Promise Me Heaven
Page 29
He swung her up into his arms. His mouth trailed liquid fire down her throat, sipping the tears that had come from her eyelashes. Still, she tried to hold him closer, as though she feared he might disappear and leave her bereft once more.
“Hush, love,” he whispered, rocking her gently as he stood. “It’s all right, now. There is no need for these tears. It is all right.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not. You are going away. You might be killed. Oh, Thomas, I would rather you didn’t love me at all than have you die. I do not care for your honor, your duty. Stay with me.”
His sad, loving eyes gave her his answer. She could not ask Thomas to be anything less than he was. It was her joy and her misfortune.
“Then you must swear to me you won’t die,” she said angrily. “If you do I’ll find you! I’ll search the afterworld and hound you through eternity if you leave me. I swear I will!”
“Cat,” Thomas said, striding with her in his arms to the house, the dew sparkling a jeweled trail behind them. “All that your threats promise me is heaven.”
Epilogue
July 1815, Devon
Catherine Montrose was not in the best of moods.
For two months she had been in Devon at her new home, waiting for Thomas to return. Two months of sweat-soaked night terrors, waking to endless day after endless day of wondering if Thomas lived or died. Thousands of men had lost their lives near two insignificant little farms at a place called Waterloo.
Finally Colonel Seward had gotten word to her. Thomas lived. Cat had spent the next two weeks waiting for a note in her husband’s own hand. No message, in any form, had arrived. Her relief gave way to anger, frustration, and finally dark conjecture. He could be wounded, maimed, or ill.
Refusing to give in to melancholy speculation, Cat sat in Thomas’s library each evening, poring over account books, studying demographic sheets, reading the newest agricultural findings, anything to keep the horrendous images at bay. The estate was her pledge of trust to Thomas, trust that he would come back, proof of her faith.
And it was better than the nightmare-riddled nights.
Anxious and tired, Cat had picked up the mail this morning and flipped through the correspondence. A foreign watermark caught her eye. Anxiously, she ripped it open. Perplexed by the long, elegant scrawl, she finally recognizing it as Aunt Hecuba’s. She had smiled before she had read the first line. A smile that had quickly faded.
Aunt Hecuba was fine. Glowingly fine, wondrously fine, blooming under the concentrated (she had actually underlined the word, the old tart!) attentions of the marquis. Had Cat managed to get that great, black, handsome brute to the altar yet? Of course she had. Blood ran true. By the way, Hecuba had run into that interesting Daphne Bernard. It seems the young lady had managed a daring escape from Paris!
As had she. Really, people are most odd. True, her own flight from Paris had been exciting, but she really hadn’t outsmarted an entire regiment of guards at some blockade, as some Sally Leades person was intimating. And she hadn’t single-handedly thwarted a criminal ring terrorizing their fleeing countrymen in the northern French provinces. Still, being a celebrity had its rewards. Of course, she knew Thomas would be there to take care of Cat. Her beloved niece had never truly been in any danger.
But Daphne. What a resourceful woman Daphne Bernard was. They had only met because “Daffy” owned a large pendant, remarkably similar to the one Hecuba had left behind. Of course, Daphne’s was real.
“Of course,” Cat had muttered as she read.
Perhaps they had misjudged the young woman, Hecuba went on to write. Daffy had explained to Hecuba that she had merely taken the opportunities God had thrown in her path to further her own sorry little way in the world. Daffy hadn’t the advantages of so aristocratic and loving a family as the big English girl—Kitty, was it? No, Cat. (Isn’t that cute? Hecuba had written.) They had become quite friendly.
Had Cat heard from her dear mama? Hecuba had. She and Grenville had stopped at a coaching house on the Prussian border. Fellow travelers had had a message to be delivered in London. Wonderful happenstance! It was from Cat’s mama. By the way, Cat had best not expect her parent for some time. Philip had taken a notion to follow Hannibal’s path.
Crumpling the paper, Cat pitched it into the hearth and stomped angrily from the room, barking out orders to have the coach brought about. At least now she was in the proper mood to confront her Enid concerning the chit’s defiant demands regarding her coming-out wardrobe.
Enid, who was staying with Cat, as was only proper, was waiting for her at the local seamstress’s. The girl was probably attempting to bribe, blackmail, and bully the poor woman into lowering the décolletage on her many gowns. Enid, it seemed, was determined to be seductive. Well, thought Cat darkly as she settled herself in the carriage, we’ll see about that.
Cat enumerated on her fingers the many pithy things she was going to say to her sister as the elegant coach rolled down the lane toward town. She was staring out the window, green fire dancing in her eyes, when she saw a big, fat ewe standing in the hedge separating the lane from the pasture. Leaning out the window, Cat called for the driver to stop.
Bob jumped down and worriedly approached her, asking if anything was amiss. Alphonse joined him from the rear of the coach.
Cat pointed at the sheep in the thicket. “There’s nothing for it, we’ll just have to get her out of there.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but couldn’t I just ride back to the house and have one of the lads fetch a workman? I’m sure I haven’t the sorriest notion on how one goes about disentangling a great, fat, fleecy thing like that.”
Cat harrumphed. “Waste of valuable time. I’m promised at the seamstress in half an hour and shall be late as it is.”
“Well then, couldn’t we just leave her, Mrs. Montrose? She don’t look too uncomfortable like.”
“No, we cannot.” The farm, and everything on it, was her responsibility, and she was going to see everything was taken care of properly.
“Now, Bob, you go around and hold her middle while Alphonse grabs her legs and drags her out.”
Dubiously, the two men approached the sheep. The ornery creature bleated at them at their first touch and the driver jumped back.
“Coo! She be a biggun!” Alphonse said, rubbing his hands together in preparation for the next assault.
“Lift her up as Alphonse pulls, Bob!” Cat shouted encouragingly.
“Easy fer her to say,” Bob muttered, wrapping his arms around the ewe’s impressive girth. He heaved her up, grunting for Alphonse to pull.
Alphonse gave an irresolute yank on one of the sheep’s hind legs, causing the animal to twist in panic, her sudden movement pitching Bob backward into the hedge.
He fell down sputtering, glaring balefully at his lady mistress, who was, in turn, eyeing him with distinct disillusionment.
“For heaven’s sake, Bob,” she said, descending from the carriage, “it’s only a sheep. Now then,” she said, striding over to where the ewe was trying to bury itself in the briar. She pointed her elegant ivory fan at its hindquarters. “I suggest you, Bob, lift her so that her front legs cannot gain any purchase in the branches. At the same time you, Alphonse, take hold of both her hind feet. Firmly. And pull for all you’re worth. The sooner done, the sooner over. On my count, lads.”
She was so intent on marshaling her ill-prepared troops, she did not hear the approaching rider.
Thomas had pushed his gelding into a lather in his haste to make it home. He had not paused at Brighton or even in London to rid himself of his military uniform and procure civilian attire. He wanted to see Cat. He needed to see Cat. He hadn’t even taken time to pen a note, certain he would beat any missive he sent.
Only as he turned onto the mile-long road leading to his home did he allow the poor horse time to cool down. His eyes had widened in pleased surprise as he noted the various and sundry improvements that had been made in his absence:
the barley in the fields, the multitude of lambs and sheep grazing in the verdant pastures.
How like Cat. With what a deft hand she arranged and ordered things. She would have made a fine field marshal. The thought brought unwanted images of the massacre that history would call Waterloo to Thomas’s mind. The waste of human life had sickened him and he had fought fiercely so that there would be no further Waterloos.
He shook off the dark images, his mind’s eye seeking an image of Cat, like a tern seeks the pure, free expanse of the ocean. Cat. Tranquil. Calm. Serene. Composed. Moderation in his havoc-filled world. Contentment and peace.
He rounded the sharp corner leading to the drive and saw a woman and reined in the gelding. Cat. She was standing in a hedgerow, her sleeves rolled up over her forearms, the luscious silk of her dress stained with grass, a mud smear on its hem. Her hair had tumbled from some hat-like confection. She was railing at two red-faced, liveried men who stood scuffing their feet, their gazes fixed on the ground.
Cat. Tranquil.
“Furthermore, I have never in my life seen two grown men incapable of acting in unison in such a patently simple maneuver.”
Serene.
“—I refuse to believe that one stupid sheep can so flummox three reasonably intelligent adults.”
Composed.
“—and even if I have to wade in there and wrench the bloody thing free myself, I will!”
Regal.
“You there, madam!” Thomas called. She turned, her lovely brow creased in a thunderous scowl. Her eyes, those impossible gray-green eyes, widened. Gladness spread through each feature, lighting her beloved face with a joy impossible to contain.
His own.
She lifted up her skirts as he swung down from the saddle.
God, the woman could run!
About the Author
HEIDI EHALT, 2010
New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Connie Brockway has received starred reviews from both Publishers Weekly and the Library Journal, which named My Seduction as one of 2004’s top ten romances.
An eight-time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award, Brockway has twice been its recipient, for My Dearest Enemy and The Bridal Season. In 2006 Connie wrote her first women’s contemporary, Hot Dish, which won critical raves. Connie’s historical romance The Other Guy’s Bride was the launch book for Montlake Romance.
Today Brockway lives in Minnesota with her husband—a family physician—and two spoiled mutts.
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