“Again, Sir Reginald, I will leave the decision entirely in your hands. I have no interest in what becomes of that woman.”
Amazing. If my noble friend was once too soft-hearted, he has certainly gotten over it.
“And I should also point out, Your Grace, that upon divorce for cause, she would lose all right to style herself ‘Duchess.’ She would become simply Mrs. Albertson, divorcée.”
“Good,” said the Duke.
“But Your Grace, I must admit—and here’s the crux of the problem—I’m at a loss as to what grounds we can claim divorce on. The Courts are very strict, Duke. I know you suggested insanity. But a judge is likely to see the Duchess’s murderous rage against Joanna as an example of a bad-tempered woman, not a crazy one. And what is more, there will be sympathy for her temper tantrums, when it’s shown you had taken Joanna as a mistress, right here in the Duchess’s own house.”
“I have not, Sir Reginald. I have not fully had relations with Joanna since the one time, nine years ago, when I fathered Hannah.”
“Excuse me, my old friend. I believe you, but no one else will. The blatant displays of affection between you are the talk of the servants’ hall. And with no way of showing that the Duchess committed any offense that would justify divorce—”
The Duke jumped to his feet and waved his arms to interrupt the barrister. “But that’s where you’re wrong, Sir Reginald!” His Grace was suddenly animated, practically hopping from foot to foot with glee.
The Duke pulled a sheaf of papers from under some books close by him. “Read this, Sir Reginald! And then tell me, my old schoolmate, which of us is the better lawyer!”
It was a letter written several months before. The sender’s address was given as Australia, and his name was one Rowland Albertson.
“Yes,” said Sir Reginald. “I wrote to this man, Your Grace, as you had instructed. I told him he would be your heir, if harm befell you.”
“And as fate would have it, shortly after receiving your letter, this cousin of mine overheard some talk in a Botany Bay public house that bears directly on our problem. Read it, read it!” The Duke could hardly speak. Excitement choked him.
When he had read the extraordinary letter, Sir Reginald sat down hard. “Duke, we have her. We have her. And Brown, too, I dare say. Congratulations, Your Grace. You will be a free man, thanks to this letter. And, Your Grace? I do hope you’ll invite a mere country lawyer like me to the wedding.”
Epilogue
Two Very Different Weddings
Joanna and Christopher had struggled mightily since the last time they had lain side by side in Christopher’s sickbed.
Now that they knew the depth of each other’s love, they could not help touching, embracing, kissing. It did not matter who saw them. Their love was right, whether the world agreed or not. They could hide it no more.
Christopher begged her to share his bed now. “Joanna, what can the world do or say to us that has not already been done or said? I want you so much, my darling. I cannot sleep at night from the need to possess you. It’s as if I were twenty again, and you eight-and-ten.”
But now, unlike the old days, it was Joanna who held back from satisfying their desires completely.
“We are not twenty nor eight-and-ten any longer. We are not reckless children playing in the woods. We are a woman and a man, with a child, and with responsibilities to that child and any other we might make.”
Christopher swore he would wed her. If the Duchess did not contest the charges, they would be free to marry thirty days after the court granted the divorce.
“She will not contest, Joanna. She would not dare, not with the evidence we have, and with Brown named as co-respondent. It won’t be long, and then you will be my wife in the eyes of the world, as you always have been in my own eyes. I swear it, Joanna.”
She did not doubt him. Christopher was a man of his word. But still, she wanted things done properly this time.
“Christy, until we can properly marry, I want to take Hannah and go back and live among my own people for a while.”
“No! I’ll lose you both, Joanna. They’ll take you both from me.” He put his head in his hands. “My life will be nothing if you leave me.”
“You will not lose us. I swear it. And it will only be for just a while. Remember Sir Reginald said we could jeopardize the divorce proceedings if we appeared to be cohabitating before a divorce is granted? He said we should live apart during that time, Christy. You know he did.”
“Damn Sir Reginald,” Christopher said, burying his nose in her fragrant hair. But he had to admit she was correct.
* * *
So Joanna and Hannah returned to the Travellers’ encampment just outside Gresham, to live in Maggie Mae’s caravan until Joanna could wed.
Maggie Mae cried with joy when she saw the two of them. “I feared I’d die afore ye came back to me,” she wept. “And now look at ye, so beautiful like ye used to be, Joanna. And is this really our Hannah, so tall and healthy a girl?”
Joanna thought she would have to bring the Travellers up to date. But it turned out they already knew nearly everything—about her trial, her exoneration, and the guilt of that wicked Mr. Coleman, who had been the real culprit.
Joanna heard how Cormac had been attacked at The Shield and Crown the night before her trial. But all was well now. Once Joanna had been found innocent, Cormac was welcomed back, with rounds of drinks and many apologies on behalf of “the few bad men in the Town who had treated him so terribly.”
“Although, in truth,” said Mac with a smile, “many of those making me apologies and buying me drinks were the very same fellows who threw the bottles at me. But it don’t pay, ye know, to dwell on the past. Bygones are bygones, in my book.”
“Bastards, every one o’ them Outsiders,” yelled someone in the crowd gathered round.
“Now, I wouldn’t say that, not quite. Nor would our Joanna, I think,” said Cormac, turning to Joanna with an obvious wink. “That Duke, now, is a fine man, by all accounts. Is he not, Joanna?”
And they all laughed in comfortable camaraderie, and a few whistled appreciatively. It seemed that the news of Joanna’s attachment had already preceded her. And miraculously, her people seemed to accept it.
Much later that night, when the other Travellers had retired to their own campfires, Mac stopped by the Bagley caravan alone. Hannah was asleep inside, but the two women were still up.
Maggie Mae poured some whiskey in hospitality, and the three sat for a while in silence.
“Joanna,” Cormac said, “there’s things I need to ask ye. No, Maggie Mae, stay—ye should be here for this, too.”
Joanna sensed that Mac was embarking on something serious.
“Now, Joanna, ye know yer Da was me dearest friend. And he shared some of the things nearest his heart wi’ me, including about yerself. So I feel that, wi’out yer Da here, I stand in his place as yer father, if ye know what I mean.”
“I do,” said Joanna. She hoped she would not cry.
“First off, now. I’m thinkin’ yer bairn is the Duke’s?”
“Aye. We were both very young.”
“Around the time when yon Duke saved yer Da from hangin’?”
“Aye. A few months after that.”
“Yer Da knew, ye know.”
“About Hannah?”
“Nay, he never knew there was a child out of it. And that’s mayhap for the best. He loved ye so much, Joanna girl, that he might ha’ killed the man. He didn’t know about that, but he knew ye two were sweet on each other. And the thing is, lass, he really liked the young fellow, for all that he was a nobleman and an Outsider.”
“I know. We talked about it. I asked him if he wanted me to stop seeing Christy. He said, no, he wouldn’t forbid me, but for both our sakes he’d prefer if I stopped seeing him. I think he knew I wouldn’t be able to stop, so he at least wanted me to be able to be honest with him about it.”
“Ay, that would ha’ been yer
Da’s way. He was a good man, Joanna, the best I’ve known.”
Joanna could not answer. She was crying too hard. Mac waited a moment, letting her get herself back under control.
“I know he liked him for ye. It broke his heart that there couldn’t be some path ahead for the two of ye, as man and woman. ‘Tis a shame, that.” Cormac shook his head.
“But there is, Mac!” Joanna’s head rose, and her wet eyes were gleaming. “We’re to marry! As soon as he can divorce the Duchess, plus thirty days. That’s what the Court requires. He’s going to marry me, and he’s going to name Hannah his legitimate daughter.”
“Good God.” Mac, usually so unflappable, sounded stunned. “Joanna, lass, these things don’t happen outside fairy tales. Ye’re beautiful, and kind, and good—especially compared to that miserable old biddy the Duchess. I don’t doubt he loves ye. But marry ye? Take on yer child? Girl, ye’re one of us, a Traveller. Ye’ve nothing but the clothes ye stand up in. He’s a Duke. That’s almost like being a Prince, or a King.”
“He doesn’t care,” said Joanna stubbornly. “He’ll wed me—he’ll make me his Duchess—he’s sworn it.”
“Then he’s a better man than any Outsider I’ve ever known,” said Mac in amazement.
Throughout this entire conversation, Maggie Mae had listened silently. Now she spoke up. “Once he’s free o’ the Duchess, what’s this business about waiting thirty days? Seems hard on young folk in love.”
“Well, it’s the law, Maggie Mae—”
“Outsider Law be damned,” said Maggie Mae forcefully. “Since when did we ever recognize Outsider Law, or think ourselves bound by it? Are ye in touch with yer Duke?”
“Aye, Maggie, there’s a secret place I leave him messages.”
The old woman rolled her eyes. “Secret messages. Young folk’s foolishness! Anyway, tell yer man he should plan to come to this forest on Midsummer’s Eve. We’ll hold a wedding for the two of ye. A real Travellers’ wedding. Mark me, the Travellers will be talking o’ this Midsummer’s Eve for hundreds of years to come.”
* * *
On the day of Midsummer’s Eve, a dozen of the Traveller women prepared Joanna for her wedding.
They took her to the bubbling stream to bathe. Christy and I used to catch fish here and ford the stream with our clothes up above our knees. They washed her hair—no longer waist-length in its former glory, but tumbling over her shoulders in glossy waves. Then they dried her hair with silk to make it shine.
They anointed her hair and her body with sweet, secret oils, said to have magical powers that would drive a man to distraction, murmuring phrases in their ancient Shelta tongue to enhance the spell.
They brought her back to the encampment, where they clothed her in a splendid wedding dress, made using donations from all the women of pieces of their own wedding dresses. The dress, tight and low-cut in the bodice but with a dramatically full skirt, shimmered in a thousand shades of red, gold, and violet.
They adorned her with gold jewelry, gifts from the other women in the camp: they laced her hair with braided gold, they draped her neck and bosom with gold chains, and gold shone on her ears, wrists, and fingers. It was the Travellers’ tradition: they had very little else, but no woman should be sent to her husband a pauper.
Finally, they enhanced her beauty with their own traditional cosmetics: charcoal to deepen her eyes mysteriously, and ruby dye from berries to redden her lips and color her cheeks.
The rest of the Travellers had been working all day. There was a bonfire to be built, and countless traditional dishes to be prepared. At every family campfire, women were busy roasting, boiling, and baking their contributions for the upcoming feast. The men brought out barrels of ale and jugs of their own distilled poteen.
It was nearly twilight when Christopher arrived, alone, at the encampment. All work stopped. All eyes were on him.
He was dressed simply. Fine dark breeches, kid riding boots, and a white silk shirt complemented his broad shoulders and slim hips, but did not distract from the striking handsomeness of his features.
No one quite knew what to say. This was the Duke, the master and overlord of their summer lands. Yet somehow he had come here tonight to join the Traveller family.
Before the silence could grow too awkward, Cormac stood and walked over to greet the Duke, his hands outstretched.
“Welcome,” he said, and bowed from his waist.
Silent, the Duke bowed equally low in return.
“Ye are welcome here, tonight and always, as one of us. We will not call ye ‘Yer Grace,’ for ye come to us not as a Lord, but as a brother and a son to each of us, and as a husband to our beloved Joanna. We would welcome ye as ‘Christopher,’ if ye will let us,” Cormac said.
Christopher nodded gravely. No one but Joanna had ever wished to call him that. Not even his family. He was deeply moved.
He answered Cormac simply and sincerely. “I am proud to wed Joanna, and proud that my love for her earns me a welcome into this ancient and venerable family of Travellers. Your history is far longer and nobler than my own, and there is nothing I can bring to this wedding feast that you do not already possess. But I shall try, in a small way, to repay your kindness to me. Henceforth, from now until forever, for so long as there is an England, I grant the Travellers an easement over these woods, giving you and your descendants the right to live here and to enjoy and consume the flora and fauna of this beautiful place, with none to hinder or disturb your peaceful enjoyment.”
There was silence for a few moments, while the full meaning of this gesture was considered. Then the entire band of Travellers, who for many centuries could call no land their own, burst into near-hysterical cheering.
After a while, Cormac raised his hand, and silence fell once again. “We thank ye for so heartfelt a gift. And may I welcome ye, then, Christopher, as I stand in the shoes of my late friend Domnall Bagley, to take the hand of his daughter in matrimony. Joanna, lass, come claim yer man.”
Joanna stood up. She walked over to Christopher and took his hand. There were ‘oooh’s’ of admiration from the crowd, for she looked every inch a Queen. An Outsider Duchess, perhaps, but a Traveller Queen.
Joanna held a long silk sash in her hand, the colors of her dress. Old Sal stood up, as the eldest of the Traveller clan.
She brought the couple’s hands together and laid the silken sash across them. “Will ye be bound to each other, in life and in death?” she asked.
Each assented. Old Sal then tied the sash in a double knot, binding their hands together. “It shall be written so, in the book of our history,” the old woman intoned.
“The broomsticks! The broomsticks!” people began to yell. A few lads ran out from the crowd and laid five broomsticks in a pentagon around the bonfire. Then one of the men, speaking in the Shelta tongue, put a light to the branches. Smoke wisped upward as the wood tried to catch flame.
“Hurry! Hurry!” the crowd called. “You’ll be too late!”
With their hands still bound, and Joanna in the lead, the pair jumped over the broomsticks, and over the small flame coming to life within the pentagon.
The group cheered mightily as Joanna and Christopher cleared the obstacle and joined, laughingly, in a passionate kiss. Behind them, the tiny Midsummer’s Eve flame burst into a roaring conflagration.
* * *
That was their true wedding night. Like many of the other young couples, they slipped away into the forest while the crowd feasted, drank, danced, and sang.
It was quiet in the woods, and very dark. Still, they found their way to the caves and went inside.
“Remember?” Christopher asked.
“Every moment,” Joanna replied. And even in the near-pitch darkness, her amazing eyes caught some glint of light and gleamed up at him.
He took her to a dry part of the cave, where a thick layer of summer leaves made a bed for them to lie upon.
“Let me do everything,” she said.
Joann
a stroked her lover’s handsome face. Opening the ties of his silken shirt, she rained kisses over his neck and his throat. Her fingers gently combed through the dark hair on his chest.
When she found his nipples, she began to play with them, pinching them and licking them as he so liked to do to her. It was a surprise to Christopher how this teasing aroused him. It was not enough to drive him to distraction—not quite—but it produced pleasurable sensations that were quite new to him.
He tried to reach up for her breasts, then, seeking to give her the same pleasure. “No, no, my love, I want to be the one to excite you. Let me,” Joanna reiterated.
Although fully clothed, she was able to loosen the neckline of her beautiful gown enough to expose her full breasts to Christopher. Straddling him, she leaned over so her teats could caress his face.
Not having shaved since morning, Christopher worried that the roughness of his stubble might be unpleasant to her. But she seemed to revel in it, taking her breasts in her own hands and rubbing them hard against his coarse beard until her flesh was a rosy pink and her nipples hard and red.
He wanted her breasts in his mouth, but she teased him, pulling them away when he tried to bite at them, seeming instead to concentrate on her own pleasure in rubbing them against his cheeks. His nose and mouth were buried deep in her cleavage, and he was drowning in the musky, spicy smell of her.
Finally, she gave in, guiding a breast into his waiting mouth, moaning softly as he sucked. “Harder, suck harder, Christy. Oh, I love this.” Urgent in her desire, she tried to push both nipples into his mouth at once, and he did his best to pleasure such a mouthful.
Her hand strayed below his waist. Beneath the fabric of his breeches, he was rock-hard. Through the thin fabric, her hand grasped and measured his member appreciately.
Reluctantly breaking away from their lovemaking momentarily, Christopher helped Joanna out of her bridal dress, and then he took off his own shirt and breeches.
Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 26