Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  She had been sincerely grieved not to be in York to tend Lord Swenton’s injuries and to comfort him after, yet, another tragedy plaguing his household. “He has come,” she whispered with a girlish grin. Isolde had hoped against hope Lord Swenton might call upon her after his year of mourning, though she suspected the baron might wish to distance himself from her and the memory of his late wife.

  But once again, Lord Swenton had proved himself made of a sterner disposition. He had shunned propriety to call upon her household and to ask permission to speak to her father. She prayed her Papa would not deny the baron for she dearly loved the man. Love? The idea of loving John Swenton did not frighten Isolde as she had thought it might. As his wife, she would hear his voice as he called her to his side or when he moaned her name in passion. She would no longer be alone. It would be they two. “And perhaps some day children.”

  The thought of tending to her own family sent Isolde’s heart to flight. Leaving the dreary landscape upon which she had stared since entering her favorite sitting room, Isolde had closed her eyes and swayed in place. Happy beyond all possibilities, a song of love rose to her lips, and she sang softly, permitting her heartsong to set her feet in motion. She turned and dipped and laughed as the room spun around her. It was a miraculously magnificent moment.

  *

  Padraic Neville had directed John’s steps to a first storey sitting room. “It was my mother’s favorite,” the younger Neville had explained with a soft accent. “I am certain Isolde awaits you there. After you have spoken to my sister and have had time to enjoy Izzy’s response, we will speak again.”

  John offered the man an aristocratic nod. “It will be my honor, Neville.”

  Leaving the younger Neville at the top of the stairs, John had quickly traversed the distance to arrive at the open sitting room door. Within Isolde hummed a bewitching tune and laughed freely while swaying gracefully to a tune only she had heard. The sight of her, so happy and carefree, touched his heart. “Please God,” he said in a silent prayer, “permit me always to see Isolde as such.”

  Mesmerized by her appearance, John entered the room on noiseless feet, and when she turned, he caught Isolde in a waltz–one more intimate than propriety would tolerate in public, but this was his private moment, and John meant to enjoy her closeness. “My Lord!” she gasped, but she came readily into his embrace.

  John touched her lips with his fingertip to silence her protest. “Shush, Darling.” He led her through a complicated twirl about a table. “This has been one of my dreams. Permit me to enjoy it.” John had the answer to the question he had asked himself repeatedly upon his journey. Did he love her? His heart answered with a resounding affirmation. Like a rolling sea, a fierce possessiveness swept over him. Finally, he slowed their steps.

  Isolde’s eyes danced with mischief, and he wondered if he had ever seen a more beguiling smile. “When shall I have the pleasure of living out my dreams, Lord Swenton?” she asked with a flirtatious dip of her lashes.

  She was excitingly beautiful, and John felt the familiar tug in his groin. Her cheeks were flushed with the exertion of the dance, creating the image of a woman in the throes of passion. He still held her about the waist, but with his right hand, he caressed the softness of her cheek. “If I am part of those dreams, Miss Neville, I will make each come true.”

  She played with the lapels of his jacket. “Was a waltz your intent in coming to Ireland, my Lord?”

  John’s fingers slid down the long column of her neck. “As exquisitely delightful as it was, I had hoped for something more long lasting.”

  Isolde spun from his embrace and with a coquettish curtsy, she laughingly said, “I am inclined, Lord Swenton, to hear what you wish to say.”

  John bowed eloquently. “Miss Neville.” He smiled happily when Isolde blushed. She knew he meant to propose, and he knew the lady would accept. It was a beautifully enjoyable game they played, and for a change, his heart was light. “From the first moment of our acquaintance, I have felt an unspeakable attraction, as if you are the other half of my heart–of my reason. As such, I wish to express my deepest regard and to ask you to make me truly the happiest of men.” He silently began to count: One. Two. And then she was in his arms again, kissing him as he remembered from the Newcastle inn. Isolde clung to him, and John edged her closer still, wishing to be inside her, finally to know this incomparable woman’s love.

  A clearing of a throat from the vicinity of the door forced them apart, but John did not release Isolde’s hand. They turned to meet her father’s scowl. “I am assuming, Baron, you have secured my daughter’s agreement.”

  “Yes, Sir.” John would not permit her father’s reluctance to quash this moment.

  “Please, Papa,” Miss Neville pleaded. “This is my dearest wish. Be happy for me.”

  Mr. Neville’s gaze scanned the room. “From the first day I brought your mother here, Maebh loved this room. When I look upon it, it is hard to believe she will never again sit with me before the hearth or bury her mending in the basket under the table.”

  Isolde released John’s hand to rush to her father’s side. “You shall never lose me, Papa. I shall always be your little girl, but please know I wish to hold the same happiness you and Mama did.”

  Neville looked lovingly upon his daughter’s upturned countenance. “And you think Lord Swenton can bring you contentment, Izzy?”

  She turned then to John and smiled, and he returned the gesture. “Oh, yes, Papa. I have never forgotten one of the stories you have shared of your and Mama’s great love, and I mean to create my own ‘happily ever after’ with His Lordship. There is no debt of honor to be paid for Lord Swenton’s involvement in my discovering you in Newcastle. We acted together from respect for each other. The baron and I will enter this joining with love in our hearts.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  He had spent five weeks with the Nevilles, earning her family’s respect and wooing his lady. Some days they walked out together; other days they rode across her family’s land or into the village. Each day, John learned something new and wonderful about his future wife. With her brother and sister in marriage, they had shared evenings with neighbors and extended family.

  John and Padraic had developed a healthy esteem for each other, mainly because John had counseled the forward-thinking Padraic on means to greater yields from his crops and by assisting in financing several major improvements for the family farm. It was odd: the elder Mr. Neville kept one eye on the past, while his son kept one on the future.

  Finally, their wedding day had arrived. There was no reason for the extended wait other than to provide Isolde’s family, meaning her father, time to accept their joining for the Catholic church did not require a calling of the banns; yet, John was glad to learn more of his new family. For a man starving for familiarity, he was drowning in future cousins and aunts and uncles and loving every moment of the exchange.

  “I have something special for you,” he whispered to his bride as they sat together at the head table of a celebratory gathering at her family seat. Fifty or more guests wandered about the rooms, enjoying the plentiful spirits and food.

  “You have given me so much, my Lord,” she protested, but John recognized from the lightness in her tone, he had piqued Isolde’s interest.

  He reached into his pocket. “This is not more jewels,” he warned. Before parting Yorkshire, he had chosen several pieces from the Swenton family collection to present to her in anticipation of her agreement to his proposal.

  “I do not require jewels, my Lord.”

  He turned her palm face up and placed a handkerchief wrapped weight into its center. Then he watched with anticipation as she unwrapped the gift of his heart.

  “It is the stone from Newcastle,” his wife said with tender wistfulness before presenting him a beguiling smile. “You kept it.”

  John caressed her cheek. “You charged me with its safekeeping. Moreover, you promised the stone would bring me good for
tune, and it has. It has brought me you.” He turned it over and waited.

  Tears sprung to his baroness’s eyes. “When? It is perfect, my Lord.” Her fingers traced the letters he had had carved into the soft rock. “I love you,” she had whispered.

  “And I love you.” He brought the back of her hand to his lips before smiling. “I cannot take back the words. They are, literally, written in stone. In a rock older than time.”

  She rested her head upon his shoulder. “May we leave for Dublin soon?” Her voice was husky with desire.

  “Come, Baroness.” He kissed her forehead. “It is time we begin our lives.”

  *

  They had spent three glorious days locked in their rooms at a Dublin inn. John had not thought it possible to enjoy intimacies so often, but he and Isolde had proved him quite wrong. Yet, even so, he could not shake the desire that intensified every time he looked upon his wife’s countenance. His need for Isolde gnawed at him, leaving John raw, with only Isolde’s touch to soothe his agony.

  They had kissed repeatedly within the privacy of his coach, but the kisses they had shared within the confines of their room had been different. Demanding. Giving. Passionate. Innocent. John had nibbled upon her lower lip. Her ear lobe. Her breasts. Isolde had been self-conscious, but exploring. When John had entered her for the first time, he realized how perfectly they fit together. He had never so completely teetered on the edge of control as he had when her moist canal had readily surrounded his shaft.

  Fire crackled in her hair and upon her skin, so soft that John wished he had brought the entire Swenton gem collection with him just so he could have the pleasure of covering her with diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies. She was his Irish princess, his Isolde. Eve in her greatest temptation, and John had no desire to refuse. He had explored her inch by delicious inch, sending her to the brink of ecstasy and following her down.

  When Isolde had squirmed against him, seeking her release, John had rushed to finish–the most basic desire for gratification driving him. She was his, and no one would ever come between them.

  That had been some four months prior. They had returned to York and had dutifully taken up their responsibilities, but it was rare John did not seek her out several times per day. Often, they would slip into an empty room, and John would drink his fill of his wife’s lips. On other occasions, he coaxed Isolde into her bedchamber for a few hours of the first genuine affection he had ever known. The engraved stone John had presented her rested upon her bedside table, and it had become their habit when they retired each night for him to cup the back of her hand with his, and they touched it together.

  “My Lord.” Her tongue traced John’s ear as she crawled up the length of his body. They had experienced intimacies twice, but his manhood had responded to her nakedness nonetheless. His wife’s mouth slid down his body, leaving a trail of heat where lips skimmed his skin.

  Unable to resist her, John caught Isolde to him and took her mouth with great pleasure. “Whatever you wish, Isolde, it is yours,” he rasped as he buried his face in the crook of his baroness’s neck.

  Her breathing shallowed, but Isolde managed to say, “I wish for us to marry.”

  John ceased his efforts. Raising his head to look suspiciously upon her. “We are married, Baroness.”

  “But not in the eyes of the Church of England,” she argued.

  The priest, who had performed their ceremony, had counseled John regarding John’s responsibilities to Isolde’s faith, having insisted that John consider raising any children they might produce as Catholics. As he had never been the most devout of God’s followers, John held no objections if his wife chose to teach their children of her religion. When they had returned to his home, he had not pressed her into a Protestant joining because he wished Isolde to know his care for her opinions. “Has Mr. Nettleson been a nuisance again?”

  Isolde tugged the counterpane over her nakedness before sitting up. “No. Nettleson has not addressed the issue since you soundly rebuked the clergyman for dictating your behavior.”

  “Then what is amiss? Do you doubt the legitimacy of our joining?” After having known Satiné, John would never dismiss the possibility of another error.

  “No. Nothing of the sort.” She bit her bottom lip in distraction. “I wish our children recognized by the Church as your legitimate heirs.”

  John sat beside her on the bed. “If this is your wish, Baroness, it will be done. Do you have a particular date in mind? Although we are legally married, the Protestant banns must be called unless we choose a more sophisticated alternative. A special license?” He paused to examine her countenance to observe if his suggestion pleased her. When she made no comment, he continued, “In three weeks, then. If we ask Nettleson to speak the banns this Sunday, the time could be but fifteen days after.” He pressed her backward to rest upon the pillows. “I will speak to the clergyman tomorrow.” His fingers lingered against the warm silk of Isolde’s skin.

  She worried her bottom lip as if in decision. “Could we speak our vows without Nettleson’s habitual sermons?”

  John nodded his understanding before suggesting, “All my friends have found happiness after speaking their vows at the Linton Park Chapel. Would you hold objections to my asking Lord Worthing for his permission to use his family’s chapel?”

  Isolde readily admitted, “I would enjoy being a part of one of your traditions and meeting more of your associates. I thoroughly enjoyed my acquaintance with Lady Lowery.”

  “Then consider it done. I will send an express to Worthing in the morning and a second letter to request Doctor Perry’s cooperation. I will also inform Nettleson, as the banns must be posted in the home parish unless you would prefer I seek a special license. In truth, few of the aristocracy practice the calling of the banns. If not a special license, a common license is easily acquired.” Whenever she was near, John sought a means to bring a spark of happiness to her eyes. He knew it was early on in their marriage, but he found his wife absolutely irresistible.

  She kissed him tenderly. “I care not as long as the deed is done in a timely manner.”

  John enjoyed her kiss, but Isolde had piqued his curiosity. “Why now, Isolde? Neither of us appeared to care to claim Protestant recognition until it was deemed necessary.”

  Her lips lingered temptingly close to his. “Because Mrs. Ridley says I am likely approaching three months enciente.”

  “You are with child?” Excited disbelief rushed through him. “We are to be parents?” His heart clenched with poignant excitement.

  “Yes, my Lord,” she said simply. “I pray this news pleases you.”

  Smiling in mock amusement, he caught her to him. “Everything about you pleases me, Lady Swenton. You are the desire of my heart. These past few months have been the most magnificently perfect days of my life.”

  *

  And so they had all returned to Linton Park: His friends. Their families. His family. Eight men and the “Shepherd” who had brought them together in a brotherhood. Seven aristocrats, a gentleman’s son, and a country farmer. The Kerringtons’ nursery brimmed with life: There was the “motherly” three-and-a-half-year-old Amelia Kerrington, so like her mother, Lady Eleanor, who oversaw the care of her six-month-old brother, Philip, the “spare” in the Kerrington household, as their fourteen-years-old brother Daniel would be their father’s eventual heir as the Earl of Linworth. Joining those two permanent residents of the Linworth nursery, their group had added the nearly two-years-old Edward Fowler, the duke’s heir, and his one-and-a-half-month-old sister Louisa; the Wellston twins, Margaret and Lionel, now sixteen months strong; Thomas Kimbolt, Lord Lexford’s heir, who was eighteen months of age; Luis Crowden, age three and his four month old sister Chantal; Piers Lowery, the baronet’s two-month-old heir, as well as Lucifer Hill’s ten-month-old Benjamin. Eleven children strong.

  The schoolroom sported the ever vivacious nine-years-old Sonali Fowler, the child whose mother they had rescued fro
m Shaheed Mir and to whom they had served as honorary uncles; the seven-year-old Aaron Kimbolt, Lexford’s nephew and ward; and Simon Warren, whose guardianship the Lowerys had assumed after Lady Lowery’s late husband had discarded the child.

  Soon his child would become part of another “brotherhood,” the children of the Realm. Who knew how many there would be in total for his friends continued to claim the happiness of home and family. In addition to Isolde, Lady Lexford was some five months heavy with child and the Yardleys would know further happiness at about the same time as John tasted it for the first time.

  “You finally placed your honor aside,” Pennington said softly from beside John, “in order to claim your destiny.”

  John watched Isolde as she laughed and conversed with Eleanor Kerrington, Grace Crowden, and Lucinda Lowery, Isolde’s first true friend among the Realm ladies. “You err, Sir,” he said with satisfaction. “I have never, for one moment, abandoned my honor. I have, however, softened my desire for perfection, and in doing so found a woman who makes me want to be a better man. As Cicero said, ‘Semper in fide quid senseris, non quid dixeris cogitandum.’ In honorable dealings you should consider what you intended, not what you said or thought. I was born with honor, Sir. It is the spine of my soul. I cannot act otherwise, even when honor brings capitulations to my door.” He bowed curtly to Pennington. “As Shakespeare said, ‘If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.’”

  With that, he strode away. Some day he would forgive Pennington’s recent leadership of the Realm. Some day, John would replace his stinging umbrage with fond memories of their earliest days, but not today. Today, he would cherish the idea of correcting the all-knowing Pennington. “Come, my Dear,” he said as he caught his wife’s hand. “The Countess of Linworth has arranged a spectacular wedding breakfast to celebrate our joining.”