by Lynn Kerstan
“Nope. We—”
“Dammit, shut up.” He ordered a dish of rabbit stew and ate it quickly. “You stay here,” he said between bites, “until I come back, however long it takes. Or I may send for you.” He spread his map, damp from rain, on the table. “Where are we?”
Davy, looking at it upside down, eventually pointed to a spot. “About here. We—”
“Fine.” John calculated elapsed time and distances. There, wherever there was, could be no more than one day’s journey in this weather. That left a thousand places Pen could be, but he could deal with a thousand. He ran his finger around the stew bowl and drew a circle on the map with gravy dippings. “Thank you, God.”
The two men stared at him.
“I’m on a quest,” he explained, folding the map. “Surely your Welsh soul can appreciate that, Davy.”
The coachman took a long swig of ale. “Not much of a quest,” he muttered. “’Ceptin’ all these towns got names sound pretty much alike. Easy to get ‘em mixed up.”
John suspected, as he left the taproom, that he’d just been given a clue, but a careful examination of the map showed that it wouldn’t be much help. Most towns and village were marked with dots instead of names. He decided to ride full speed to Cirencester and choose a route from there.
***
Knighthood had turned into a royal pain in the arse.
Well into his second week of questing, disoriented in a blinding rainstorm, John redubbed himself Sir Duncelot. It was a wonder he’d survived the Peninsular War, considering his inability to navigate the Cotswolds without losing his way. King Arthur would have drummed him out of the ranks long ago.
The Dunisbourne Valley had seemed a likely spot to investigate, boasting several hamlets with nearly identical names, but every muddy track he followed dead-ended at a sheep pasture. Then he headed northeast and spent a long time wandering in the dense woodlands surrounding Chedworth. He got to know Chedworth rather well. No matter where he came out of the woods or which way he turned, all roads led to the small, isolated town. He’d become a prime source of entertainment for the citizens, who emerged from their cottages and shops to gape each time he rode through.
Probably they thought him deranged, and not without cause. Bu now he was practically a legend in several counties he hoped never to see again. But for all his efforts, and he asked everyone her met, no young woman remotely resembling Pen had been observed.
For the sake of her reputation, he was careful not to describe her, and his story changed each time he told it. If anyone knew of a small, light-haired girl new to the neighborhood, he assured them his “cousin” was tall and sallow. Whatever they might have seen, he was looking for something else. The one thing he feared was missing her, so he made sure to stop at every dot on his sketchy map and inquire at every farm he passed. Should the villagers ever compare notes, they’d realize he was pursuing a short, statuesque, pudgy, svelte blond with dark hair.
Decent inns were few and far between. He spent two uncomfortable nights under hedgerows and three sheltered in barns, but he was accustomed to hard living and his spirits remained high. The memory of his Sunflower, tall and splendid in her white lawn gown as she invited him to her bed, drove him past exhaustion. At night he reviewed the day’s events in detail, wanting to remember odd characters and amusing encounters so he could tell her about them.
On his fourth or fifth pass through Chedworth, a gnomelike man bounced into the road, wagging his finger. “Come,” he said.
With no reason to do otherwise, John trailed him for several miles, along a track so narrow Ricco could scarcely maneuver. When they came to a thick line of trees, the gnome stopped abruptly and pointed to an even narrower path. “Coln.” Without another word, he turned back.
Chedworth’s way, John realized with amusement, of ridding itself of a bloody nuisance. He threaded his way to the river, got out his map, and tossed a mental coin. Bilbury.
The rain let up as he followed to Coln south, anticipating the pleasures of a hot bath and a good meal. Both were to be found at the Swan, and he was well into his third fresh trout before it occurred to him that tomorrow would have been his wedding day. His mood soured.
He made his way to the taproom, strangely reluctant to begin interrogating the locals. They eyed him with the aloof curiosity reserved for outsiders while he stood in the middle of the smoky room giving serious thought to drinking himself under a table. Just his luck that all the tables were occupied.
To hell with it, he decided. None of these hostile rustics had seen Pen. Nobody in the world had seen Pen. He’d get a good night’s sleep and start fresh in the morning. Except . . . this should have been his last night as a bachelor. His last night sleeping alone.
A lonely bed was suddenly the last place he wanted to be. Spotting a small round table in the corner, he made up his mind to join the sole occupant, a hearty-looking individual with bushy sideburns and a head balder than an eggplant.
To John’s surprise, the man welcomed him cordially. “Harry Harrison, at yer service. Late of the eighty-second.” He signaled to the tapman. “Knew you fer a soldier the minute you walked in.”
John introduced himself, omitting former rank and current title, and they swapped stories over mugs of dark ale for several hours. Harry, invalided home after the Battle of Alexandria, owned half-interest in the Swan. He spent his day tending the bar and his nights drinking up the profits, or so he declared. Considering the amount he put away, John believed him.
“I expect,” he said in a voice thick with ale and weariness, “you know everything that goes on around here.”
Harry nodded. “I hear the news before it happens. You after somethin’ in particular?”
“My ward. She’s run away and gone to ground somewhere in this area.” He described the coach and driver, but Harry shook his head.
“No gentrymort come through the last couple of weeks,” he said, “and most every wagon stops here to change cattle. I seen nothin’ like the one you’re after, or anyone wearin’ leeks. I’d recollect that.”
“She might have disguised herself,” John said. “Maybe as a servant. My cousin is damnably inventive.”
“Females!” With accuracy, Harry spat into a battered metal pot near his chair. “Only one gel come new to these parts, but she ain’t Quality. Vicar down at Ampney St. Peter’s brought her in from Lunnon to take care of his kids. Got eight, with ‘nother in the oven. I ain’t seen her m’self, but heard tell of her. Big woman, with red-yeller hair and freckles.”
John choked on a swallow of ale. With care, he set down the mug and tried to look bland. “Can’t be my sister, then,” he managed to say. “Delilah’s short. Straight black hair. But maybe I’ll ride by the vicar’s house tomorrow. He might have heard something.”
***
John set out at dawn, annoying Ricco with his off-key rendition of Greensleeves. “Penelope was all my joy,” he bellowed. “Penelope was my delight, and who but my lady Penelope?” Passers-by began to look at him strangely.
Everyone and his brother appeared to be on the road this fine Saturday morning. John waved to them, and most waved back. Humoring the madman, he thought genially, but what the hell? After today, he’d never set foot in the Cotswolds again.
When the tower of St. Peter’s came into view, he felt blood pound in his ears. Less than half a mile away, his Fair Lady tended another man’s children with no idea she was about to be rescued from her drudgery. Hauled away under protest, if need be.
He swore aloud. Not hauled. Coaxed. Wooed. Devil take a bit, he’d learned his lesson. He tugged Ricco to a halt, scaled a high stone fence and collected a fistful of wildflowers.
Ampney St. Peter’s was a small town, and he easily found a house adjacent to the church that fitted Harry’s description. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he walked up the gravel path lined with geraniums. Two little girls playing with hoops scampered away, eyeing him cautiously from behind a tree.
He
paused at the threshold to savor the end of his quest and the prize waiting for him on the other side of the door. A child wailed, and it occurred to him that a year from today Pen might well be cradling a babe of her own. The first of many, if Dame Fortune continued to smile as she smiled upon him now. He lifted the iron knocker and beat out the signal to charge.
Seconds later, the door swung open and a tall, freckle-faced girl with an infant on her hip bobbed an awkward curtsey.
He dropped the flowers.
“The vicar’s not to home,” said the girl in a high, nasal voice. “C’n I help ye?”
John stared at her, unable to speak.
She smiled, revealing two prominent buck teeth. “ ‘E’s doin’ a wedding, but ye c’n come in and wait. ‘Spect ‘e’ll be awhile, though. Likes ‘is sermons, ‘e does.”
John glanced over at the church. It looked deserted.
The girl followed his gaze and laughed. “Not ‘ere,” she said. “The weddin’s at Ampney St. Mary’s, down that road about a mile and off to the right. Middle o’ nowhere, it is, but ye can follow the tracks. All the townsfolk goin’ there but me and the littlest babes.”
John gathered up the flowers and handed them to her. “You are very kind,” he croaked. “Pleasure to meet you.” He felt her watch him as he stumbled back to Ricco and mounted clumsily.
Dear God, he’d been so sure.
It had seemed so right, almost heaven-sent, to find Pen on their wedding day. Now all he had was the memory of a girl’s bright smile—so like Pen’s it hurt to dwell on it—and directions to someone else’s wedding. What better place to wallow in his misery, he thought as a heavy lethargy settled over him.
For a time he followed the parade of gaily-clad celebrants, mocked by their laughter and high spirits. When they turned off the main road, he cut away and guided Ricco in a wide arc through pastures and copses until he saw a tiny ivy-covered church standing in an open field. On either side, weeds and flowers grew among scores of grave markers and statues and tombs, as if a village had died and been interred around the honey-gold chapel.
Men, women, and children thronged outside the massive elm door, chattering excitedly. Small boys squabbled for the privilege of minding the animals. John left Ricco to graze and looked around for a viewing spot. The area was flat, so he scaled an enormous oak and settled on a branch with his feet dangling. Concealed by the leaves, he commanded an excellent view and scanned the crowd for Pen without hope. Sure enough, he saw no one who resembled her and his heart sank impossibly lower.
The groom he spied immediately, a tall lanky boy with a red face and prominent Adam’s apple, being baited unmercifully by his friends. After a while everyone drifted into the church except the boys chosen to mind the animals. Then a gaily bedecked cart drew up and a short, portly man assisted his chubby wife and equally plump daughter to the ground. The bride, John surmised. She wore a wreath of yellow and purple blossoms in her colorless hair and giggled loudly.
John became aware his hands were bloody from clutching the scratchy bark. He leaned his shoulder against the tree trunk, sighing as the bride and her family disappeared into the church. Everything was suddenly still, except for the warbling stonechats. He closed his burning eyes.
When he looked up again, the cemetery wavered as if underwater. Grave markers tilted and angled in the high grass, and near the church, almost hidden by a rough-stone crypt, an angel stretched its arms.
He blinked. The angel moved, reaching skyward, throwing back its head. Thick auburn hair lifted in the breeze. He wiped his eyes. For a moment he imagined it was Pen, but when he looked again, the angel had vanished.
In his mind’s eye, he saw her everywhere, had done so since the day they met. But until now she’d never disappeared. Nor did he expect she’d grown wings. He swung to the ground and circled to the rear of the cemetery, moving stealthily past a choir of marble angels to the place where she’d been.
And there she was, seated on the ground, arms wrapped about bent knees, thick hair shadowing her face. He heard a tiny sob, and then another.
Dear Lord, she was crying. Anything by that. “Pen,” he said softly.
With a shriek, she scrambled on hands and knees behind a lichen-streaked headstone.
Startled, he drew back a few paces and spread his arms. “For God’s sake, Penny, don’t run away. Please.”
Her head lifted, and she peered at him over the tombstone with saucer-wide eyes. To his vast relief, she looked furious.
“Blast it all, John Corbett. I thought you were the devil.”
“And I,” he said with a bow, “mistook you for an angel.”
Frowning, she stood and brushed her hands down her skirts. “Aunt Maritha didn’t know where I was going today. How in blazes did you find me here?”
“You’ve been staying with your aunt? I thought all your relations, except your father and sisters, were . . . that is . . . .” He gestured helplessly at the graveyard.
“You mean dead? I assure you she is not planted at your feet, Colonel. Aunt Maritha lives near Ampney Crucis. She is a recluse, or was until I appeared on her doorstep.”
“Is that the same aunt that raised you?” When she scowled, he held up one hand. “Your father told me. Actually, I quizzed him, figuring you’d go to her, but he is under the impression she . . . .” Again he waved at the tombstones.
“Exactly the impression she meant to give everyone, except me. In fact, Aunt Maritha was my inspiration. She ran away from home too, although she was seventy at the time. When father brought me back from London, she didn’t want to become an unpaid retainer at my grandparents’ house so she purloined some silverware, left a suicide note, and disappeared.”
“Did she? At seventy, by God.” He swiped his fingers through his hair. “I think I’m going to like your Aunt Maritha.”
“Well, she won’t like you,” Pen told him frankly. “She has a low opinion of men in general, and you in particular.”
Heat rose to his ears. “From that, I gather you have catalogued my faults and reviewed each one in detail.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “There hasn’t been time for detail,” she retorted. “Besides, we are only to the I’s—imposing, insensitive, intimidating, into—” She scuffed her toe in the grass.
He cocked his head. “Into—?”
“. . .xicating,” she muttered. “Well, intoxicating is a fault when it goes along with indifferent and imperturbable. Never mind that. You broke your word to me. That’s . . . that’s—”
“Iniquitous? Indefensible?” He smiled. “So it would be, but I assure you no one told me where to look, Pen.”
“You just happened to wander by this cemetery today? Codswallop. The leek man sent you to Ampney Crucis, that much is obvious, and someone must have seen me coming here.” Moving from behind the headstone, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I have certainly been misinformed about men, Colonel. They don’t always want to, and their word means nothing.”
“I kept my word,” he said stonily. “But the next time you take the bit between your teeth, I’ll not be coerced into foolish promises. Let me tell you, it was no picnic following you all the way here.”
“You . . . followed me?” she asked in a squeaky voice. “Truly?”
“All the way from the Notched Arrow,” he declared with some pride.
“Did you indeed?” She considered that for a moment, and then regarded him skeptically. “I left there ten days ago, Colonel. What, pray tell, took you so long?”
He laughed. “Poor tactics, inadequate supplies, impossible transportation. Wellington would be ashamed of me. In my defense, you put me down foot, horse, and cannon, Pen. I’ve been stumbling around trying to regroup ever since.”
“Coming it too brown, sir. When I resigned from your command, you saw me transferred with all due speed. One snap of your fingers and a coach and driver appeared to carry me off. Lord knows how you rid yourself of my father, but I expect he slun
k back to London with his tail between his legs.”
“Did it seem that way?” He grimaced. “I’m accustomed to taking charge and giving orders even when I’m not sure what the hell to do. In this case, I seem to have mishandled the entire campaign.”
“I am not,” she informed him caustically, “a military objective.”
“I never expected you were, although I swept down on you like a cavalry charge. It comes of being a professional soldier. Not much of an excuse, and you will require a good deal of patience, but I am resolved to remake myself into a genteel civilian and model husband.”
She moved a step forward. “Genteel and model sound awfully dull. Please don’t expect those virtues from me, because they are not in my nature.”
“Nor mine,” he confessed. “At the least, I shall from this day cease issuing orders to you as though you were a green recruit.”
She took another step. “I doubt that, but never mind. I am nearly as accustomed to hearing orders as you are to giving them.”
“That,” he said firmly, “will change.”
“It need not. The thing is, I have changed. These last few weeks taught me several lessons about independence. Not all of them good, mind you, but I seem to have rediscovered my backbone. Feel free to order away, Colonel. I shall obey . . . when I choose.”
“Ah.” He put that to the test immediately, in a soft, compelling voice. “Come here, Pen.”
She cocked her head, analyzing his tone and the expression on his face. Ramrod stiff, wholly self-controlled, he personified confidence. And yet, the look in his eyes was almost wistful. He seemed pale under his dark tan, and somehow anxious. His arms were rigid, but open wide.
At that moment, she understood what his very presence signified. Between lovers, victory and surrender were one and the same.
With a cry of joy, she rushed to his embrace.
His arms shook as they enveloped her, but there was nothing tentative about his kiss. She clung to him, reeling with pleasure, needing his strength to hold her up as he tasted her lips and tongue. So much for genteel and dull, she thought at the edges of her spinning mind. She much preferred this masterful, aggressive male, sweeping away her fears with his passion. Never again would she question that he truly wanted her.