His Saving Grace

by Sharon Cullen

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Michael, and I’m so very thankful you’re here with me.”

  “What are we going to do, Gracie?”

  “We are going to fight for us, and we are going to survive and live a very happy life.”

  —

  The day of the festival dawned dreary and rainy. Grace was up early, for once leaving Michael to awaken on his own. Since the night she’d forced herself back into his bed, he had not tried to dissuade her from sleeping with him. In fact, it was at those times when they connected the most.

  Nearly every night, they made love, but even on the rare nights they didn’t, they slept fused together. The days were different. Michael stayed away from her, for the most part, either walking the land or holed up with Mr. Henderson and Mr. Roberts as they plotted and planned to take Blackbourne land from agriculture to industrial.

  Michael didn’t attempt to skip dinner with her again, and over time their conversations were less one-sided and more give-and-take. If they did not return to their old camaraderie and comfort, then they were at least closer to Grace’s goal of getting there.

  The enormous ball of anxiety that resided in her stomach was beginning to loosen. The old Michael was in there, or at least the best part of the Michael she’d married; she merely needed to be patient, bide her time, and chip away at the barriers he’d put up between them.

  When she finished dressing, she discovered Michael leaning against the doorjamb that connected their rooms. His smile was lazy, his eyes sleepy. Her stomach contracted at how delicious he looked. She briefly contemplated leading him back to bed to have her wicked way with him, but dismissed the idea. There was simply too much to do before the festivities started, and if they went back to bed, she feared they would spend the rest of the day there.

  “What is that smile for?” she asked.

  “Because you’re beautiful, and I like watching you when you don’t know I’m watching you.”

  She arched a brow. “Do you do that often? Watch me when I’m unaware?”

  “Often enough.”

  “That is quite rude, my lord.”

  “I care not, my lady.”

  Inside, she was smiling. It had been a long while since they’d bantered like this. “I will have to do the same, then.”

  “Ah, but you do already.”

  “I do? When?”

  “All the time. You watch me with a worried look as if anticipating my next faux pas.”

  Her inner smile slowly died. “That’s not why I watch you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried I’ll make a mistake? Forget someone’s name? Use the wrong utensil?”

  “I could not care less about any of that.”

  He pushed away from the door and sauntered toward her. “I didn’t say you cared.”

  “You said I was worried that you would do something wrong.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with worrying. I just noted that I was aware of it.”

  She’d misread him. He wasn’t in a playful mood. He was in a contemplative mood. She hated when he thought too much, because that inevitably led to dark thoughts.

  “You don’t like me worrying?” she asked.

  “I despise that you have to worry about me. I despise that I have to worry about me.”

  “I’m sure that will go away with time.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe we will always worry about what I will say or not say, or what I will do or not do.” He stopped just outside of her reach, that damnable barrier back in place.

  “What do you want me to say, Michael?”

  Something shifted in his eyes—regret, self-loathing. “I didn’t come here to be melancholy. I came to wish you luck with the festival.”

  She searched his face, confused and off balance. “You’re not attending the festival?”

  He seemed to think about that before he slowly nodded. “I might. I always enjoyed the festivals when I was a lad.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes. “Remember when we sneaked away and hid behind the blacksmith’s shop?”

  Of course she remembered. It was the first time he’d kissed her. They’d been little more than children, but she remembered as if it were yesterday. Her heart had pounded in excitement and nervousness. If they were caught, they knew, they would both be punished, but her curiosity had told her it would be worth it. She wanted Michael’s kisses more than she wanted to breathe and more than she didn’t want a punishment.

  There had been a whole lot of fumbling and clenched eyes and stiff lips. They’d learned much in the ensuing years, had perfected the art of kissing each other—among other things—but that feeling was the same. The breathless anticipation, the tightness in her stomach. The need that outweighed every other feeling inside her.

  A spark of her own mischief caused her to smile wickedly. “I don’t recall any blacksmith’s shop.”

  At first Michael appeared surprised, and then he smiled, a slow, seductive smile that had her heart hammering. “Maybe I should remind you.”

  “Are you planning to take me behind the blacksmith’s shop today, my lord?”

  “Definitely not. We are far more mature than that.”

  He cupped her chin in his hand and leaned down. And there it was again, that breathlessness, that waiting, waiting, waiting for him to draw closer, despairing that he ever would. And then he did. There was no fumbling this time, no awkwardness or shyness. He kissed her like a man who knew his business and knew how to please his wife.

  When they drew away, they were both a bit breathless and smiling.

  “If you don’t leave now, I fear you’ll not leave at all today, and the ladies of the festival committee will be breaking down my door in search of you.”

  “We can’t have that.” After all these years, she still had a difficult time catching her breath after his kisses.

  He stepped back. “You best be off.”

  She walked to the door on unsteady legs and turned to him before leaving. “Come find me when you get to the festival.”

  He smiled softly. “I will. Now go.”

  She blew him a saucy kiss and left, her mind already shifting to the tasks she needed to get done before the festival started.

  —

  Michael stood out the window in Grace’s bedroom and watched his wife leave the house. She climbed into the waiting carriage and headed to town as the carriage splashed through puddles.

  He’d told her he might go, but he was unsure. Just the thought of wading through the crowds exhausted him. The noise, the people, the confusion seemed too much to bear. But he couldn’t bear to disappoint Grace.

  He thought of other festivals. Chiefly, he thought of the festival that changed everything for him. It was the year he’d turned sixteen. He and Grace had known each other for what seemed like forever. He would always remember the first time she’d caught his attention as something other than his father’s friend’s daughter. He’d been intrigued by the young girl with the blonde hair and blue eyes. Even then she’d been beautiful. He’d been fresh out of military school and very proud of his uniform but tongue-tied around her. So he’d ignored her because he had no idea what to say. The next time he encountered her was at the festival, where he’d discovered that the Grace from the year before had grown into a beautiful girl on the cusp of being a woman. He’d been enthralled. Captivated. She was not only beautiful but witty.

  They’d spent the entire day at the festival, unchaperoned, because things like that could happen at festivals. Somehow they’d ended up behind the blacksmith’s shop. He may have pulled her there laughing, but he’d had every intention of kissing her.

  Just one kiss.

  She’d giggled the entire time, and he’d been so nervous that his hands were sweating. He’d kissed girls before, but instinctively, he’d known that this was different. She was different. The kiss had been sweet and naive and over far too quickly for his liking, but he had been changed by it.

  After
that, their relationship had evolved into something deeper and more meaningful. He’d been there during her debutante season and had made certain to dance with her at every ball until it became obvious to the other young bucks that Grace was his. And then he’d married her.

  Those were the memories Michael held tight to. While they were happy memories, they were also bittersweet, reminding him of times when he was a whole man and not a freak.

  He turned from the window and wandered through the quiet house and into his study. Per tradition, he and Grace had given the servants the first day of the festival off so they could enjoy themselves. Tomorrow they would be busy preparing the house and grounds for the influx of townspeople in two days’ time.

  There was nothing to do in his study, but he had nowhere else to go. He felt Grace’s absence. It was as if the house lost its vitality without her in it.

  He thought of reading a book, but nowadays that pleasure seemed such a chore. He bypassed the books on the shelves and sat at his desk to look at the latest reports from his solicitors. Michael had asked them to keep an eye on Nigel. He’d been assured that his title could not be taken from him, but he still didn’t trust Nigel. At the end of one missive, the solicitor had added a note about his brother. Apparently, Nigel and Clara had retreated to Scotland, where they were leading a quiet life. Strange, that. He would continue to monitor them for a time.

  He put the report aside and made a note on a sheet of paper riddled with other notes that would be included in his next letter to his solicitors. He glanced over the other papers, but the numbers blurred and the words held no meaning. Frustrated, he stomped through the entryway and told a footman to ready his horse.

  He was going to the festival.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He heard the festival before he saw it. The street was blocked off; a makeshift wooden dance floor bedecked with red and blue streamers had been erected in the center of it. The pub’s doors were standing open, and a steady stream of people wandered in and out.

  There were clumps of people standing around talking, while others strolled through the center of town. Music came from a quartet playing near the empty dance floor. By nightfall, people would be dancing and a general aura of decadence would follow. It was a time to be merry, to let loose and relax.

  But now was the time for families. The maypole had been erected off to the side, and children were dancing around it, weaving the red, white, and blue ribbons into intricate patterns. He watched them for a time, smiling to remember doing the same when he was young.

  He searched for Grace but couldn’t find her in the growing crowds. A few people nodded to him and he nodded back. Some he remembered, and some he knew he should remember but did not.

  People came from afar to attend the festival, having anticipated this day since the last festival. There was a general feeling of excitement in the air as people caught up with one another and friends reunited.

  Finally, he gathered his courage to wade into the melee. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Prudence Davison and her daughter, Violet. And of course there was Lady Sara Emerson, Grace’s very best friend. She smiled at him warmly. “Welcome to the Hadley Springs Festival, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Lady Sara. You look quite fetching. Very springish.”

  She blushed in pleasure. “Why, thank you.”

  “Have you seen the countess?”

  Lady Sara looked around, her brows crinkling in thought. “I believe I saw her over by the dressmaker’s shop, but that was some time ago.”

  He tipped his hat to her again. “My thanks, and enjoy your day.”

  “Same to you, my lord.”

  He made his way in the general direction of the dressmaker’s shop, but the crowds were getting thicker, and the drink was running a bit more freely. He passed a gaggle of girls who all seemed to be talking at once. Their high-pitched voices screeched across his ears, causing him to wince. One shrieked, and the sound nearly punctured his eardrum, it was so high-pitched. Michael tried to hurry away from them, but his knee gave out. If not for his cane, he would have fallen on his face. The temptation and promise of past festivals began to wane, and everything around him seemed like an obstacle.

  He was in the middle of the street, pushing his way through, but he changed direction in the hope that there would be fewer people on the sidewalks. Getting there seemed nearly impossible. Like a tree branch tossed into a raging river, he was dragged and pulled along with the crowd for several yards.

  The voices were getting louder, more shrill. His knee buckled on him twice. Luckily, it didn’t seem odd when he fell against a large farmer. The man merely laughed and pushed him upright again, but Michael was mortified.

  He looked behind him, gauging the distance to his horse, and discovered that he was equidistant from each end of the street. He had no choice but to move forward.

  The roar of the crowd grew until it seemed to be its own living, breathing thing. His mind flashed back to the war. It had been the same way then. The battle had become the enemy just as much as the enemy had been. The cries of his comrades, the cannon fire coupled with the pistol shots, had been nearly impossible to take. While this certainly wasn’t war, he was almost as overwhelmed by it.

  He pushed his way through, fighting panic, until he was spit out in front of the lending library. He stumbled into an empty alley, leaned against the building, and squeezed his eyes closed.

  He tried not to think about the war too often and, for the most part, succeeded. It helped that a large portion of it, the worst part, was lost due to his injury. He’d hoped it would remain that way, but this heavy crowd, the sounds, all threatened to bring back those hazy memories that hovered like specters in his mind.

  A large bang that sounded like a pistol shot rang out, causing him to jump. His eyes flew open, and he was reaching for his own pistol before he had a chance to think about his actions. He hadn’t carried a pistol since the war. He clutched his cane tighter, holding it as a weapon, while he looked wildly around him.

  Another shot rang out. People cheered and laughed. Michael released the tight hold on his cane and let the tip drop to the ground. People having fun. Nothing more.

  His head dropped back and he breathed deep, attempting to control his raging heart. It took a while, but the anxiety subsided, and he took note of his surroundings. He was in an alley. The crowd streamed by at one end, and a wall was at the other. He had no choice but to go back into that crowd.

  He was no coward. He could do it.

  Clutching his cane tightly, he emerged from the alley. If he stayed to the side, close to the buildings, it wasn’t as crowded and he felt as if he could breathe better.

  A few men walked by with small lads sitting atop their shoulders, waving their arms and contributing to the noise level in their own way. Michael experienced a spurt of sadness that he might never have a child to ride on his shoulders; if he did, he might not be able to put the child up there without falling on his face.

  He turned away from the sight and decided that he had given it a try. The festival of today did not match his memories of past festivals. He would return to his horse and go home to wait for his wife.

  He despised the thought that he may never be able to attend a festival with Grace, that she would always have to go alone because her husband could not stomach the crowds. What sort of husband was he that he couldn’t enjoy something as wonderful as a festival? And if not a festival, then what other events could he not partake in with Grace? Operas? Balls? Musicales? Dinner parties? Summer parties? Lawn parties? Was he to become a recluse, shying from anything that made him the least bit uncomfortable? Was this what his life had come to?

  Gripping his cane tightly, he spun on his heel. He nearly ran over a woman who had been walking behind him. She stumbled back. Michael caught her and set her to rights. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  She pressed her hand to her heart and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, no, my lord. My apologies. I was in your wa
y.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his cane. “Not at all.”

  He nodded to her, shuffled around her, and headed in the opposite direction. He was a damn earl, a decorated soldier and by God, he was going to find Grace, and he was going to conquer this bloody festival if it killed him.

  And it just might. He winced when another shot rang out. When people cheered, he peered through the crowd and discovered it wasn’t pistol shots at all but men dropping large pieces of wood on the ground, constructing what looked like a bonfire.

  Feeling foolish, he stomped on. People sidestepped him, and he realized he must look a sight, with a scowl on his face, marching down the street as if still in the military.

  He found Grace by the color of her gown. No one else was wearing a light green gown with pink rosettes. Even from afar, he could pick out his wife by her lovely slim shape and the way she held her head so high and regal. Even after all these years, his body responded to her freshness. She looked as young and beautiful as the day he’d kissed her behind the blacksmith’s shop.

  She was speaking to someone, but it wasn’t until the crowds parted a bit that Michael caught a glimpse of who. He stopped so fast that the person behind ran into him, but he paid no mind, for the noise from the crowd dimmed due the roaring in his ears.

  Grace leaned close to Sir Clayton Timmons and said something that made the man laugh. She smiled, a wide smile that took Michael’s breath away. Sir Timmons’s shoulders straightened. He seemed to stand a little taller after that smile. Michael remained frozen in place, unable to move toward his wife and unable to move away from her.

  Grace laughed at something Sir Timmons said. Her head tilted back and the sun glinted off her blond hair. She seemed so happy. So alive. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in weeks. Since his return? Before his return? While she was betrothed to Timmons?