The Legend of Lyon Redmond

by Julie Anne Long

  She could almost believe Cadiz had been a dream. But she still had faint bruises where she’d been gripped as she and Lyon had gone at each other like rutting wild animals.

  She closed her eyes as desire roared through her at the very thought.

  That had not been a dream.

  That, and the fact that she’d returned with something of a golden glow, since she’d forgotten her bonnet for a day. She remembered what Lyon had said: people see what they want to see. And never in a million years would anyone look at her and conclude she’d been making mad love on a beach with a vanished heir.

  You should do what you think is right.

  What the bloody hell did that mean? If it meant anything at all.

  I won’t be returning to England with you, Olivia.

  Her life was here. Her family was here. Everything she loved and ever wanted was here.

  Except him.

  Just remember your code.

  She lay awake at night in her room, so little changed from the last time she’d seen him. Whenever she did fall asleep she’d inevitably awaken with a start, imagining she heard pebbles thrown against the window.

  She leaped up and peered, but it had been nothing but a dream.

  The same one she’d had countless times since he’d left.

  He hadn’t said he loved her. And surely he did. She knew it in her bones. They were born to love each other.

  But how could he let her go again so easily if he did?

  “DO YOU THINK Aunt Pauline and Uncle Phillips are in love?”

  She wanted to ask her mother a different question entirely, but she needed to lead her into it without worrying her overmuch.

  Her mother stopped poring over the menu for the wedding breakfast and looked up at Olivia in some surprise.

  “I don’t know that they’re in love. I’m certain that they love each other.” Her mother quirked the corner of her mouth. “There’s all kinds of love, of course.”

  She sat down next to her mother.

  “Lemon seedcakes, Olivia?” Her mother fretted. “Or perhaps a tart instead? For the breakfast?”

  “Lemon seedcakes sound lovely.” She doubted she’d eat anything at all.

  “Excellent.” He mother made a note.

  “Mama . . . were you in love with Papa when you married him?”

  “Oh my. Dear me. Yes. I was.”

  She knew it to be definitely true, because her mother’s face took on a misty, reminiscent glow. She hadn’t settled for Jacob Eversea instead of Isaiah Redmond. Olivia was glad.

  “Was he very handsome when he was younger?”

  “You should have seen him when he was a boy, Olivia. He rode his horse at breakneck speeds, but he was such a brilliant rider, it was a pleasure to see him. Very thrilling for a young girl, you know. It got so that every time I heard the thunder of hooves my heart would about jump from chest, because I knew it was him. To this day when I hear hooves my heart leaps. And your papa no longer thunders, as you know.”

  Olivia smiled. “A bit like Colin used to ride. Before Madeline.”

  Her mother’s face went peculiarly still and she stood up abruptly and paced to the window and looked out. Perhaps imagining a young Jacob Eversea galloping out there on the green.

  She didn’t reply for some time.

  “It’s not as though love doesn’t get tested over the years, on occasion, Olivia. When you were a little girl, your father went to sea for a time, as he did when he was younger. He was a little too fond of risks with money, though he is generally very good at it, but we lost a good deal at one time. And then he went out in search of more fortune. It was . . . it was a difficult time. But true love weathers those things, and only grows stronger.”

  It was interesting to hear this version of her parents. Similar to hearing what her father had told her years ago about her courting her mother.

  He hadn’t been trying to warn her about Lyon then, she understood now. He’d been trying to warn her about Isaiah.

  “That was just before Colin was born, right? When Papa went to sea?”

  “Yes,” her mother said.

  “And you and Papa . . .”

  “. . . are on the whole very happy, and we congratulate ourselves on our successful match and splendid offspring quite often.”

  Olivia laughed.

  “And I cannot speak for all of womankind, Olivia. I can speak from experience and observation. I think there’s the kind of love you’re born with. The kind you can’t help, because it’s like your eye color or anything else. There’s the kind you fall into. And there’s the kind that you find yourself enveloped in after years of familiarity and comfort and a family to bind you. Which I suppose is the kind that Pauline and your uncle now have. I don’t know if they’re in love, but of a certainty they love each other. I don’t know that one is better than the other, ultimately. All love is a blessing. The opportunity to give it and receive may be what humans are born for. And I like to think that if you loved once . . . it only means you can love again.”

  The words “Lyon Redmond” were never mentioned, but of course, the last sentence was all about him, and they both knew it.

  “I love you, Mama.”

  “I love you, too, my dear. Olivia, all your father and I want is for you to be happy and safe and loved. It is all we ever wanted for you. Never forget it.”

  She said this fervently. As though delivering a message.

  But given the condition of Olivia’s nerves, everything had begun to seem significant.

  Olivia, who had long loathed being told what to do, still rather wished that someone would.

  SHE SLIPPED FROM the house and walked alone to the vicarage, past the churchyard fence. She recalled the view of hems and boot toes when she’d dropped her prayer book, at the very spot she stood now, then looking up into Lyon’s eyes. And even now it made her heart leap.

  And how she had gone walking with Landsdowne in public past this very churchyard, knowing the town would see her. Signaling to everyone that she intended to move on and live her life.

  On impulse she veered into the churchyard to prowl among the stones of her ancestors.

  She paused before a newer one, Lady Fennimore’s.

  She was a curmudgeon, that one, and Olivia always smiled when she saw what was written on her headstone.

  Don’t think it won’t happen to you.

  Which could apply to anything in life, really. Olivia liked it. Quite a flexible message. A message of dread or hope, depending on what sort of day you were having and who you were. She would have to think of a similar one to amuse future generations of Everseas who might stroll through this churchyard.

  Olivia, Lady Landsdowne.

  That’s what her headstone would say.

  For she would be married tomorrow.

  She drew in a long breath, and tried to decide how she felt about it.

  If Lyon wanted to intervene in her wedding, now would be the time to do it.

  But damn him to Hell, he was nowhere to be seen. And if she thought about it too much she nearly stopped breathing. The force of the longing was too much to bear, and once she made a decision, she could begin allowing it to ebb.

  Love could happen.

  She decided today that Lady Fennimore was delivering a message of hope.

  She didn’t feel uplifted by it. But the momentum of her decision would carry her through, she supposed.

  She glanced up toward the vicarage, and she shaded her eyes, and went still.

  And then her heart gave a little glad lurch.

  Her cousin Adam, the vicar, was in front of the vicarage, in shirtsleeves. He’d been out cutting wood, from the looks of things. And he was speaking to the bandaged beggar from Madame Marceau’s! He ushered the beggar swiftly into the vicarage, but it was unmistakably him: the same shabby, tattered clothing, the bandages. The poor soul appeared to be bent, too, and he dragged a foot, which was likely why he’d spent so much time sitting.

  And
she was glad she could send him to Adam, who seemed to have endless reserves of time and goodness to give to those who needed it. And if she’d been the means by which that man found help and comfort, well then, that was the only wedding present she needed.

  It seemed like a sign.

  Though she would have preferred to have one of the beggar’s blessings, just to be certain of it.

  AN EXHAUSTED, ANTICIPATORY hush had finally fallen over Eversea house.

  Olivia’s wedding dress was laid out on a bed in a miraculously unoccupied Eversea bedroom. Her relatives had all visited it in a hush, in turn, as if it were a loved one lying in state, and pronounced it exquisite.

  Tomorrow everyone would troop down to the church—Landsdowne and his party of mother, sisters, and an old friend who had agreed to stand up with him would meet the Eversea family there—and the last of all the Eversea siblings to get married (as more than one aunt had reminded Olivia) was finally going to do just that. Though it was worth it, everyone conceded. It seemed Clever Olivia had clearly been holding out for a viscount all along. It wasn’t quite the same as a duke, but dukes were hardly thick on the ground and Landsdowne was indisputably a catch, and thankfully she could now put all that Lyon Redmond nonsense behind her once and for all.

  And after that, there would be a great party and dancing, with Seamus Duggan and his merry band of players providing the music, and the doors of Eversea House would be open to the whole of the town to celebrate the event of a decade, an event no one had truly thought would ever occur.

  “JOHN EDGAR, WILT thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  Landsdowne’s response was instant.

  “I will.”

  The words filled the corners of the church like the triumphant notes of an organ.

  The church was crammed full of bodies—everybody who had ever lived in Pennyroyal Green seemed to be in attendance, including all of the Redmonds, who never missed a church service if it could be helped, and perhaps had ulterior motives for being present at this one—and it was warmer than she could ever remember it being. But still Olivia shivered in her wedding dress.

  She could scarcely remember how she’d gotten here.

  She’d awakened at dawn, and her mother and her sister and aunts, in a reverent, understanding hush, had slid the beautiful, much-discussed, flawlessly lovely dress over her head.

  She remembered answering questions in monosyllables. She remembered trembling; she still was. And as Mademoiselle Lilette-Digby had said, only two things were required of her today: that she look beautiful, and that she repeat the right words at the vicar’s prompting.

  She’d accomplished the first.

  “Wilt thou, Olivia Katherine, have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

  So long as ye both shall live.

  The words seemed to knell.

  It was a simple question. Asked millions of times, likely, since the ancient, binding words were first written.

  It required a simple two-word answer.

  It suddenly seemed perilous that only two words could lie between a person and the rest of her life.

  Two words.

  And yet she’d forgotten how to speak.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  The congregation was almost comically motionless. They knew something was awry. Her senses were suddenly exquisitely acute. The very silence seemed to ring a high clear note, and everyone she’d known her entire life suddenly seemed as distinct as a woodcut.

  Her mother’s face, so like her own. Her eyes shining with tears, a complexity of emotion, love and grief.

  But strangely, not surprise.

  Her father, leaning ever so slightly forward, as if to make it easier for him to run to her if she needed him.

  Isaiah Redmond’s face cold and drawn, his green eyes brilliant as stained glass.

  A face so like Lyon’s.

  A man who had lost to Jacob Eversea. She wondered if he loved her mother, still.

  And if her mother loved Isaiah.

  And suddenly she felt a wayward tenderness toward Isaiah, for Olivia thought she now understood what could happen to a person who had endured a lifetime without his love.

  His beautiful blond wife, Fanchette, motionless. Waiting. Her lips seemed to be moving in a silent prayer. And Olivia wondered if it was for the sudden reappearance of her son.

  Violet Redmond, who had killed a pirate for the man she loved.

  And the Earl of Ardmay, for whom she’d killed, and who had let Lyon go free for the love of Violet.

  Lord Lavay and his new wife, Elise, and her little boy, Jack, who could not be counted on to remain still for long, but who seemed aware that something of moment was happening, judging from his wide eyes.

  Ian, whom no one thought would ever marry, and who had plans to sail around the world. And beautiful American Tansy, who became his world. Who had upended all of Sussex, primarily because she was lonely and needed to be loved, and Ian, of all people, was the only one who’d seen her with love’s eyes.

  Colin, who had thought he was in love with Louisa Porter, but had returned from his infamous gallows escape to marry Madeline, a wife who seemed to know him right down to his soul and who had made a more peaceful, tender man of him.

  Marcus and Louisa. Who were so very right together that merely being in their presence made everyone happy.

  Genevieve with the Duke of Falconbridge. How dangerously close Genevieve had come to marrying Harry, the wrong man. How hurt Harry had been. How brave Genevieve had been to do something about it before it was too late.

  Her cousin Adam, the vicar, who had been nearly pilloried by the people of the town for love. But he had stood in this very church and one unforgettable morning he’d fought for her, the former Evie Duggan, a countess with a notorious past.

  And there, to her surprise, in the very last pew, on the very edge nearest the door, was the beggar. Hunched and abject, perhaps hoping not to be seen, but wanting to be part of something beautiful.

  Only now that they were all arrayed before her did she see clearly.

  She had been in the congregation when Adam had tossed away his sermon before a judgmental congregation and quoted Corinthians, then countered it with the Song of Solomon. He had claimed his woman, his love, Evie Duggan, the most unlikely woman, with those words. Love is fire and flood. Love is patient and kind.

  It was, indeed, all of that.

  But love was also a warrior. When it set out to conquer, it cared naught for residual casualties.

  And when it chose you, you could either resist.

  Or you could surrender.

  She wanted it to be simple. Surrender made everything simple.

  Remember your code, Lyon had said to her.

  It was as though she heard him whispering it in her ear.

  And her code was: She never lied.

  She quite simply could not live a lie for the rest of her life.

  Her cousin Adam was watching her as though he was willing strength into her. Adam was so good, so kind. And he would understand.

  He began again, carefully.

  “Will you, Olivia, take John to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

  She only had to open her mouth and say two words.

  She tipped her face up to Landsdowne.

  Tension was whitening the corners of his mouth, drawing his fine face tauter, as her silence stretched.

  And before her eyes she saw the realization daw
ning in his own.

  At last she opened her mouth to speak.

  But only one word emerged.

  “John . . .”

  His head went back hard and he closed his eyes. And then he shook his head slowly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said gently. Apologetically. But unequivocally. “I can’t.”

  More audibly now.

  “It would be a lie.”

  Truth was flooding her, and truth was courage.

  And truth was her code, after all.

  In the silence, the sound of shifting wool and silk and nankeen over the polished pews soughed like the wind. Someone cleared a throat surreptitiously.

  A beam of light fought through a cloud and poured through the window nearest the altar, the better to illuminate something the entire town of Pennyroyal Green would speak of for centuries to come.

  At last, someone moved.

  But it was only the beggar, raising his hand in yet another silent blessing.

  She watched his hand rise as if it were a dove of peace rising up to Heaven. Everything now seemed dreamlike and significant.

  And then she followed his hand down with her eyes.

  Her breath caught sympathetically. Because this time it snagged on his bandages. It at first looked like an accident.

  But then in a series of, slow, fluid motions, like watching origami in reverse, he dragged them away from his face, straightened his bent shoulders, shrugged the filthy, tattered coat from his shoulders.

  And stood.

  A few heads turned toward him.

  He didn’t seem to notice.

  But then he was accustomed to eyes on him.

  And they only had eyes for each other, anyway.

  “Of course,” Olivia said softly.

  THERE WAS A thud as someone fainted and tipped out of a pew.

  The poor unfortunate was left to roll in the aisle, as everyone was now staring at the church door, because Lyon had vanished out of it and no one was quite certain they’d actually seen him.

  One person crossed himself and muttered a prayer.

  “For God’s sake, he’s not a ghost, he’s just been gone for a surprisingly long time,” someone muttered irritably.