In My Wildest Dreams

by Christina Dodd

  Penelope hesitated. She didn’t know how Kiki had sneaked past the poor man who guarded the nursery room door, but Penelope had had to pretend to be playing hide-and-seek, and the man had trusted her. She ought to go back and tell Papa, but by then Kiki would be gone. And telling seemed sneaky. Besides, Kiki was acting oddly, crying so her nose ran and she looked ugly, then fleeing instead of fighting. The decision wasn’t easy, but Penelope raced after her cousin.

  The rain started falling again, falling faster and harder than before. Lightning flashed and thunder growled, and Penelope kept wiping the water out of her eyes and hoping Kiki tripped and landed flat on her face so she’d give up.

  Kiki never did what Penelope hoped. She headed for the river, and Penelope ran as fast as she could until she caught her. Grabbing her by the arm, Penelope shouted, “Let’s go up there.” She pointed at the castle ruins set up on the wooded hill.

  For the first time on this wretched morning, Kiki acted like Kiki. Her eyes lit up as lightning jagged behind the castle ruins, giving it a desolate, melodramatic appearance. “Oui.” She put the back of her hand on her forehead and said in French, “I can die there in peace.”

  “I just want to get out of the storm.”

  “You have no théâtre in your soul.”

  “I know a farce when I see one.”

  Kiki jerked herself free and stalked up the hill. Stalked until the lightning struck again, so close the thunder clapped around their ears. Then she screamed and ran up the path.

  Penelope beat her to the castle. Penelope had longer legs, and Penelope had never liked thunder.

  The two girls crowded into a cramped cave formed by a big vertical rock, a stone wall, and the wooden roof Mr. Milford had built so the honeysuckle would have somewhere to grow. On a normal summer day, Penelope would never have entered for fear of the bees which buzzed around the scented yellow blossoms, but today all the bees showed more sense than the girls—they stayed home.

  Penelope shuddered with cold as she crouched beside Kiki, not touching her, just peering out at the lightning that struck all around them like fingers of an angry god—a thought which made Penelope shift her feet guiltily. “Do you think God is angry at us?”

  Kiki stared at Penelope as if she’d lost her mind. “Non, le bon Dieu nous aime.”

  “But we’ve been bad.”

  “Je ne suis pas méchante. Je vais chez moi. Toi, tu es méchante.”

  “I am not bad! You are. And you can’t go home. Don’t you understand, you silly goose? There’s no one for you anywhere but here.”

  Kiki’s face worked, and her voice quavered as she answered in French, “No one is here. I miss ma mère. Miss Milford likes you better. Your père loves you and reads to you. Mon père doesn’t love me. No one likes me here.” She ended in a cry that sounded like that of a starving baby cat.

  “Do you know how stupid you are?” Penelope wanted to slap Kiki. “I’m here and I’m wet and I’m cold and I’m scared, just so you won’t be alone. Of course I like you. You’re stupid.”

  Kiki didn’t say anything for a very long moment. Then, “Vraiment?”

  “Yes, you’re really stupid.”

  “Really you like me?” Kiki asked in French.

  “When you’re not stupid.”

  “Oh, Penelope!” Kiki threw herself at Penelope so hard she knocked Penelope onto her bottom. “Je t’aime bien aussi. Et tu es stupide.”

  “I must be.” Penelope accepted Kiki’s embrace, then cuddled into it. Kiki wore a wool cape that had expelled some of the rain, and here she was almost warm.

  Kiki draped the corner of the cloak over Penelope and in French, asked, “Why did you run away wearing no coat?”

  “I was afraid I would lose you.”

  “We are sisters, now, oui? We love each other, we share everything, we—”

  Penelope slapped her hand across Kiki’s mouth.

  Kiki pushed it away. “You can’t take it back!”

  “Sh.” Penelope strained to hear through the rain. The whistle of the wind faded again, and again she heard a man’s shout.

  “Our papas! Ils doivent nous sauver.” Kiki began to crawl out of the cave.

  Penelope grabbed her ankle. “Stop. Maybe it’s not our papas.” She spoke softly. “Papa said I must always make sure it is him.”

  Something of Penelope’s alarm must have captured Kiki’s attention, for as rapidly as she’d gone forward, she crawled backward. “Pourquoi?”

  “Because there are bad men who would like to take me—and you—away.” Had someone seen them leave the house? And if they had, why hadn’t they been rescued sooner? Everything about this troubled Penelope, and Papa had said to trust her instincts.

  “Les vilains!” Kiki skittered toward the small opening at the back of the cave. “Qu’est-ce que nous faisons?”

  “He’s coming closer.” Penelope strained to recognize the voice, but she didn’t. What was a stranger doing poking around the grounds, especially up here? “We’ll go back through that hole. As soon as you get out, crawl around and run for home. I’ll follow.” The voice moved closer yet. Too close. In a whisper, she commanded, “Hurry. Stay low. If I can’t get out, tell Papa right away.”

  “Penelope!” Kiki’s eyes grew big and scared.

  But not as scared as Penelope. It took all her courage to shove Kiki toward the hole. “I’m behind you.” She made sure Kiki had squeezed through, then she turned and faced out, taking care to hide the outlines of the opening.

  “Miss Penelope,” the voice called. He was friendly. Too friendly. “I know you’re around here. Your father sent me.”

  Penelope didn’t recognize his voice.

  “I’m Uncle Bumly,” he called. “Just tell me where you are, and I’ll save you from the storm.”

  Uncle Bumly? She didn’t know any Bumly, and he certainly wasn’t an uncle. Her heart began to beat so hard she could scarcely breathe, and she started to ease back as quietly as she could.

  Then— “There you are, sweetheart,” Bumly shouted. “I’ll get you!”

  Bumly had spotted Kiki. Penelope knew she couldn’t let him get Kiki. So she screamed like a silly girl, screamed until a long arm reached into the cave and dragged her out. Screamed when Bumly said, “This is the right one.”

  Screamed until he hit her across the face and told her to shut up.

  Then she did as her Papa had instructed, and waited for him to rescue her.

  The rain fell. The old bloodhound sniffed and ran. Throckmorton held one leash on the dog, and one—barely—on his temper. The children had disappeared. The timing was suspicious.

  Someone lured the girls away. Whoever he was, he would pay.

  Kinman organized the men to search the grounds. The servants poked into the house’s every nook and cranny.

  Throckmorton ran behind the dog, rain soaking his greatcoat and mud caking his boots. He ran and prayed. Prayed the rain wouldn’t wash away the girls’ scent. Not yet. Not yet.

  Celeste had wanted to accompany him, but he had ordered she remain behind to see if she could find any trace of the girls. In this crisis he didn’t want to be responsible for Celeste’s safety, also.

  He and the dog turned toward the river, then veered back, toward the hill in the middle of the estate. Toward that silly castle ruin. Straining his eyes, he watched the woods and brush for movement. Nothing. He couldn’t see anything through this rain.

  Penelope knew he always set a man to watch over the children; he had explained the reason as best he could without frightening her. Yet Kiki had gone, and Penelope had lied to escape.

  Fury and fear burned in Throckmorton. Yes, someone had lured the girls away.

  The dog took the path toward the top. The wet gravel slipped beneath Throckmorton’s feet. The dog strained at the leash, woofed once—and from off the path, from the slop above, a small missile almost knocked him down.

  He grabbed for the child.

  Kiki. He recognized her by her s
ize, by her frantic grip . . . by her French.

  “Je vous en prie. Vous devez venir avec moi tout de suite. Il l’a kidnappè! Il tient Penelope!”

  Never had his linguistic inabilities frustrated him so much. He held Kiki’s shoulders, shook her. “What? What?”

  “Un homme! En haut. En haut, de la cave avec la chèvrefeuille!” She was pointing up, but he still didn’t understand, and with a huff of frustration, she shouted in English, “A man captured Penelope! Up by the honeysuckle cave. Save her!”

  “Yes.” Kiki had given in. She’d spoken English.

  He’d feel triumph later. Now he hugged her hard. Giving her a push down the hill, he commanded, “Go back to the house. Tell the men to come with guns. Hurry!”

  “You hurry,” she retorted, and sprang like a young goat down the hill.

  Just as he’d feared. A man, a stranger, held Penelope. Threatened Penelope.

  Whoever he was, Throckmorton would kill him. Interrogate him if he could, but mostly kill him.

  He touched the pocket of his waistcoat. Still dry above the loaded pistol he carried.

  Wrapping the leash around his wrist, he allowed the dog his head.

  Stupid, to carry a loaded pistol so close to his body when it could accidentally discharge at any moment, but he might have need of it.

  The dog began barking steadily, deep, gruff woofs that sounded more threatening than a bloodhound had any right to be. Master and dog raced up the path, united in pursuit. They reached the top.

  No one was there.

  Throckmorton observed the area while the dog sniffed in circles, finding only a muddle of scents to confuse his refined nose. Then— “There.” Off the path, into the trees. Broken branches. Grass muddied beneath large, careless feet.

  A red hair ribbon, dropped for Throckmorton’s keen eyes to see.

  Penelope. His darling daughter.

  “Here, boy.” Throckmorton led the dog to the spot, lifted the ribbon for him to sniff.

  The dog plunged off the path. They dashed downhill, raced toward the river. Throckmorton’s feet slipped out from under him. He barely slowed as he tumbled head over heels, then rose again and ran.

  The bloodhound tugged. His bark grew more frantic. They were nearing their prey.

  “Papa, Papa!”

  Penelope. She was alive, and shrill with terror. Throckmorton and the dog raced along. They skidded to a stop as they cleared the woods. On the plain that led to the river, a man sprinted, holding Throckmorton’s struggling daughter.

  Throckmorton would see him dead.

  He let the dog go. The bloodhound bounded after his prey. Drawing his pistol, Throckmorton shouted, “Halt!”

  The man did halt. Turning, he faced Throckmorton, holding Penelope as a shield in front of him.

  Throckmorton’s eyes narrowed. Vaguely he recognized the man. A servant. He must have come with one of the guests.

  Seizing Penelope’s slender neck in one large, brutish hand, the beastly fellow twisted it and yelled, “Call off your dog, or I’ll kill her!”

  He would break Penelope’s spine.

  Throckmorton called the dog back.

  Penelope’s voice was high-pitched with panic, but she called, “Shoot him, Papa!”

  Brutally, the servant tightened his grip on the child. “You’ll kill her if you do. Or I will.”

  Throckmorton feared it was true. He was a good shot, but pistols couldn’t be trusted. Not at this distance. Not with his daughter’s life on the wager.

  He began to lower the gun.

  Reaching up behind her, Penelope grabbed blindly. She caught the fellow’s ear, his hair, and yanked.

  He doubled over, dropping her. Before he came up again the wet child slipped out of his grip. Desperately he lunged for her.

  She rolled away.

  Throckmorton pulled the trigger.

  The bullet slammed into the blackguard’s chest. He staggered back and fell.

  Throckmorton experienced one moment of frightful, savage joy, the elation of a primitive who has rescued his progeny from danger.

  Then, from out of the trees, a female form ran toward Penelope.

  Throckmorton flung the useless gun aside. Swept along by dread, he lunged for Penelope, too. Then he realized . . . it was Celeste. Against all orders, Celeste had come after them. He was glad. She would care for his child. Gathering Penelope into her arms, Celeste held Penelope as she sobbed.

  Throckmorton changed courses for the unmoving body in the mud. The bastard rested, face up, quite dead.

  21

  “Mam’selle Milford, you should have seen my cousin.” Kiki sat beside Penelope on her bed in the nursery, hugging her closely, speaking in faintly accented English. “She so bravely sent me on ahead and stayed to face that canard who tried to take her from us.”

  “So I understand.” Celeste lit a match from the fireplace and touched it to each of the candles. Both girls had been steeped in hot baths until their shivering stopped. Both girls were swathed in their voluminous white nightgowns. Both girls had had their supper. And hours after returning to the house, both still had the wide, amazed eyes of children who had faced an adventure and survived.

  Garrick had carried Penelope all the way back to the house, her head buried in his shoulder. Through the afternoon and evening, Celeste had cuddled the child every chance she got. Mrs. Brown would stay on a cot in the nursery tonight in case of nightmares. But when Penelope calmed down, she seemed merely thoughtful. When her father took her to task for slipping away, she gazed at him calmly and said she had no choice. She had to go after her cousin.

  Kiki reacted to the excitement in her own way—by chattering nonstop. “Penelope screamed to attract le gredin’s attention while I ran down the hill.”

  “Penelope is very brave,” Celeste answered.

  “I found Uncle Garrick and told him what had happened, but he did not understand me! He does not speak French, so I told him in English, and you should have seen his awe!” Kiki giggled and laid her head on Penelope’s shoulder. “He looked so funny with his eyebrows waggling and his mouth open.”

  Massively patient, Penelope sighed. Already today, she’d heard the story at least a dozen times. But she allowed Kiki to tell it once again, saying only, “You should have told him in English to start with.”

  “I forgot about the English,” Kiki admitted.

  “I suppose I’ll never be so lucky again,” Penelope said mournfully.

  Celeste hid a smile.

  Kiki cocked her head. “I do not understand.”

  Penelope put her arm around Kiki. “I mean I’ll always get to hear you talk . . . and talk . . . because you’re not going to run away again.”

  “Non.” Kiki shook her head so hard her blond braids flew. “Never again. I will stay with you always, ma cherè cousine.”

  “Very touching.” Mrs. Brown bustled in with the heating pans for the beds. “But ye’ve both had a lot of excitement today and it’s time for sleep. Come on, now, let’s tuck ye in so Miss Celeste can go downstairs and join the party. ‘Tis the final evening, ye know, and she’ll want to dance all night long.”

  Kiki allowed Penelope to escape after one big kiss on the cheek. Kiki hopped across the cold nursery floor and between her newly warmed sheets.

  Celeste leaned over for a goodnight kiss.

  Kiki snuggled beneath the covers. “Are you going to marry my papa?”

  Celeste shouldn’t have been startled, but she was. Of course the children had watched the adults and listened to the servants’ gossip. Of course they must be wondering at the week’s events and how it would affect their lives.

  But Kiki’s ingenuous question made Celeste face a hard fact—a fact she had known almost from the moment she had returned but had refused to acknowledge.

  She didn’t love Ellery.

  She had loved the bright, superficial image he cast across her life. She loved the idea of living with him, being the envy of other women, listening t
o him laugh, knowing her life would be a constant whirl of frivolity and pleasure.

  But Ellery was not the man the Count de Rosselin counseled she seek. The count had told her to settle for nothing less than her soulmate, the other half of herself. Ellery was not that.

  Smiling at Kiki, Celeste shook her head. “Your papa is betrothed to Lady Hyacinth. I think he will marry her—if she’ll have him.”

  For in the excitement of the kidnapping, the truth about Kiki’s parentage had been revealed to everyone. Celeste well remembered the expression on Hyacinth’s face. The girl had had reservations about Ellery before; now she must be thinking hard about her future with him.

  Penelope was already snuggled beneath the covers, and when Celeste leaned over to smooth her hair, Penelope looked up and asked, “Are you going to marry my papa?”

  Frozen in place, Celeste stared into Penelope’s dark eyes.

  Marry? Garrick Throckmorton? She’d rejected the idea just that morning in the kitchen. Heaped it with the scorn it deserved. She had never really considered such a thing. But now . . .

  Today he had been everything she dreamed of. He had rescued his child, he had vanquished evil, he had been honorable, strong and worthy of love.

  “He likes you.” Penelope watched her, her gaze discerningly like Garrick’s. “Better than anybody else. I can tell. I think you like him, too.”

  Celeste swallowed. She did like Garrick. More than that, he was the man the count had urged her to seek. He was the man of her dreams.

  “You should think about marrying my father. He’d like that.” Then in a discerning flip from old woman-wisdom to childish complaint, she whispered, “Do I have to be nice to Kiki all the time now?”

  Penelope had shaken Celeste to her core. So Celeste experienced a little ignoble satisfaction when she whispered back, “Yes.”

  Leaving Mrs. Brown in charge, she retreated to her bedchamber, the new one next to the nursery. A fire whispered in the fireplace, candles flickered in the sconces, and water steamed in a bath.

  Going to the window, Celeste stared out at the night sky. The storm had blown away leaving the blackness of night and the stars which, two nights ago, had witnessed so many brilliant kisses between her and Garrick.