As she watched him, Caralyn’s heart beat triple time in her chest. She had the strangest feeling she knew this man, but for the life of her, she didn’t know how.
“Forgive my boldness, milord,” she said before she lost her nerve, “but I’ve come to ask that you release me from my father’s promise. I do not wish to marry your son.”
“I see.” He twisted the ring a little more then, as if trying to break his own habit, stopped, leaned forward, and folded his hands on the desktop. “May I ask why?”
Caralyn swallowed hard. Her father had always instilled in her the valor of honesty. “I’ve met someone.”
“This man you’ve met,” he said as he took off his glasses and held them by the earpiece.
Those eyes! She knew those eyes! But . . .
“Are you in love with him?”
Caralyn forced her attention away from his sherry-colored gaze and sighed. “Yes. I am in love with him, and I want to marry him if he’ll have me.”
“I see.” He drew a deep breath. “And what of my son, the man you’re promised to?”
She rose from the seat unable to sit still and began to pace. “I apologize, sir, but I cannot, will not, marry your son. I will meet with him and offer my apologies in person but nothing will change my mind.” She stopped before his desk, her direct gaze meeting his. “Do you not want your son to be happy? Do you not want him to have a successful, loving marriage?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he returned her stare, unrelenting, unblinking. “What if I insist? What if I hold you to the promises made on your behalf?”
“I would beg you to reconsider.” Oh, how she hated the pleading tone in her voice, and yet she couldn’t help it. “I can replace the dowry my father agreed upon.” She lifted the valise from the floor, opened it, and shook the contents onto the shiny surface of his desk. The earl jumped and gasped, whether from the thundering explosion of sound as the treasure hit the desktop or the surprise of seeing such a fortune, she didn’t know. And didn’t care.
His eyes opened wide as he picked up a gold crucifix. The emeralds embedded in the gold twinkled in the weak light coming in the window. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Izzy’s Fortune,” Caralyn said. “It’s yours if you will release me from my father’s promise.”
The earl sighed and shook his head. He inspected the piece in his hand. “Let me think on this for a moment.”
Caralyn sat, her eyes boring into him, her heart pounding. She twisted her hands in her lap and resisted the urge to run her damp palms on her gown. She didn’t blink, didn’t take her gaze from him for one moment. And she prayed. Oh, how she prayed.
Again, the earl sighed. “Very well, Miss McCreigh. You’ve shown a great deal of courage coming to see me as you have. I will—”
He never finished the sentence, never said the words she so wanted to hear. Instead, she heard the door behind her open and close and the earl grinned as someone walked into the room. “Son, you’re just in time.”
Caralyn cringed. Her stomach, already twisted with fear and unease, clenched, as did her jaw. Finding whatever dregs of courage she could, she rose from her seat and turned to face the earl’s son, hopefully, for the first and the last time.
She gasped. Tears filled her eyes. She trembled. Indeed, she shook so badly, she thought her knees would buckle. Joy such as she’d never known flowed through her veins. Her heart raced, her pulse pounded in her ears.
Tristan opened his arms. Without hesitation, without a second thought, Caralyn flew into them. His lips met hers in a kiss so gentle, so tender, she felt as if heaven had blessed her. “Oh, Tristan,” she whispered, amazed. “I’m so glad you’re here but I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I until I met your grandmother. I think your father and mine,” he glanced at the earl, “have something to tell us.” His arms tightened around her. “I’m never letting you go again, my love,” he whispered as his lips found hers once more.
The earl chuckled and looked toward the chairs flanking the window on the second story. “Daniel, you can come out now. I do believe it’s time to confess to our plan.”
Caralyn looked toward the chairs as her father slowly stood, a sheepish grin on his face. He held up his hands in surrender. “Forgive me, Cara, but I wanted for you a love like your mother’s and mine, and a man who could understand your passion for adventure.” He stepped down the spiral staircase and strode to the desk.
Rayne took off his glasses and wiped his eyes as he addressed his son. “And I didn’t want for you the marriage your mother and I had. I wanted better for you, Tristan. I wanted you to find love, and I believe you have.”
“I knew from the moment I met Tristan, he would be the one for you, Cara. I knew, or rather, I hoped, given the opportunity, you would fall in love with each other. Forgive us our deception. We are but old men who only wanted happiness for our children,” Daniel said as he put his arm around his oldest friend.
Caralyn didn’t know what to say as she stared at them. She should be furious, and yet as Rayne and her father stood together, the both of them hopeless romantics and matchmakers extraordinaire, she couldn’t be. She glanced at Tristan, the man of her dreams, the one she could love until she took her last breath, and grinned. “Should we forgive them?”
Tristan held her gaze. In the depths of his sparkling, sherry-colored eyes, she saw the promise of everything she ever wanted. “I think we should.” He lowered his voice and whispered in her ear. “Because they were right. I do love you, Cara mia. Will you marry me?”
“Oh, yes.”
Epilogue
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
The words whispered in his ear caused gooseflesh to pebble his skin. Tristan roused from sleep slowly as only a contented man can. Warm fingers tickled the thick mat of hair on his chest and caressed lower. His whole body came alive. He caught Caralyn’s hand and opened one eye. Bright sunlight streamed through the window and fell upon the impish grin on her face.
How he loved this woman. With every beat of his heart, every breath he drew, he knew how lucky he’d been to find someone as passionate, as beautiful, as adventurous as she.
“Now, you know what will happen if you continue to do that.”
Sleep tousled hair brushed against his chest as she nodded. “I know.” Her grin grew and a wicked light danced in her sea-blue eyes. “Happy anniversary, my love,” she murmured before she kissed his cheek.
Startled by her words and the fact he may have forgotten such an important date, Tristan mentally went over the calendar in his head and realized she must be mistaken. He smoothed his finger along the soft skin of her jaw. “Cara mia, today is not our anniversary.”
Caralyn nodded. “Ten years ago today, I offered you an outrageous proposition. I hired you to help me find a treasure.” Her eyes darkened to an even darker blue. “I fell in love with you the first time you kissed me, and when you played your violin, I knew my heart would always be yours.”
His heart swelled in his chest—with pride, with love. A lump rose in his throat and he couldn’t speak, but his lips could convey what he felt in his heart and he tasted her mouth with the sweetest of kisses as his hands caressed her through the silkiness of her nightgown.
“I have something for you.” She broke the kiss and stretched across him. Her breasts pressed against his chest and he groaned before he reached for her.
“Do you know what you do to me?”
She giggled and slapped his hand away as she dug in the bedside table drawer and withdrew a thick envelope.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
Tristan sat up in bed with his back against the cushioned headboard. Caralyn settled beside him, her hand resting on his chest as he opened the envelope. A sigh escaped him as he read the letter from the lawyer.
“It took me almost ten months, but I finally tracked it down. This is a map to Calico Jack Rackham’s last treasure. Or at least a map attrib
uted to him before he was put to death.”
Tristan closed his eyes against the sudden moisture that made his vision blur. Beyond the privacy of their bedchamber, Winterbourne Manor burst at the seams. Friends and relatives converged on the manse to celebrate two amazing events. The release of Dr. Brady Trevelyan’s third book, Adventures of a Treasure Hunter, and Graham Alcott’s marriage.
The bigger surprise had to be the upcoming nuptials of Graham and Irene Baker. Graham said she reminded him a great deal of Caralyn. He met her, of all places, on the beach in Long Island, New York, while she dug for Captain Kidd’s buried treasure. It had been love at first sight.
He heard servants scurrying here and there, heard the voices of his guests, but above it all, he heard and reveled in the laughter of his children.
His children.
Jemmy, the child of his heart, home from school for holiday, chased his younger siblings up and down the hallway. His first born, Rayne Brady—all of eight and as serious as his grandfather had been—recited the rules of the game of chase. With his natural inclination for figures and finances, he would be running the Winterbourne estates before long, much to Jemmy’s profound relief as the boy had no desire to be landlocked.
Daniel Graham was thirteen months younger than Rayne and full of the same spirit of adventure Tristan never lost. He and Jemmy talked constantly of sailing the seas to find lost treasure.
A shout from the hallway made him swivel his head toward the door.
Temperance, a miniature version of Caralyn with snapping sea-blue eyes and light brown hair that curled around her little face, peeked through the bedroom door. Even at three years old, his daughter knew exactly what she wanted. He couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Last week she’d told him, quite emphatically, definitely no to peas and carrots, but yes to Papa’s kisses. Again, his heart swelled almost painfully in his chest as she squealed, “Papa!”
“Good morning, my little sprite.” Tristan grinned as his daughter burst into the room, leaving the door wide open, and jumped on the bed. She snuggled between him and her mother, her little body warm. Caralyn wrapped an arm around her and nestled closer as Temperance grabbed the letter from his hand and pretended to read.
It didn’t take long for her brothers to follow her. Rayne and Daniel perched at the end of the bed and Jemmy, at nineteen, too old to climb into their bed, slumped in one of the chairs flanking the fireplace, his leg swinging over the arm.
Tristan glanced at each one of his children then turned to Caralyn, the woman who’d been the answer to every dream, every desire he’d ever had. “It’s a wonderful gift, Cara mia, but I don’t need it.” He smoothed his finger over her cheek and drew in a breath in an effort to keep the emotions threatening to overwhelm him at bay. As it was, he had to swallow—hard—to remove the lump from his throat. “I have everything I want right here. I don’t need to hunt for treasure because you, my love, and our children, are the only treasures worth keeping.”
About the Author
Marie Patrick has always had a love affair with words and books, but it wasn’t until a trip to Arizona, where she now makes her home with her husband and two furry, four-legged “girls,” that she became inspired to write about the sometimes desolate, yet beautiful landscape. Her inspiration doesn’t just come from the Wild West, though. It comes from history itself. She is fascinated with pirates and men in uniform and lawmen with shiny badges. When not writing or researching her favorite topics, she can usually be found curled up with a good book. Marie loves to hear from her readers. Drop her a note at [email protected] or visit her website at www.mariepatrick.com.
More from This Author
(From Mischief and Magnolias by Marie Patrick)
The Reluctant Debutante
Becky Lower
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Becky Louise Lower
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5162-6
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5162-8
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5142-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5142-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com/© Natalia Lukiyanova, Evgeniya Tubol
I’d like to thank my critique groups and all the other dedicated early readers who help me get it right.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
About the Author
Chapter One
New York City, February 1855
Ginger Fitzpatrick was in a pickle, that much was certain.
Her mother took her by surprise at breakfast by announcing to the family that Ginger would participate in the Cotillion ball two months hence. While her younger sisters squealed in excitement, Ginger couldn’t find her voice to object to her mother’s idea. She knew she must, considering that her father was known to grant every wish his wife had, but Ginger could only stare in confusion. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
“George,” her mother stated calmly to her father, “you must relieve Ginger of her duties at the bank so I have time to teach her the rules of etiquette she’ll need for a full season of events. Dear Lord, I have only a couple months to cram in everything.”
Astonished and stunned, Ginger turned to her father, hanging onto a thread of hope that her valued involvement at the bank would save her.
“Let me think about the best way to handle the shift in responsibility, darling. I’ll make sure Ginger is free by the end of the week.” He glanced at Ginger’s stupefied expression and reached across the table for her hand. “Perhaps we could also offer a reward of some kind. Possibly a trip to St. Louis if she gets through the season without incident?”
He had actually smiled over the breakfast table at her. As if the allure of a trip would make everything all right.
Now, Ginger strode down the hallway of the bank to talk to her father before he could continue the discussion with her mother. She had always been able to convince him of anything, if she wanted it strongly enough. After all, he allowed her to work alongside him at the bank, whi
ch went against all the rules of society and a woman’s place in it. She stopped briefly at the window overlooking the street, watching the snow falling outside. It clung to the red bricks of the ornate bank building, and she longed to be as capricious as one of the snowflakes. Instead she had to present a strong argument to make her father see the folly in her mother’s latest idea.
She stopped in front of his office door and smoothed her long gray skirt. Brushing her hand over her quivering stomach, she knocked.
Ginger was certain she could right this ship and make her father see things her way. At his gruff reply to enter, she inhaled deeply. She was going to have to tread softly to get out of this predicament.
“Papa, may I further discuss Mother’s idea with you?”
“Yes, of course, my dear. But you know by now that once your mother makes up her mind, it’s best to go along with it.”
Ginger glanced at him as her voice quavered. “But, Papa ... ”
Her father merely raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.
Hmmm, the trembling voice trick usually worked. She’d have to try a different tactic. Tears, maybe? She hated resorting to something as totally feminine as sobbing.
She cleared her throat and started again. “You are aware, are you not, of my worth here at the bank?”
With a sigh her father laid down his fountain pen and began to reposition his sleeves, which had been rolled up to avoid staining them with ink. “Your mother’s decision for you to participate in the Cotillion has nothing to do with your abilities at the bank. I’m well aware of your contributions. Now, do you want to talk about what’s really at issue here?”
Ginger attempted to regain her calm and to remember the precise arguments she’d planned to present. “You obviously believe dangling a trip to St. Louis before me will be enough to get me through the Cotillion ball and the season Mother wants for me. And I agree with part of your logic. I should go to St. Louis, but without any strings attached. Basil has written to me, Papa, and told me about the West. Men there are more open-minded and not so stringent about what a woman can and cannot do.”
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