by Sandra Heath
The moment that single shot was fired, Athan knew John was safe, and took careful aim. With Paul well and truly in his sights, he fired.
Paul grunted and his eyes widened with shock as the bullet entered his heart. “No!” he breathed, and still found the strength to lunge forward to try to grab John by the throat. But John jerked aside, and Paul pitched past him into the waiting water. He floundered there for a moment, but Athan’s aim had been true. The last thing the dying man uttered, before disappearing beneath the Neva forever, was Nikolai Trepov’s name.
Athan knelt on the jetty to cradle Ellie in his arms again. “It’s over, sweeting, it’s over,” he said gently.
“My uncle ... ?”
“Is safe, and I can see him rowing back to us right now.”
Within moments the boat bumped against the jetty, and Athan caught the rope John tossed to him. John grinned. “That was damned fine shooting, Athan.”
“It needed to be,” Athan replied frankly. “The angle was tight, and an inch or two to the wrong side and I’d have shot you instead.”
John clambered out of the boat, and glanced past him at the people hurrying across the lawns, drawn by the shots. “Well, I came here to give the czar a tureen, but Prince Valentin’s butterfingers put a stop to that.”
Ellie began to laugh, and they both looked at her in astonishment. She smiled at them. “The czar will still have his tureen, for I brought the other complete one with me in a hatbox,” she explained.
* * *
It was May Day the following year, and a christening party was gathered around the font at St. Dwynwen’s Church. Ellie, dressed in lemon silk and fine ivory lace, had her baby boy, John, in her arms, wrapped in a shawl that Mrs. Lewis had crocheted for him. Athan, in a gray coat and cream cord pantaloons, was the proudest man in the world, and so happy he felt he would burst with joy. He had Ellie and a new son, and the future was full of promise.
The church was crowded with Castle Griffin servants and the people of Nantgarth, as Athan gazed lovingly at his wife and child. He whispered, “I love you, Lady Griffin.”
“And I love you, Lord Griffin,” she whispered back, and smiled as the baby made a little cooing noise.
The church door opened, and John strode in. He hurried to the font, his expression filled with apology. “I’m so sorry I’m late, but a fellow from London called just as I was leaving, and has given me the biggest order I have ever received. The fact that the czar has one of my tureens has certainly done wonders for business! And do you know, he just happened to have visited the Tower of London last week, and saw the new Sword of Concord. He says the red diamond looks very handsome, very handsome indeed.”
Mrs. Lewis smiled to herself. Well, at least she now knew why Mr. Bailey had not been by the font when she looked in the tea leaves. Nothing sinister at all, just a fine fat order for his wonderful porcelain.
Outside, the mountain was cloaked in the vivid greens of late spring, and the sky was a matchless blue. Gwilym watched as Tatiana tied a little handkerchief in the thorn tree. She turned, their eyes met, and they smiled adoringly at each other. They were to be married at midsummer. Tatiana still found it hard to believe that the czar himself had granted her freedom, as he had her entire family, including the Trepovs.
They had learned of their liberty only a few weeks after Prince Paul’s ill-fated grand supper, on the day that the czar ratified the long-awaited treaty between Britain and Russia. St. Petersburg seemed a million miles away, and Tatiana was glad. This was her home now, and Gwilym was her world. She went to kiss him, and as their lips met, there was a swirl of water in the well, and a flash of silver.
Tatiana laughed and clasped both his hands. “I shall call you Merlin,” she said. “That is the name, yes? Merlin?”
Copyright © 2005 by Sandra Heath
Originally published by Signet (ISBN 9780451214492)
Electronically published in 2016 by Belgrave House/Regency
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is
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