CONTENTS
Title
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Reading List
Want more
About
My One and Only Knight
A Merriweather Sisters Time Travel Romance Novella
Book 4
Cynthia Luhrs
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
My One and Only Knight, A Merriweather Sisters Time Travel Romance Novella
Copyright © 2017 by Cynthia Luhrs
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my fabulous editor, Arran at Editing720 and Kendra at Typos Be Gone
For JW, for making me laugh.
ONE
June 21, 1999—Holden Beach, North Carolina
“Come on, Mildred, just try it. How do you know you don’t like it unless you try?” Penelope “Pittypat” Merriweather eyed the red paint spattered on the ends of her hair before flicking the braid over her shoulder and waggling her brows, thoroughly enjoying her eldest sister’s discomfort.
“I am not cavorting under a full moon buck naked with you and your weird friends.” Mildred sniffed. The look on her face would turn the handsome knight, on a dangerous quest to win his lady’s hand, to stone with one glance.
Penelope watched her sister out of the corner of her eye. “You know clothing is always optional. We don’t mind if you’re the only one wearing strategically placed scarves.”
Instead of replying, Mildred made a face as if she’d smelled a dead skunk. Penelope laughed on the inside and pushed the cart up and down the aisles of the Harris Teeter, stocking up on last-minute essentials for the celebration tonight.
It was the summer solstice and a full moon—an auspicious sign, a time when she and her friends celebrated the ocean and sky, and gave thanks for everything good that had happened to them over the past three months. No matter what was happening in their lives, they celebrated every solstice on the beach. With a bag of green grapes in one hand and red in the other, Penelope mentally tallied how much food she needed for tonight. They’d be short three of the usual members; all three had family obligations and were out of town for several days. No matter—they’d be there for the next celebration.
“I think that’s everything. We’ve got the olives and cut-up veggies, cheese and crackers, and Rainbow is bringing her famous fudge and Hello Dolly bars, so that just leaves the most important item on the list…the wine.” She shivered in her shorts and t-shirt, which proclaimed, I can’t adult today, while they went over the list standing next to the refrigerated case containing dairy products.
Mildred dug in the huge taupe purse she never went anywhere without.
“Hold on, I’ve got a coupon for twenty percent off a case.” She looked at Penelope and winked. “Maybe they’ll let us use it twice.”
“Or three times.” Penelope laughed, filling the second cart her sister pushed. As they debated what to pick for the third case, a nasal, high-pitched voice shattered the air.
“Look, Annie, it’s that Merriweather woman.”
Annie wrinkled her nose as if she’d stepped in dog poo. “You know what they say.” She nodded to her friend.
“She’ll steal your man while you’re sleeping.”
Mildred snapped her bag shut and scowled. “I’ve got this, Pittypat.”
Oh boy, Mildred’s left eyebrow was twitching, which meant one thing: she was fired up. When their youngest sister, Alice, was small she couldn’t say “Penelope.” Somehow “Pittypat” came out of her mouth instead, and it stuck. From then on, everyone called her Pittypat instead of Penelope, even though she’d long outgrown the childish nickname and preferred Penelope—not that anyone had ever listened, but when it came down to what really mattered, the Merriweather women were always there for one another.
“If you can’t hold on to your man, he wasn’t really yours to begin with, so it isn’t really stealing now, is it?”
Mildred looked down her regal nose at the two women.
“By the looks of you two, I’m surprised you could catch a man, let alone keep one.”
“Why I never.” The woman gasped. “Come on, Annie, let’s get out of here.”
Annie tossed her rather orange hair. “Bless your heart, Mildred. Everyone knows no one will have a frumpy old thing like you, and while Pittypat sure can turn heads, she doesn’t have a clue how to hold on to a man. Your sister would have better luck holding on to a pig covered in bacon grease.” She sniffed. “Divorced eight times and never attends church.” Annie, the town gossip, waggled a finger. “Better take care you don’t stand too close, Mildred. Wouldn’t want to get struck by lightning.”
The women flounced out, and Penelope gently placed a hand on Mildred’s arm. “Let them go. Who cares what they think. The Merriweather sisters forever. Right?”
“You’re right.” Her sister’s nostrils flared, and she turned rigid, pushing the cart to the open checkout lane. As much as Penelope wanted to reach out and hug her sister, smooth away the hurtful words, it would only make Mildred bristle, so she kept a firm grip on the cart and her mouth shut.
The doors whisked shut behind the two busybodies, cutting off the ugly whispers as they left the grocery store. Mildred helped Penelope unload everything, and after being in the air conditioning, it was hotter than blue blazes outside. With the groceries safely stowed in the trunk and the overflow in Mildred’s Caddy, Penelope hopped into her 1960 blood-red MG roadster, tying a scarf over her hair.
“See you at the house.”
“Try not to break the sound barrier today,” Mildred called out as she climbed into the white Cadillac and then sedately drove out of the lot.
A woman Penelope had met on a road trip through Colorado had sold her the MG. The lady said her husband had recently passed away, and since he’d been nothing but trouble, she offered Penelope the car for a hundred bucks. Talk about a steal: it had been lovingly restored, with modern features added, like a fancy heated steering wheel and seats, and lots of speakers for the radio. So Penelope sold her big Mercedes and drove the cute roadster home, top down the entire way.
Sunglasses on, Penelope roared out of the parking lot, a song about longing and love filling the air as she sped back to her sanctuary, laughing as the wind whipped and made her feel alive as the sun beat down. Mildred always told her the car was so tiny and close to the ground that she worried it wasn’t safe, but Penelope would drive it until it fell apart. She loved every detail about the little car.
As she crossed over the bridge, Penelope relaxed. Almost home. The cottage sat at the far end of Holden Beach, dunes on the left and a huge house on the right, though the owner lived in Boston and only came to the beach a few times a year. He was in finance or something else high-pressured, and kept mostly to himself when he was in town, though Rainbow had a huge crush on the guy.
The street across from her was lined with rentals, though the folks staying there had to walk a bit to reach the public beach access,
so lots of times she had the beach to herself. Her sister lived several rows back; her house overlooked the intracoastal waterway. It was nice being able to walk to each other’s houses, though Mildred didn’t really like to have people over, said they ruined the furniture, which always made Penelope giggle, since it was covered in plastic and hot as Hades to sit on in the summertime.
Penelope snorted as her sister rolled to a stop behind her.
“I leave before you and you still beat me here,” Mildred said.
“Why do you think I donate so much money to the police?” As they carried the groceries up the steps into the kitchen, Penelope couldn’t resist teasing, “Anyway, if I ever get in trouble, that hottie, Will, will let me go, since he has a huge crush on you.”
Mildred sniffed. “Whatever.”
Penelope let it go but couldn’t keep the grin off her face.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking about how different people are.”
The wine landed on the counter with a thunk. “You know, Pittypat, you shouldn’t egg them on.”
“Come on, Annie and her friend should work for the CIA. They are the worst busybodies I’ve ever met.”
“You have to admit, you purposely go out of your way to be outrageous with your solstice parties and the fact you work from home. They don’t know what to make of you.”
“I write copy for tons of companies, so I’m busier than most people, and anyway, it’s not like I’m growing pot in the dunes. Let’s take a break. Do you have a few more minutes?”
“Sweet tea?”
“With mint, just like you like it. Go on out and I’ll pour.” Penelope poured the tea into Mason jars, put on a mint-green crochet cozy for hers and a white one for her sister, and took them out to the porch, where they stretched out, listening to the waves hit the shore.
“Don’t you want to be normal?” Mildred asked.
“Normal? What is normal? Something made up by a bunch of stuffy old bats. I’m me, normal or not, so who cares? Don’t people have better things to do than worry about what I’m doing with my life? If they spent as much time on themselves, this world would be a better place.” Penelope set the glass down hard enough to rattle the spoon.
Mildred rolled her eyes. “Can’t you at least knock off the naked cavorting?”
“Honestly, if they don’t want to see a bunch of women appreciating nature and shouting out our thanks, they shouldn’t peep from behind the dunes.”
Her sister threw up her hands. “I give up.”
“Don’t worry, Mildred, they know you’re normal and I’m the weird one. You know that’s why Alice left—she couldn’t stand the small-town gossip.”
“We will agree to disagree, I guess. Are they bringing the girls out for a week before they go back to school?”
Penelope sipped the icy tea feeling the salty air settle on her skin. “She said they’d all come the middle of August right before the girls go back to school. I’ll put them up here.”
“Good. Those girls are adorable, but goodness they make a mess.” Mildred stood, smoothing her silver bob back into place. “Have fun tonight. Try not to make too much noise.”
“I love you too, Mildred.” Penelope hugged her sister tight, then went inside to work. There was a lot to do before the sun set.
TWO
August 1305—England
Oakwick Manor smoldered in the deepening dusk, the flames melting into the red sky as Thomas Wilton watched the destruction of his family home. He absently patted his sister, Josephine, on the shoulder as she sniffled into his tunic, her sobs muffled by the cloth.
It was his duty in life to look after them, even if they were a product of his late father’s adultery. No matter; family was family, and he would see them provided for the rest of their days. Without responsibility and honor, civilization crumbled, leaving the weak to be preyed upon by the wicked.
“There, there, Josephine. We will rebuild, better than before. Oakwick will rise again.”
Her reply was muffled as he looked up to see his younger brother, Heath, striding toward them, hair mussed from running his hands through it—or, more likely, from staying up gambling and wenching all night.
“What the bloody hell happened?”
This set off a new round of wailing from Josephine. Thomas looked around, grateful to see the housekeeper. “Mrs. Lind, please take Josephine to the cottage.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a small guest cottage on the grounds that had survived the blaze where they could spend the night until he found more suitable accommodations for everyone.
A servant said a candle fell, causing the blaze, but Thomas felt the wrongness of the tale in his gut. Not sure how he knew, only that he did, he turned on his heel and strode to the still-intact stables, Heath trailing behind him, complaining about his head aching.
“What—”
Thomas put a finger to his lips, and once they were deep in the stables, now quiet with the horses moved to safety, he cleared his throat.
“I do not believe ’twas an accident.”
“The servants said a candle toppled and started the fire. You do not believe them?”
Thomas tapped his lip, thinking. His gut had served him well on the field of battle many times, and he would trust it now. “There are those who always seek to harm others—mayhap another wool merchant or a man sniffing after your sister, thinking he can steal her away. One of the stable boys saw a man watching Josephine a few nights ago.”
“Don’t worry, Tom. You know Jo; she has lots of suitors. You worry overmuch.” Heath peered at him. “I know you think me lazy, wenching and drinking all day, but I am a man and can look after her. You have no reason to care for us.” He cuffed Thomas on the shoulder. “I see you’ve a few new scars. Is it true, then?”
Instead of replying, Thomas arched a brow, waiting.
“Wallace was captured?”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, wishing for a bath that was hours away, if at all this night. “’Tis true. I saw it with my own eyes.”
His brother whooped and raised a hand in the air. “Why aren’t you happy?”
“It could have been my head going to the noose. The smuggling the past few years to get the wool trade up and running. Wallace is a warrior. In another life, I might have called the man friend.”
“You need a cup of ale and a wench. You’re maudlin. Too much fighting, not enough wenching.” Heath laughed.
Thomas’s brother had no responsibilities, happy to let life unfold as it would while he laughed and loved. Thomas had no time for love, which reminded him to search for a wife this year. Someone content to run his home while he handled business and fought in tourneys, building up his fortunes. If they suited and did not argue overmuch, he would be content. He did not begrudge the children of his father’s dead mistress their joy, only wished he might find a reason to laugh again.
Since his parents had been killed in a carriage accident in London when Thomas was thirteen, he had taken his responsibilities for his family and his people seriously. Days like today, looking at the smoking ruins of his home, he wanted to run away and lose himself in battle, not worry about anyone but himself, laze about and grow fat while his children played in the sun and his wife took care of the estate and people, but not today.
Today he would see the two most important people in the world—not bastards but Wiltons, and Wiltons always took care of those who belonged to them, to the cottage. Then he would make arrangements for rebuilding to begin, ensure his servants had somewhere to sleep. Then, and only then, would he have a bath, scrape the grime off his weary body, and enjoy a cup of ale.
THREE
A group of curious gulls bobbed their heads in time with the drums, and a few sang along to the violin as Penelope and the others danced under the light of the full moon, the ocean glittering like black crystals where the light caressed the water. The sound of the waves pulsed through her as she swayed back and fort
h, grateful to live on the water, surrounded by friends, and happy…or maybe content was a better word. Only one thing was missing from her life. The mate to her soul.
A distant rumble had her looking up, and when she looked back down, her shadow had deserted her, the only remaining light coming from the houses further down the beach. The moon was banished by the clouds, and the wind wailed through the grass on the dunes, adding a discordant note to the night’s festivities. Rain fell, gently at first, then stinging as thunder rumbled closer like a herd of horses galloping across the sky, and lightning imprinted itself on the back of her eyelids.
There were shrieks and laughter as the music stopped and the women ran for the house, scattering the gulls. The women’s tan bodies, illuminated by the frequent flashes of lightning, stood out in stark relief against the storm. There was a huge basket waiting by the door filled with monogrammed towels, and each woman grabbed one, drying off. They were soaked, but as no one wore any clothes, it was only their hair that dripped on the floor, leaving tiny pools of seawater. They all wound towels around their heads, looking like part of a multicolored harem of some long-lost sultan.
“There’s another basket in the bedroom for your wet towels. Go on and change into comfy clothes while I pour the wine.”
“Red for me,” Rainbow said. Several others called out red or white, and a few wanted St. Germain and bubbly, a summertime favorite here at Gull Cottage.
Penelope tossed her towel in the laundry room and pulled on a red silk caftan. She quickly wound her long sable hair into a French twist, noticing the gray. She’d been lucky: all the Merriweather women turned gray early, some as young as twenty, others in their forties, but they all ended up a beautiful silver, unless they circumvented nature and visited their hairdresser to try and hold back time.
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