“Indeed. We damn near broke our necks in the process, but it was a hot day, he had his shirt off and his muscles were deliciously bathed in sweat. I had taken him a cool drink, you see and, well, one thing led to another and the next thing I knew, my skirts were over my head and--” she gave a little shrug and half turned as Willerkins entered the conservatory carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses. Her cane came out with the swiftness of a cobra, prodding him in the chest. “Where the devil do you think you are going with those?”
“You told me to fill the alcoves with flowers, madam.”
“Not those flowers, dolt. I specifically ordered the red roses for my bedroom. There are enough roses and other blooming creations of every description and color to turn this entire house into a bordello, but I want those roses for my room.”
“Yes, dear madam.” He gave a conspiratory little smile, bowed and turned away. “I live for your forgiveness.”
Florence waited until he was gone before she chuckled. "I believe that was for my benefit, for he knows how red roses inspire me, especially when the petals are sprinkled between the sheets.”
With Anna staring in amazement, Florence tucked a stray hair beneath her cap and murmured, “Perhaps I should go and see that he dispatches them properly.” She turned and gave Anna a broad wink. “If we are gone missing for a few hours, do not send anyone to look for us. Some things take longer as one grows older. Any questions that want answers, I am sure you can provide them.”
Anna listened to the echo of the cane fading along the hallway and she smiled. Another echo whispered in her ear; that of her aunt’s advice the morning they were in her bedroom and she was looking for the sapphire ring.
I would not have traded his love for all the princely titles in the world. You deserve nothing less, Annaleah Fairchilde. And you should not settle for anything less either.
She had not settled. Despite every obstacle fate could throw against them, she had not settled and her reward was a man who loved her for all the right reasons. Florence had been ecstatic when she had seen them alight from the carriage, and she had gazed at them through watery eyes when they told her they had married on board the Bellerophon. That had not stopped the cane from lashing out and bruising Emory’s shin for not having had the courtesy of inviting her, but all had been forgiven when they asked if they might have a more official ceremony here, at Widdicombe House.
Anna walked out the french doors and held a hand above her eyes to shield them from the bright sunlight. She saw Arthur right away, his arms outstretched, stalking a stray cat as if he was a hawk circling above his prey. Stanley and Seamus Turnbull were with him but there was no sign of Emory.
The big Irishman saw her first and pointed toward the cliffs, and, ten minutes of brisk walking later, that was where she found him. He was on the beach, standing almost in the exact place she had found him almost two months earlier. In anticipation of the upcoming ceremony, he had cut his hair and taken to dressing in fine jackets with proper shirts and tightly wound cravats, but his sleeve was stained from climbing trees with his brother and he had removed his boots and stockings to walk barefoot in the surf.
You deserve nothing less, Annaleah Fairchilde.
Laughing to herself, she picked her way carefully down the path but he did not look around until the soft crunch of sand marked her approach. He held out both arms and when she came into them, he pressed a kiss into the dark silk of her hair. She looked up, happy to let him kiss her a long, leisurely time. And even then, she was reluctant to let go.
“My dark haired angel,” he murmured. “I have been standing here wondering what would have become of me had you not come walking that day.”
“It does not even bear thinking about,” she said, nestling close against his chest.
“No,” he said, tipping her mouth up to his again. “It does not.”
*****
AUTHORS NOTE
Often I am asked where I get my ideas for a book, and most times I reply with a blank look and a shrug and say: It just happens. In this instance, the idea came from a small notation in a history book that stated Napoleon and Joseph did indeed look enough alike that they attempted to switch places after the defeat at Waterloo. It started me thinking, wondering what might have happened if they had succeeded in pulling off the charade and Napoleon had escaped to America....
What really happened, however, was that Napoleon was sent to the barren island of St. Helena in the South Atlantic, where he remained until his death in 1821. There has been some speculation over the past century and half over the exact cause of that death. Reports at the time listed it as a malignant tumor in his stomach that perforated. Modern DNA testing on strands of his hair, however, have revealed an inordinately high concentration of arsenic, suggesting he might well have been slowly poisoned to death.
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