The Legend of Lyon Redmond

by Julie Anne Long

  The vicar raised his voice.

  “If you would all kindly remain seated.”

  Adam had a stentorian and compelling voice, and as no one seemed to know what else to do at the moment, everyone seemed inclined to obey.

  Not everyone had yet realized that the beggar had just transformed into Lyon Redmond and all but vanished out the church door.

  Olivia whirled toward Landsdowne. Then toward the door. Then back toward Landsdowne. Then back toward the door.

  Absurdly like an opera dancer.

  The whole event, as delighted onlookers would later declare, was quite a show.

  “John—” she began. Apologetically. But, God help her, impatiently.

  He shook his head roughly. “I couldn’t bear it if you were kind, Olivia.” He sounded faintly, ironically bitter. “Just go to—”

  He was about to say “him,” but she didn’t hear it, because she’d already leaped like a stag and bolted down the aisle, her silver-trimmed wedding dress hiked in both fists, running for her life after Lyon Redmond.

  Chapter 23

  SHE BURST OUT OF the church door, which closed with a resounding, very final-sounding thud behind her as she pushed through.

  Two men appeared from seemingly nowhere and neatly barred it so no one could come after her.

  She swiveled in some surprise.

  Lyon’s crew. They’d clearly had instructions.

  As usual, he’d planned ahead.

  But where the devil was he?

  Then she whipped her head about like a weathervane, searching for him. Not in the churchyard, hidden among all the stones she knew so well.

  He’d vanished.

  She swore an oath that widened even the eyes of the men standing guard at the door. But perhaps they were under instructions not to tell her.

  Then she saw the door to the bell tower open a few inches.

  She dashed over to it, pushed it open and ran up the stairs, tripping once, tearing the silver-trimmed hem.

  And when she was at the top, her lungs heaving like bellows she stopped.

  He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, opposite the bell, in a pool of sunlight.

  One step ahead of her, as usual.

  He would always know what she needed before she did.

  For a time, her breathing was the only sound, and it echoed in the tower.

  And then:

  “Those were the worst few moments of my life.”

  His voice was husky.

  She wasn’t ready to forgive him. Or to speak. Or to do anything but keep him in sight, lest he disappear again.

  Because she had come to claim him now.

  “They were also the best moments of my life,” he added.

  She still couldn’t speak. Her Lyon. Standing here in Pennyroyal Green, in Sussex.

  Silence.

  A long sunbeam sent the dust motes gyrating in a celebratory dance.

  “If you’re wondering about the disguise . . .” He gestured to the tattered beggar’s coat, now crumpled on the ground. “. . . when I learned you were to be married, I wasn’t certain if I even wanted to see you. I wasn’t certain if I ever wanted to come back to England. I didn’t know if you were the same person I left. I didn’t know whether you were happy with Landsdowne, and your happiness was all I ever wanted. I should have known . . .”

  He paused.

  “I should have known I would go to the ends of the earth for you. I was born loving you. And no matter what, I would have fought for you.”

  She still couldn’t speak. With him, words had always been either unnecessary or never enough.

  “It nearly killed me to do it. But I was right to send you away.”

  It was both a question and a statement.

  But his voice had a husked edge, betraying his uncertainty. He was beginning to worry about her silence.

  And because she never lied, and because she couldn’t bear his suffering, the first word she finally said was:

  “Yes.”

  The word she should have said to him so many years ago. Yes, I’ll go with you. Yes, I’ll be with you. Yes, I believe in you. Yes, you are my life and my love and my destiny. Of course.

  Then again, it had taken everything up to this moment to understand all of this.

  But her voice was shockingly small and frayed and she knew she was going to cry.

  “I love you,” she added hurriedly. Because she’d longed to say it to him, and she couldn’t wait a moment longer. “I always have. I always will.”

  Those ought to be the wedding vows, Olivia thought. No one would ever utter those words lightly.

  Her words chimed in the room like a bell.

  He drew in a long breath, like a man who’d been under water too long.

  He strolled over to her, casually, easily, as if to say, “Look. Now we have all the time in the world.” He gave her a handkerchief. She took it and rubbed her fingers gently over the corner where his initials were stitched.

  She knew how her own handkerchiefs would be embroidered from now on: “OKR.” Olivia Katherine Redmond.

  “You knew what I would do today,” she said, dabbing her eyes.

  “Of course. Still, it shaved years off my life.”

  “We’d best make good use of the years you have left, then.”

  He sighed and pulled her into his arms, wrapping her tightly. She melted against his beloved body. He laid his cheek against her hair. And for a time they breathed together, savoring the luxury of simply holding each other. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips.

  He murmured those words again. “My love. My heart.”

  Not reckless now. Not innocent. Earned and true words, from one battered heart to another.

  INSIDE THE CHURCH, four people at last countermanded the vicar’s order to stay seated, and rose one at a time.

  Isaiah Redmond.

  Jacob Eversea.

  Isolde Eversea.

  Fanchette Redmond.

  And then the murmurs began to sough around them.

  Lyon Redmond Lyon Redmond Lyon Redmond Lyon Redmond that was Lyon Redmond.

  “My son . . .” Redmond said hoarsely. “Was that . . . was that my son . . .”

  “Where is my daughter?” Jacob demanded. He was making ready to scramble over the pew and bolt out the door, followed by the rest of the men of his family.

  “Friends!” Adam said. “Please. One moment please.” He raised his hands for silence.

  They obeyed.

  They turned to look at Reverend Sylvaine. And then they froze in place.

  The vicar nodded to Landsdowne, as if giving someone permission to give a eulogy.

  Landsowne drew in a breath.

  He stood before the congregation, one of love’s casualties, his face white and stunned.

  And despite a life lived faultlessly, destined to become part of a flash ballad and a legend, and, for a time, a verb (“I think she intends to Landsdowne him.”).

  Later everyone said he was the picture of graciousness, but then Landsdowne had always met life with equanimity, which was precisely the way life had met him, until he got mixed up with the likes of Olivia Eversea.

  He turned to face the congregation, who were now utterly still and watching him avidly, hoping to hear why on earth Olivia Eversea had just run out the church door like she’d been set on fire.

  But all he said, in an admirably steady voice, was:

  “My deepest apologies to those of you who came to see a wedding. Miss Olivia Eversea and I will not be married today, or ever.”

  He nodded his thanks to the vicar.

  Then he blew out a breath and retreated to behind the pulpit, to the shocked ministrations of the man who had stood up with him.

  Adam said, “Ladies and gentleman, friends and family, you may now return to your homes. There will be no wedding today.”

  Isaiah Redmond raised his voice. “My son! Where the devil is my son? Was that my—”

&nb
sp; “Isaiah.”

  He turned in surprise.

  It was the first word Isolde Eversea had said to him directly in over a decade.

  And his face, as it always did, softened, in a way he simply could not help.

  And that no one else watching could miss.

  And Isaiah loathed vulnerability.

  “Leave them be,” she said gently.

  Jacob took his wife’s arm. “We’ll go home,” he said tautly. “We’ll all go home.”

  A daughter bolting from the altar was practically a day in the life for an Eversea.

  “What if she . . .” Isolde Eversea looked desperately at her husband.

  And out of instinct born of years of love, for he knew Isolde so very, very well, he gave her his handkerchief as her eyes began to tear.

  “What would you have them do, Isolde?” Jacob said gently. But his jaw was granite. “She’ll come home. I know she will.”

  With a look into Isaiah Redmond’s eyes that, in another century, would have had the other man reaching for his sword to defend himself, Jacob Eversea led his wife away.

  And their relatives followed. Not having a wedding was almost as entertaining as having a wedding, given the circumstances.

  For nearly everyone who wasn’t the mother or father of the bride, that was.

  The usual rustle took place as everyone got up from their pews and filed for the door.

  Except for Landsdowne, who was still near the altar, hoping to remain invisible until he was able to make his escape with his own relatives.

  And Lady Emily Howell, who fought through the crowds to get to him.

  WHEN THE CHURCH was empty, and the roads were clear for as far as Adam’s eyes could see—he and his wife, Evie, even did a little search of the churchyard—he went to the bell tower and climbed to the top, careful to make a little extra noise the higher up he got. Just to warn them.

  Olivia and Lyon sitting together on the floor, his arm slung about her, her head on his shoulder, and they were talking and laughing quietly, as if they’d been married decades. She was sitting on his ragged folded-up coat.

  “Adam!” Olivia sat up guiltily with a start.

  Lyon put his hand gently on hers to reassure her.

  “I made his acquaintance before the ceremony,” Lyon told her. “And asked him to keep everyone seated, should you bolt after me. And I asked him to send everyone home, if you did bolt after me.”

  Because Lyon, after all, was a planner.

  Olivia sighed happily. “He knows me better than I know myself.”

  “Remarkable man, your Mr. Redmond, Olivia,” Adam said. Almost ruefully.

  Adam had fallen in love with an unlikely woman and he’d needed to fight for her, too. His methods were different from Mr. Redmond’s, but he knew without question when he was in the presence of true love, and it was holy.

  “Remarkable man, your cousin the Reverend Sylvaine.” Lyon smiled at the vicar.

  The two of them, each was certain, were destined to become friends.

  “Will your own wedding be here in Pennyroyal Green?” Adam asked.

  Olivia and Lyon looked at each other, and then turned to Adam, and together they said:

  “Yes.”

  AFTER THE WEDDING—or rather, after what was nearly a wedding—Isaiah Redmond retreated to his great shining desk in his library, where he had made so many brilliant decisions in his lifetime and one or two extraordinarily poor ones. He was picturing Olivia Eversea’s face this morning as she broke one man’s heart and leaped, like some kind of fierce angel, down the aisle and bolted out the door, her face ablaze with the kind of love he’d seen only once before in his life.

  In the face of Isolde Eversea when she’d looked at him.

  Everyone present had said Olivia had bolted after Lyon.

  Isaiah closed his eyes and breathed through the great, never-ending wound that was the loss of his oldest son.

  He didn’t know. He just didn’t know.

  His hands were shaking now. And it was too early to reach for the brandy and he didn’t want to be that kind of man, but life had dealt one thing after another to him in the past few years, and Isaiah feared he was finally beginning to age.

  A throat cleared politely at the entry of his office.

  He turned absently, reluctantly from his reverie.

  It was a footman. Whose eyes seemed unnaturally bright, and whose face was white.

  “What is it?” Isaiah said tersely.

  “Mr. Lyon Redmond here to see you, sir.”

  Isaiah froze.

  His breath stopped.

  He half stood.

  And slowly, slowly, his oldest son walked into the same room where he’d last seen him five years ago.

  An elegant man. Shockingly handsome. But a hard man. Isaiah could see that at once. His presence was both so peaceful and so uncompromisingly confident that Isaiah couldn’t speak through the weight of it.

  Lyon was here. Lyon.

  His stood in the center of the room before that shining desk.

  The silence rang.

  And the clock as usual swung off minutes.

  “Lyon . . .”

  Isaiah’s voice was a dry rasp.

  “Please don’t get up, Father.” He said this almost kindly.

  Isaiah sat down again.

  He didn’t ask Lyon to sit. It was very clear Lyon didn’t intend to. And Isaiah did not want to hear the rejection.

  And all was silence of an almost holy kind. The room had always had a hush thanks to dense carpets and velvet upholstery and curtains.

  Lyon had sailed wild seas and fought wild fights and seen lands far more dangerous.

  And even though this was home, it had lost its power to intimidate. For Lyon understood his father better now than nearly anyone else in the world.

  Isaiah drew in a ragged breath.

  And then another.

  He covered his eyes with one hand.

  His shoulders swelled and fell again as he released a huge sigh. And for a moment he seemed to be absolutely motionless.

  Until Lyon noticed that his father’s shoulders were shaking.

  Isaiah Redmond . . . was weeping.

  Lyon waited. He wasn’t unmoved, not entirely.

  But he could not and would not be the person to comfort his father.

  He didn’t know who truly would, for Lyon knew that true comfort was found only with someone who knows your very heart. Lyon loved his mother with a fierce protectiveness. But it was entirely possible Isaiah was one of the loneliest men in the world. Which might be the great tragedy of Isaiah’s life.

  Isaiah finally sighed and took another deep breath.

  He looked up at Lyon, his green eyes brilliant against the red now.

  “You’re an extraordinary man, Father. You always could bend nearly anything to your will. Except love.”

  “Lyon. Son.” His voice was still raw.

  “You once told me I had a choice,” Lyon said thoughtfully. “And perhaps you did at one time, too. The thing is, when you make the wrong choice, love breaks you.”

  Isaiah simply breathed. Watching him as if he was an apparition.

  “Father . . . I know about the investment you made under Jacob Eversea’s name as part of the Dreieck group. The Triangle Trade.”

  His father was motionless now. Lyon recognized that stillness. It was both an admission of guilt and a reflection of the old Isaiah, who would immediately begin planning how to maneuver this to his advantage.

  “I won’t tell you how I learned it, but I undertook to seek out the source for the woman I love. As you know, it’s one the things she feels most passionately about. It’s as part of her heart as I am. I feel passionately about it as well. And I can’t imagine that even you condone the practice of slavery, not even for profit.”

  Isaiah was absolutely silent and motionless.

  “So what was the plan? To expose Jacob Eversea eventually to the authorities? Or to ultimately make sure
this involvement came to light in order to destroy his reputation and tarnish him forever in the eyes of his wife and daughter?”

  The damning silence stretched.

  And then Isaiah spoke. “You don’t know our story, Lyon.” There was a hint of steel in that. A hint of warning. But Isaiah hadn’t the right to it, completely, and he knew it.

  “I am here to tell you,” Lyon said slowly. “that you best not try anything like that ever again. Ever. I cannot be clearer than that.”

  His father pressed his lips together.

  “I’m going to marry Olivia Eversea as soon as we can obtain a license. I should say next Sunday will be the day, here in Pennyroyal Green. You are welcome to be present. But neither she nor I have need of your money or approval.”

  Isaiah sighed, and merely nodded.

  “Father, I’ve learned a bit over the past few years. I am the best of you. I am the worst of you. I never surrender. I have a magnificent knack for making money hand over fist. And for what it’s worth, for better or for worse, I am the man I am today primarily because of you. So thank you.”

  “Lyon,” his father said again.

  Lyon waited.

  Isaiah cleared his throat. “I am . . . just . . . so glad . . . you are home.”

  Lyon knew it to be true. He knew his father loved him, in his own way. And that everything he’d done to everyone in his family was his attempt to justify a choice he’d made years ago.

  But it would never be right.

  Lyon simply nodded.

  The two men studied each other.

  Lyon hesitated, then asked the question that had haunted him.

  “Do you still love her?” his voice was soft.

  He meant Isolde Eversea.

  Isaiah simply looked at him. His eyes were still red, which made them seem even more brilliantly green.

  And at last he made a soft sound. Almost a laugh. Far too rueful, too fatalistic to truly be a laugh.

  And that was Lyon’s answer.

  “Does she still love you?” his voice was careful now. He was venturing into a place he was uncertain he wanted to go.

  “What do you think?” Isaiah produced a bittersweet ghost of a smile.

  Lyon held still, absorbing this.

  Because of course she did. He was certain of that, too.

  But she loved her own husband, too. That was clear to anyone who saw them together.