetting her mother, make her feel guilt when she had every right to be angry. It was always this way when her father took her to task.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again when he slowly raised his eyebrows. She remembered a time when he was willing to listen to her defense of whatever scrape she’d gotten herself into, but not recently. Not since he’d been elevated to the Governor’s Council in Boston and his position in the government had added more responsibility, as well as power.
“You are a granddaughter of an earl,” he said, his tone critical. Although it was his wife, the Lady Elizabeth, Mary Elizabeth’s mother, whose father was an earl, George Strand certainly liked to act the part of a wealthy, titled gentleman. Though only a member of the landed gentry, he dressed like a aristocrat. Mary Elizabeth had never known any man as fastidious as her father when it came to attire. His coat was a dark, forest-green silk, braided with gold thread. His embroidered-silk waistcoat was the shade of a leaf in spring. His shirt was of the finest linen, and at his throat and wrists lace frothed. His wig was curled over his ears and tied with a black bow at his nape. It was perfectly powdered and gleamed white in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows.
He would not have looked out of place in the most fashionable salon in London. But he wasn’t in London. He was in America, in the small town of Lexington, to be precise, in a country home he had purchased to provide his wife a pleasant escape from the sweltering summer heat of Boston.
“You have a responsibility to your name. To your mother’s name. You are not some hoyden who can misbehave with impunity.”
His sharp, critical, tone rubbed Mary Elizabeth’s nerves raw and made her want to cry out in denial. What did she care about a grandfather she could barely remember? Or a society that had nothing to do with the world she now lived in? This was her life. Didn’t she have a say in it?
“How did I misbehave?” she challenged, desperate now to stop this conversation before the weight of his disapproval overwhelmed her into agreeing to something she did not want, just so she could escape him.
He shifted in his chair and studied her critically. Though he appeared unemotional, when he spoke she could hear anger underlying his cool words. “You wish me to itemize each of your indiscretions? Or simply start with the most heinous one?”
Heat rushed into her face, burning under her skin. He had a way of making her feel worthless and of no account. “N-no, Papa, you don’t have to list the details.” She knew them as well as he. Refusing to snub local colonists whose political views were considered radical. Consorting with one particular colonist in a way that could certainly be called flirtatious. Speaking privately to said colonist at parties, dancing with him more often than was proper. Best not to let her fat
her become even angrier than he already was by reciting the many ways she had failed him. “But I don’t understand why you are so set against Andrew.”
He sat forward with the speed of a pouncing wolf, making her gasp and stumble back. Her hand fluttered upward, then fell, heralding her dismay. She drew a deep breath to compose herself, then deliberately smoothed the figured peach silk of the wide overskirt of her gown. Peach was not the best color on her, but her mother insisted she wear soothing pastels, for darker, brighter colors were, she said, only for married ladies. Mary Elizabeth knew many young American women who chose darker shades for their gowns, and she resented their freedom, especially when her mother was adamant, and the colors she was forced to wear were not flattering to her dark hair and warm-toned skin.
She folded her hands in front of her again. His quick movement had been done to discompose her, she knew, but she suspected he also required a way to spend some of the anger that he kept so carefully leashed. She needed to be careful, or she would push him too far.
“Andrew, is it? A man who gives a woman leave to use his Christian name is expecting certain familiarities. And the woman who uses it, welcomes them. Tell me daughter, just how intimate have you been with this jumped up colonial popinjay?”
Heat rushed up into Mary Elizabeth’s face, making her cheeks burn. She swallowed guilt that shouldn’t have existed. “N-none, Papa. I am chaste and Andrew…I mean…Mr. Byrne has made no attempt to taint my virtue.”
Her father sat back. She was relieved to see some of the tension easing out of him. “See that it remains that way. And I will not hear you referring to the fellow in that common manner again.”
“No, Papa.” She lowered her gaze, relieved.
He nodded briskly, then proceeded with his lecture as if she had never spoken. “You are a lady and will behave as one. That means you will no longer consort with the colonial underclass who persist in thinking themselves the equals to gentlemen such as myself. You will be modest, polite, and you will speak when spoken to—and not before.”
She’d heard this lecture before. Children have their place, girls have their place, women have their place. Learn it. Accept it. Do not stray from it. She waited a heartbeat and then another to be sure her father had finished speaking, then she curtseyed and, still keeping her eyes lowered, said in a subdued voice, “Yes, Papa.”
“Look at me, Mary Elizabeth.”
She did as he demanded, raising her eyes once more. Usually at this stage in his reprimand, he would point to the door and she would make her escape. This time he studied her. “I wonder…” he said, after a few moments of silent reflection.
She watched him with a frown, waiting to hear what he would say next. This was a new twist and she wasn’t sure what was running through his mind.
He smiled faintly. It wasn’t a nice smile. “You promise so easily, daughter. As you have all of your life. I do not for one moment believe that you are truly sorry for your behavior. Or that you will obey me.”
“Papa! That is not so—”
He held up his hand. “Please do not insult my intelligence with false protests.” He considered her as if she was an insect impaled with a pin, viewed with the unrelenting clarity of a magnifying glass. “You are a handful, Mary Elizabeth. Beautiful, charming, and far more intelligent than a woman should be. Much like your mother, in fact.”
She watched him, her gaze riveted to his, her breath coming faster. Her father never complimented her—or her mother, for that matter. Beautiful and charming were positive adjectives, the kind of words a woman wanted to hear. But there was nothing complimentary about her father’s expression, or the contemptuous edge beneath the even tone.
“Your mother has a redeeming feature that you lack, however.”
He paused, waiting. She knew her cues. She was expected to respond. Her voice was thick with rising emotion when she spoke, knowing where this was heading. “What is that, Papa?”
“She knows her place.”
The words were a whiplash of disdain. Mary Elizabeth colored. “Papa, I—”
He didn’t let her finish. “As your father, the law gives me complete control over your person. I choose your friends. I choose where you will reside. If I wish, I can choose what gown you will wear today. Your future belongs to me. Remember that, Mary Elizabeth, and your life will be a comfortable one. Resist me and you will regret it.”
She did not doubt a word of what he had said. There was no paternal love in his gaze. He wasn’t just a father frustrated with a child who was willful and disobedient. He was a man for whom everyone served a purpose, a man determined to be obeyed, no matter the cost. “Yes, Papa,” she whispered. She stood, motionless, even though instinct told her to flee.
“This Byrne fellow is a hothead. He consorts with ruffians who think the law does not apply to them. They demand representation in His Majesty’s Parliament. What nonsense! They are colonists, pure and simple. They are governed, they do not govern. I will not have my daughter associated with such riffraff.”
It was an explanation and a command.
“Yes, Papa,” she said again, trying without success to keep the despair from her voice. Andrew Byrne was the best person who had ever come into her life. Oh, he was definitely a pleasure to look at, with his wicked, laughing blue eyes, deep set above high cheekbones and framed by thick black lashes, a firm masculine mouth with lips that were neither too thick nor too thin, and a chin that jutted just enough to express strength of character. But more importantly to Mary Elizabeth, he was a delight to be with. He made her laugh. He made her feel cherished. He made her feel wanted. He made her feel desired.
Her father’s lip curled and her heart sank. He’d heard the false meekness beneath the pliant agreement and she knew he would never allow Andrew to court her.
The door opened and her mother poked her head. She was wearing a gown of figured silk, a lovely green that brought out red highlights in her dark hair. Her eyes were dark too, usually warm and caring, but right now shadowed with worry. Still she smiled as she said in an overly cheery voice, “Darlings, have you finished your private conference?” Her gaze moved from her husband’s hard features to Mary Elizabeth’s face and she faltered. “Am I too early? You did say, Mr. Strand, that you thought your conversation should only take a quarter of the hour.”
For an instant the unrelenting expression remained in his eyes and the sneer on his lips, then he assumed the pleasant mask he used to cover the authority he wielded with such cold brutality. He nodded to his wife. “Do come in, my dear. I believe our daughter understands her position now.” He returned his gaze to Mary Elizabeth, his brows arched.
Mary Elizabeth was under no illusion that his anger and contempt had taken flight. She turned to her mother with considerable relief. “Hello, Mama. Have you come to collect me for our walk this afternoon?”
Lady Elizabeth Strand’s smile faltered as she shook her head. A fresh wave of anxiety washed over Mary Elizabeth as she braced herself for what was to come.
“No, child. No walk today,” she said softly. “Your papa and I are agreed that when we finish here you are to retire to your room.”
“But—”
Her father held up his hand. “As I told you when we began this conversation, this Byrne fellow had the effrontery to ask for your hand in marriage and he claimed that he had already spoken to you. You admitted that was true, did you not?”
“Yes,” Mary Elizabeth whispered. She glanced at her mother and the sadness she saw in her eyes was more painful to her than the anger in her father’s.
“I have told him that it is, of course, quite impossible for such a union to occur. I am sure he understands his place now.”
“What did Andr—Mr. Byrne say, Papa?”
She should not have spoken Andrew’s name. Fury blazed in her father’s eyes. “You require time to reflect, girl. To remember who and what you are. Be thankful we believe that your contemplation can be conducted in the comfort of your own c
hamber.”
Panic shot through her. Normally after a lecture on misbehavior she was assigned some form of penance, usually something that would remind her of what she should be doing, like sending her to the school room to write I will not misbehave a hundred times in perfect copperplate handwriting. Or more lately, sewing a similar phrase into a sampler that could be framed and hung in her room as a daily reminder. Once the task was done she was free to go about her regular routine.
This time there was no task to perform, no moral to learn. There was just time and reflection and one room to do it in. As if he was sending her to prison. “How…How long?”
Her father didn’t pretend to misunderstand. His voice cold, he said, “Until you understand your responsibilities and where your loyalties lie.”
Until you obey. That’s what he truly meant. Obey. Learn your place. She swallowed hard.
Her mother said gently, “You will, of course, attend church tomorrow.”
So there was a time limit on her banishment. Relief made her knees weak.
“Your behavior will be impeccable and you will be everything a properly brought up young lady should be,” Lady Elizabeth added in that same quiet voice.
Mary Elizabeth nodded, careful to keep her expression contrite, but her mind was already skipping ahead to tomorrow. Church offered many opportunities for communication. Somehow, she would have to find a way to meet privately with Andrew.
“You will stay by my side and you will not sneak away to be with Mr. Byrne,” her mother said as though reading her mind. “I know he is a handsome young man, Mary Elizabeth, and that you are much taken with him…but he is not for you.” She glanced at her husband. “Your father has generously agreed to allow you to speak to him in order to break off whatever connection you have made with him.”
“You are telling me I must say good-bye,” Mary Elizabeth said around the lump that had lodged in her throat.