With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  "Wedding gown?" Timothy stared blankly for a moment then scoffed. "You mean that musty old dress you've kept stuffed in a chest all these years? You can string it from the sails if you want! I just can't believe I've found you!"

  "I didn't give it away lightly," Mama Fee insisted. "It's just that Gavin and Rachel are going to get married. She's had the eye for him, you know. From the first moment she saw him. ’Tis supposed to be a love gift, the gown. That is"—Mama Fee eyed the two of them uneasily—"if you are getting married. Or were you just humoring a daft old woman about that as well?"

  "I haven't asked her yet," Gavin said. "I didn't think I had the right. Rachel?" He turned to her, cupped her cheeks in his hands, the silken tangle of her hair soothing the cuts and bruises from the manacles and chains she'd freed him from—some of iron, some in the secret reaches of his soul. "Will you have me, Rachel de Lacey?" he asked quietly. "I've nothing to offer you but love. I don't know what the future will hold, if I'll ever be able to return to England, bring you back home—"

  "The warmest homes I've ever known were a cave room and a deserted croft," Rachel said, her heart in her eyes. "My home is in your arms, Gavin. It's the only home I'll ever need."

  "That sounds like an acceptance to me!" Adam applauded, beaming. "I thank God for it, Rachel! You're the answer to my prayers, my beloved new sister. And I've blasphemed so much, I scarce expected it! An angel to take this infernal madman off my hands once and for all! He's damned hard to keep out of trouble, blast him. You'll find that out for yourself soon enough. In fact, we'll hold the wedding the instant we get on the ship, before you can change your mind. I'll tell the captain right now, I will." Adam started to bolt down the path.

  "There will be no wedding until I send a message to my bride," Gavin said, gazing down into Rachel's eyes.

  "A message?" Adam blustered. "Tell her whatever you want right now. Spit it out. Something romantic, no doubt? Od's blood, you've read enough of that love legend rot to spout something out right away."

  "These aren't words to be spoken, then fade away," Gavin said, caressing Rachel's cheek. "They're words to last forever."

  The ship cut through the waters with the grace of a swan, skimming before a fair wind. Sun streamed through the portal of the tiny cabin where Rachel bustled about, attempting to prepare for the wedding to come, and drenched the deck where the Glen Lyon would soon make Rachel de Lacey his wife.

  The wedding gown that had passed through generations of lovers had been mended and pressed until it shone, the aged cloth the most beautiful thing Rachel had ever seen.

  Never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined that she would be glowing beneath motherly attention on her wedding day. As Mama Fee hustled about, settling the gown into place, brushing her hair until it shone, Rachel's heart was full beyond bearing.

  The old woman had blossomed with the return of her son, drinking in Timothy's every word, delighting in his every smile, the two of them telling tales of all that had befallen them since the day Timothy had followed his brothers to war. They had mourned together, and rejoiced together, rising from the ashes of the lives they'd known to face the future with bright eyes and high hopes, an optimism Rachel had come to share.

  Adam stood guard, gruff and glowering, at the doorway, as if he were half afraid she'd bolt. Even so, the children darted in, staring up at her with their wary eyes. Rachel knew she had much to learn about little ones and loving, but she had faith that Gavin could teach her.

  He had already given her so much.

  "There," Mama Fee said, with one last brush of her hand. "You look like an angel, you do—the loveliest bride ever to don this gown. I wonder what the boy stitched into the hem. Worked it himself, he did. Not that he could have taken so much as a stitch if I hadn't rescued his spectacles again. Rode off like a demon, forgetting them, just throwing them about, careless as can be. Do you know what verse he wrote there?"

  "I promised not to look until he came for me." Rachel flushed, remembering the hot promise in Gavin's eyes, the fierce glow of pride and love.

  A sharp rap on the door made Mama Fee start, and they turned to find Adam peeking in the door. "There's an impatient bridegroom out here waiting for you, lady," Adam said, tugging at his neck cloth.

  Rachel opened the door, and Gavin stood there, resplendent in midnight blue, his frock coat edged with shimmering gold galon, his tawny hair caught back with an ebony ribbon.

  "Rachel." He breathed her name, his gaze sweeping from the curls at her crown to the toe of her satin slipper peeking from beneath the hem of her skirt—a slipper torn and muddy from their flight from Furley House, the flight that had opened the door to their future.

  Slowly, Gavin came to her, his silvery eyes aglow with love. He knelt, his long fingers scooping up a bit of the hem, turning it so she could read.

  The stitches were awkward, long, set by Gavin's own hand, far rougher than the delicate embroidery of the other legends inscribed in the fabric. Yet as Rachel's tear-blurred eyes skimmed what he'd sewn, they burrowed into her heart. She was certain they must be the most beautiful tribute ever captured by a lover's hand.

  So many forgotten dreams I find, When I gather the stars in your eyes.

  —Gavin Carstares, Earl of Glenlyon, to Rachel de Lacey

  Tears welled against Rachel's lashes, spilled down her cheeks, her heart unable to contain the love she felt for this remarkable, wise man. Gavin reached up to caress her cheek.

  "Tears?" he asked softly, his throat rough with emotion.

  "Tears of joy," Rachel breathed. "You taught me how to cry them."

  "Do you know what you taught me, my love? After the battles, the bloodshed, I felt as if my soul had been ripped away, stolen, cast into a hell where I could never find it. But you showed me that Sir Dunstan and the others couldn't take what I would not give them; that there could still be beauty; that maybe, just maybe, with your love to give me courage, I could even find a way to forgive myself."

  "I love you, Gavin." She twined her arms about his neck, her lips seeking his. "I love you so much." Gavin's mouth took hers with a hunger fierce and tender, wild and wonderful, in a kiss filled with infinite promise.

  A sudden gruff sound intruded—Adam cleared his throat. "Do you think you could do that kissing rubbish after you get this wedding over with? Those blasted orphans of yours are taking apart the rigging, and the captain's threatening to throw Barna overboard and feed him to the sharks. I told him the sharks would be the ones in danger, but he wouldn't listen."

  Mama Fee swept over to Adam, patting the big man's arm. "You needn't be so crotchety, my dearling. I know that you're jealous of your brother finding his lady-love, but I'm sure you'll find your own bride in time."

  Adam backed away as if she'd stuck him with a needle. "Oh, no! Women expect heroes, and there'll be none of this hero drivel for me anymore. I'm done with responsibilities, duty, honor, and all that rot. The instant I strike land, I'm finding myself a keg of brandy, a box of dice, and a bed full of brainless beauties, and I'm never looking back!"

  Adam fled in panic, Mama Fee trailing behind him.

  Rachel reveled in the sound of Gavin's uproarious laughter, the beauty of it, so rich, so infinitely precious.

  Rachel put her hand in his as he led her into the sunshine to take the vows of love that were as old as time.

  The Glen Lyon had fought his last battle, won his own war. He had turned the general's daughter into a woman—a woman who could laugh, who could cry, who could love; a woman who saw a hero each time she looked upon his face.

  AVAILABLE NOW, Adam Slade’s Story:

  ANGEL’S FALL by Kimberly Cates

  Preview Angel’s Fall

  Book 2 of the Culloden’s Fire Series

  Adam Slade had always told his half-brother Gavin that no good deed went unpunished, but he’d never had perfect proof of it until tonight.

  Only a monster could have ignored the supplicating hands of the figure reaching out to h
im from the edge of the Irish country road. Unfortunately, Adam hadn’t managed to become that cold-hearted yet, but it wasn’t from lack of effort.

  He cursed himself for a fool as he reined his gelding to a halt and dismounted beside the rain-soaked form huddled beneath a scraggly tree. The Irish coast was crawling with smugglers, desperate men trying to wrest a living from beneath the crushing heel of English law. Men desperate enough to murder the unwary who stumbled across their path to insure their silence.

  It would serve Adam right if a band of outlaws was waiting in the underbrush to attack him, the shadow-shrouded form nothing but bait to lure him into a trap.

  The moon peeked from behind the last bruised clouds of the storm that had flooded the coast half an hour ago, spilling silvery rays across an old man’s haggard features.

  Thick white brows banked like snow on the intelligent expanse of his brow, his Roman nose overpowering his thin face. Though his garments were torn and travel-stained, they weren’t the coarse clothes of a wanderer who called the open road home. The clothes made Adam think of comfort if not luxury, warm firesides and book-lined studies. What the blazes was this man doing here?

  Adam knelt beside him, wounds from a dozen battles aching in the damp chill, the wind lashing his wild ebony mane into his eyes. He knew he looked more night-demon than deliverer as he bent over the old man. “Don’t fear. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Do angels hurt those they . . . stoop to comfort?” the old man asked in English accents, tears of gratitude tracking the worn lines of his face. “Prayed so long and no one would stop.”

  The God who sent Adam Slade to answer a dying man’s prayer must have a warped sense of humor, Adam thought. He loosened the man’s collar, felt a faint pulse beneath his fingers.

  “Who are you, where are you from, and what the devil are you doing out here in the rain?” he demanded, not certain who he was most irritated with—the old man or the deity Adam pictured as laughing uproariously from His perch on a cloud.

  “Name is Joshua Grafton-Moore. Vicar of. . . Northwillow.”

  “Vicar?” Adam shrank back. He would have preferred a band of smugglers eager to slit his throat. What was an English vicar doing lost on this deserted Irish road? Waiting to torment Adam Slade, no doubt.

  Adam grimaced. It would be just his bloody luck to stumble across a vicar in the middle of nowhere: From the time he was a grubby-faced boy, they’d never been anything but trouble. But now that Adam had stopped, he could hardly remount and say, Just remembered a pressing engagement. Hope someone else comes along.

  He started, realizing he was glaring at the man with the ferocity that had made entire battalions of soldiers back down. Thunderation, at this rate he’d scare the man to death.

  “You needn’t fear,” Adam said gruffly. “I won’t hurt you.” He hoped it was a promise he could keep. He’d never been able to be in the company of a vicar for five minutes without wanting to throttle him. “Are you injured?”

  “No. Fever. Stricken . . . two weeks ago.”

  “You’ve been sick for weeks? What are you doing wandering about in rain? In Ireland?”

  “Had to keep searching. Promised I wouldn’t come back to England until I found . . .” The old man’s racking cough shook his very bones.

  “We have to get you to shelter.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to die.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You’re not going to die,” Adam scoffed, hefting the man to his feet and starting toward the restive gelding. “There was a church about three miles back. I’ll take you there.” Dump you into the lap of another do-gooder and be on my way.

  The old man’s knees buckled. Slick with rain, he slipped from Adam’s grasp and sagged to the ground.

  “There isn’t time to take me anywhere,” the vicar insisted.

  “Hell, yes there is!” Adam started to hook one heavily muscled arm beneath the man’s legs, the other behind his back, but the vicar struggled free.

  “Look at me. Really look. You’ll see.”

  Adam stared down into his features, wanting to deny the man’s claim. But he’d fought on too many battlefields, seen too much death not to know the signs.

  “You know it’s too late as well as I do. I see it in your eyes.”

  Frustration and more than a little alarm filled Adam as he faced the truth. Another man would have offered the vicar platitudes, comfort, encouragement. Another man would have lied. Adam looked square into the old man’s eyes. “You are going to die. But you might as well do it somewhere warm and dry.”

  “Can’t waste strength. Have to tell you . . . ask you . . .” A spasm went through his thin frame. “What—what’s your name?”

  “Sabrehawk.”

  The man look up at him, eyes old and wise as the ages. “Christian name.”

  “Adam Slade.” It had been an eternity since anyone besides his family had called him by that name. An eternity of blood and battle, swords and death and the gritty taste of exhaustion in the back of his throat. In the eight years since he and Gavin had sailed away from Scotland, outlaws evading the King’s justice, countless opponents had hungered for Adam’s blood. Not for any purpose but the glory of being the man who cut down the legendary Sabrehawk. Even the pardons eventually granted by the Crown hadn’t stopped the string of fools with their weapons and their dreams of fame. Adam grimaced. It could be damned exhausting being a legend.

  The vicar’s mouth tipped up in a ghost of a smile. “You’re an honest man, Adam Slade. God sent you to me.”

  “God doesn’t have much to do with me anymore, old man. He leaves me to the devil’s care.”

  “Not true.” Those anguished eyes clung to him with the tenacity of a doomed man’s last hope. “You’re a good man. Can see it in your eyes.”

  Adam’s cheeks burned despite the chill. It wasn’t any wonder the vicar was delusional. It must be a mighty fever if it could transform Adam Slade into a hero. “You’ve never even seen me before,” he scoffed. “I’m not what you think I am.”

  “You are . . . my last hope.”

  Adam flinched at the stark certainty in the man’s voice.

  “Have to get word to . . . Juliet.”

  “Juliet?”

  “My daughter. At the vicarage, Northwillow. Tell her I’m sorry failed her. Tell her I love her.”

  “Tell her yourself. We can send whoever’s in charge of the church here to fetch her from England. He’d be a sight better at comforting a grieving woman than me. I’m terrible at it. Whenever my sisters turn on the waterworks I end up bellowing at the top of my lungs.”

  The vicar arched up with strength born of despair. “You’ll do this for me. Go to her, if you have any mercy in your soul.”

  Mercy? Adam was taken aback. When was the last time the dread swordsman, Sabrehawk, had felt such a gentle emotion? As a youth, standing over the first man he’d killed? On the bloody battlefields leading to Culloden Moor? He had lost it so long ago he couldn’t even remember.

  The man clutched Adam’s shirt. “Don’t understand. My daughter is alone in the world. Sheltered her whole life. She was . . . sickly as a child. Thought heaven would take her before me. Not afraid to entrust her to Heavenly Father. But never imagined I would have to leave her behind on earth.”

  Adam saw hellfire reflected in the old man’s eyes. Fury and denial welled up inside him. He prayed that they’d drown out the ache in the heart he claimed he didn’t have.

  “She doesn’t know the . . . horror waits in the world. Didn’t teach her to survive. You know how. See it in your face. Know how . . . cruel the world can be. I was a fool.”

  Adam groped for words of comfort that were foreign to him. “Parents make mistakes all the time. Just ask any grubby brat, and they’ll tally up a list of transgressions. You did what you thought best. She was damned lucky that she had you.”

  “Love is the only thing . . . can take with you to heaven. Always knew that. But my love can’t protect her anym
ore. Didn’t know how much it would hurt . . . not to know she is safe.”

  The death rattle sounded in his throat as he groped for something in his waistcoat pocket.

  “Old fool! We could be halfway to the church by now.”

  “You will . . . take this necklace to my Juliet, Adam Slade. It was her . . . mother’s.” Grafton-Moore held out a delicate chain of golden lilies, the heart of each fragile blossom a glistening diamond.

  Perfect, Adam thought. He’d probably crush the thing to dust in his pocket. He was forever breaking things. He could only hope to get it into the hands of a messenger in one piece.

  “I’ll see that she gets it,” Adam said gruffly. “I’ll post it to her.”

  “No. Take it yourself. Promise me you’ll make sure she is safe. Taken care of. Swear it.”

  Thunderation! He didn’t even know the father, and he was supposed to cart this gewgaw back to a grief-stricken daughter and tell her, what? That her father had died in the muck on a deserted Irish road, half out of his mind with fear for her?

  “You don’t want me anywhere near your daughter!” Adam insisted. “I’ve got a dozen scars from irate fathers who were trying to drive me away at the point of their sword.”

  “Swear it,” Grafton-Moore demanded. “Word of . . . honor.”

  Adam’s jaw clenched. His word of honor. The last vestige of the reckless youth who rode out to be a hero and discovered that only death could be won by the tip of his sword. A boy who had wanted to earn eternal fame, but had walked away from Culloden Moor wanting only to forget. Forgive. Especially himself.

  He couldn’t make the promise this old man needed. It was insane. Impossible.

  “I have urgent business. I can’t go chasing back to England searching for a girl I don’t even know.”

  “If you ever . . . loved anyone, help me. Help me!” The plea was like a sword thrust to Adam’s chest. In a heartbeat he was back in a Scottish dungeon, the half-brother he loved more than anyone on this benighted earth hours away from facing a traitor’s death. Adam could still taste the terror, feel the desperation as he fought to save Gavin.