Cherished Enemy
Page 35
He stopped.
Mrs. Porchester, genuinely aghast, had resorted to the ruthless tactic reserved by ladies for such moments, and was winking away tears.
“It—ain’t no use you doing that,” snorted the colonel uneasily. “You know da____ er, dashed well, Stella—”
“Y-yes, Lennox,” said Mrs. Porchester with trembling lips, the box in her hands rattling. “I—am a—a very silly woman. I do not blame you for being thoroughly disgusted with … with me. Thoroughly—disgusted. I—I will go … away…” She turned, scattering tears.
“Now—Stella,” the colonel said even more uneasily, memories of the disorganized and lonely state of the house when she and Rosa had been away rushing back to frighten him.
Mrs. Porchester halted, and stood with head bowed, sobbing quietly.
“Now—Stella,” he repeated, in a quite different tone, and went to put his arm around her. “You must not mind if I was a—er, little—just a touch, y’know, put out.”
“You will be—much better off—without me,” mourned Mrs. Estelle, leaning her head comfortably against his broad shoulder.
“What nonsense,” he said soothingly. “That is a—a very charming cap, Stella.”
She turned to look up at him, her eyes abrim with tears, and said piteously, “Is—is it, Lennox?”
“Indeed it is, and looks mightily alluring on your beautiful hair.”
Mrs. Porchester blushed and lowered her eyes. “Oh, Lennox,” she murmured. “You always have been such a dashing fellow.”
“Have I, by jingo?” said the colonel, not displeased by this new picture of himself. “Well, with such a pretty lassie to— Now only see how that miserable Scot has contaminated my English! What’s in the box, ma’am? Not another birthday present, surely? You mustn’t spoil me, you know.”
Her lashes fluttered at him shyly. “I wanted to give you something—meaningful, dearest Lennox … I only pray—this gift may—may win me back a tiny bit of your esteem. Just—just a tiny bit, Lennox…”
A gentleman, thought the colonel, must be blind as a blasted bat not to have noticed that so charming a lady, and with such a talent for making a house a home, had resided under his roof all these years! He beamed at her and took the box she offered. “Jove, but ’tis a weighty gift! Come over here with me, my dear, and let us unwrap it together,” he invited.
The wrappings were unfolded, the lid lifted. Eagerly, the colonel peered inside. “Secateurs!” he whispered. “And curse me if the things haven’t littered!”
“Twenty and two pairs,” she sighed. “Twenty and two, Lennox.”
“All you had?” he asked, awed.
She crossed the index and middle fingers of the hand that was concealed by a fold of her new gown. “Is worth it to me to give them up,” she declared nobly, “if ’twill set your mind at ease. You have had so much grief, poor soul! So much grief. ’Tis little enough for me to do to make you—happier.”
It was, he thought, the ultimate sacrifice. “I—I—be dashed if I know what to—to say,” he stammered.
Mrs. Porchester lost no time in prompting him.
* * *
The autumn afternoon was fading when the two riders came to the brow of the Welsh hill. A lush valley spread below, enclosed on three sides by tree-rich slopes, and with a stream hurrying busily across the valley floor. A shepherd boy was herding his flock toward higher ground where were cultivated fields and fenced paddocks, and far off, the chimneys of a broad, low house sent smoke curling upward against the pink sky.
Enchanted, Rosamond said, “Oh, Rob! Is just as you described!” and stretched out her hand to him.
He had watched her with a touch of anxiety, for this was different country to that she had known. “You’re not disappointed, then, Mrs. MacTavish?” he said, kissing the third finger of the small gloved hand and the small bump that was her wedding ring.
“Disappointed!” She turned starry eyes to him. “How could I be anything but happy? We are together! I am your—very proud wife!”
“An you keep on looking at me like that,” he said huskily, “we’ll likely ne’er rrrrreach the hoose the nicht!”
“Och, aweigh!” she teased, and was promptly pulled from her saddle onto his.
“Robert Mac____” she began.
A minute or two later she sighed, and relaxed in his arms. “Addie will see us,” she murmured dreamily.
“How d’ye know she’s there?” he murmured, nibbling her ear lobe.
“Because … Robbie, stop! Because the candles are lit, wicked creature.”
“Prepare ye’self for a lifetime of wickedness, ma’am,” he grinned, unrepentant.
She looked up at him, and again the fear came so that she hid her face against his cravat. “How long … will you be able to stay?”
“Long enough to—to make up to you for that perfectly dreadful ceremony,” he said lightly, trying to banish the shadows.
In response to a letter that Jock had delivered late one night, Charles’s bishop had further jeopardized his own head by daring to send a special license. Two days later, they had been married by a stern elderly cleric in a tiny Dorsetshire parish called Pudding Park. MacTavish was quite aware that behind his bride’s brave smile had been regret that no member of her family could attend the rites, and especially that her loved brother could not marry them. He had suffered some pangs of his own, for his sister Prudence was staying with their aunt only a few miles distant, and it would be courting death to see her, much less invite her to his wedding.
“You never think ’twas not legal?” Rosamond asked in mock terror.
“I think yon Reverend Grump fancied I was making off with you.” He set her down gently, then lifted her into her own saddle again and, standing looking up at her, said, “I’m sorry, love. But we did have a grand early wedding present.”
She regarded him questioningly, then smiled. “Ah, yes. You mean when Lord Boudreaux’s man brought that very clever letter telling us Charles was safe, and poor de Villars making a fine recovery.”
He nodded. “And we’ll have a bonny wedding; a proper wedding, I swear it! With all our friends and both families there to dance for us, when—when this silly business is done.”
She bent to touch his face. “I could not love you any more, no matter how many times we are wed.”
“And—d’you think you could stand to live here much of the year? Always?”
“God willing, my Rob. But—where are the whales? In that stream, perchance?”
He laughed and swung into the saddle. “I’ll whale you, my girl!”
“Oh, aye.” And wickedly mimicking his accent: “I’ve nae doot ye’ll turrrrn intae a prrrroper tyrant!”
“Woman,” he said, a gleam coming into his eyes, “I warned you once before of what happens to a Scots wife when she argues. Remember? Well, ’tis nought to what happens does a Sassenach bride make fun of her bonny Highland spouse! You’d do well not to have me show you!”
“Really?” said Rosamond meekly. “Then I must indeed be very careful.” She started off, then, spurring, called over her shoulder, “Though I dinna ken a worrrud of it, hoot-toot, och, and whisht, besides!”
With a joyous whoop, he was after her, the two horses galloping headlong across the lush valley towards the glowing golden windows of the old house.
Seeing herself about to be overtaken, Rosamond squealed, “Robbie! You’d never dare!”
“Oh yes, I would!” he laughed. But the front doors opened, sending out a flood of light, and Addington led the servants onto the steps to welcome them home, wherefore, foiled, he added softly, “Later!”
As Rosamond had already discovered, Robert Victor MacTavish never broke his given word. This trait was amply demonstrated some hours afterwards. Oddly enough, her mischievous spirit was unbroken, and in fact, as the days went by she developed quite a vocabulary with which to taunt her bonny Highland spouse. Just as oddly, that gentleman did not seem in the slightest offended by such
waywardness. One might almost have thought he found it delightful.
About the Author
Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
LOVE ALTERS NOT
GIVE ALL TO LOVE
THE TYRANT
JOURNEY TO ENCHANTMENT
PRACTICE TO DECEIVE
SANGUINET’S CROWN
THE WAGERED WIDOW
THE NOBLEST FRAILTY
MARRIED PAST REDEMPTION
FEATHER CASTLES
SOME BRIEF FOLLY
NANETTE
MISTRESS OF WILLOWVALE
LOVE’S DUET
THE LORD AND THE GYPSY
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Part I: Suspicions
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part II: Certainties
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
Copyright
CHERISHED ENEMY. Copyright © 1988 by Patricia Veryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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First Edition
eISBN 9781250101259
First eBook edition: September 2015