by Jane Feather
“My goat. She’s named after—”
But Justin’s mouth stopped her words with a kiss, a long, lingering kiss that cleared her mind of anything but how much she loved him, how much she’d feared for him, how content she was in his arms.
When he released her, she realized everyone was staring at them. Even in the blackness, she could feel their curious gazes.
But Justin apparently didn’t care to explain himself. “Gavin, take your prisoners along, then I would suggest searching the earl’s house. I’ll join you there later.”
Lieutenant Karr bowed again. “A pleasure, miss.” Then he turned to Justin. “I want to know the whole story,” he said. “Swear it?”
Justin chuckled.
Lieutenant Karr hesitated a moment, gave a snort of disgust, then dispatched two of his men to carry the earl to their horses. His orders came quickly now.
And then they were alone.
Rain fell gently on them, but she was unaware of anything but Justin. He wiped raindrops from her face.
“I thought I told you to stay home.”
“You told me to make sure Da and my brother stayed home,” she corrected.
“Am I safe from that goat?” he inquired cautiously, but his words were laced with humor.
“At the moment, I think.”
“You know, Gatwell’s death clears your family,” he said. “Tim Bailey and the Conleys are the only ones who know of the connection, and they would be risking their own necks if they talked.”
She would have nodded but her head was buried in his cloak.
“There will be a reward,” he said. “A large one. You can go to America.”
Her heart stopped.
“And I suspect that if some of your father’s friends inspected a particular cave in the morning, they might find some casks of brandy.”
“But Lieutenant Karr?”
“Gavin will be far too busy with more important matters,” Justin said. “And then he’ll believe they floated away on the tide. His interest, like mine, was in Gatwell.”
She could only stare up at him.
“I’ve been thinking about America, too,” he continued. “Especially now. Too many men heard my name tonight.”
“America?”
“America,” he confirmed. “Would you … consider being courted by a battered cynic?”
Her breath caught in her throat, keeping her from saying the words she so wanted to say. Instead, she stretched up onto her toes and melded her mouth with his. A promise joined with a promise. “I love you,” she whispered softly when the kiss ended.
“Ah, Holly,” he said. “I’d stopped believing in miracles. And then you came along.”
“And Georgette,” she added.
“I don’t have to love her too, do I?”
Love her too. Holly’s heart swelled until she thought it might burst. Her hand tightened around his, and his fingers clasped hers.
“I’m not used to loving,” he warned. “I’m not sure I know how to do it right.”
“I am,” she said, touching the bottle in her pocket. “I am.”
EPILOGUE
HER BODY MELLOW with lovemaking, Holly stretched out beside her husband.
They’d been married two weeks, and she’d never known such joy in her life. He felt it too, for he smiled easily now.
They were on a ship bound for Charleston, then they would head for Tennessee, where they planned to buy land adjacent to her da’s.
He had reluctantly accepted part of the reward after Justin explained that Holly and Georgette had accidentally assisted in the apprehension of the earl. Now her da, mother, and Paul were also on the ship, and for the first time in a long while, had some money in their pockets. Even Georgette had been brought along. After all, Justin said, she’d saved his life.
Just yesterday, he and Holly had stood on the deck of the ship and tossed out the silver-trimmed bottle. It would travel thousands of miles and, they hoped, land in the hands of someone who needed it. The message had given Holly courage; perhaps it would do the same for someone else.
Justin had not laughed at the notion; instead he’d handled it with the same reverence as she….
The same reverence with which he now touched her….
Justin heard the small moan in her throat and he moved on top of her, rejoicing in the sparkle in her eyes, the soft smile on her lips, the instinctive movements of her body that said, as much as words, how much she loved him.
This tender loving was new to him, but she made it easy. Because of her he’d dared to hope again.
Dear God, how he loved her! He felt her opening to him. She had no secrets from him, no inhibitions, and yet she understood his own dark shadows, and her patience was infinite.
Except now. He felt her body moving under his, and he entered her, then moved with her in a dance of love, each movement designed to prolong pleasure, to explore every new and familiar feeling and exploit it until the dance turned wild and uncontrollable, rocketing to places still unknown in flashes of white hot splendor.
The final explosion was pure glory, and he wondered whether they had created life. The thought was humbling, and his touch gentled as he drew her closer to him.
He’d never known feelings like this, the peace of being at one with another, the joining of heart and soul, the joy of sharing simple things, and now the promise of even greater adventure.
She smiled at him when the ship rolled, bringing them closer together.
“I think we might have made a baby,” he said tenderly.
“If we haven’t already,” she replied as she nuzzled his neck.
“Should we call her Joy?”
Her eyes sparkled like a million diamonds. “Mmm, a good beginning.”
“Beginning?”
“I want a half-dozen children.”
The notion took a moment to penetrate. “A half-dozen?”
“At least,” she mumbled happily.
A half-dozen! The notion was overwhelming.
Her fingers caressed his mouth, then moved downward. He felt his body responding to the challenge just as her mouth met his.
A half-dozen sounded just right.
PATRICIA POTTER
PATRICIA POTTER has won the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for Storyteller of the Year for 1992 and the Best Western Romance Author for 1996. Don’t miss for her historical romance, Starcatcher, on sale now in which a Scottish chieftain kidnaps his ladylove, despite the perilous consequences for their clans—and their future together.
CHAPTER ONE
Somerset, England, 1857
TEMPLE STIRLING STOOD beside one of the hundred fountains in his garden, his arm resting on the head of a statue of a Roman river god. Behind him rose the symmetrical facade of Stirling Hall, imposing, classical, an expression of the wealth and power of his ancestors. Temple glanced over his shoulder, up past the ivy-covered balustrade to the rows of windows that formed a glittering backdrop for the garden. Through one set he glimpsed a billowing skirt, then another, and a third. Yet another pack of ladies with eligible daughters in tow had called on his mother this morning. He heard a French door open.
Stepping behind the river god, Temple waited for whomever had opened the door to go inside and close it. Then he left his refuge and returned to his study by the service stairs. On his desk lay the letter he’d almost finished. He’d gone for a walk to clear his head after the strain of composing it.
Never had he expected to write such a letter, for in it he proposed marriage to a woman he’d never seen. No, that wasn’t quite right. He’d seen her picture, heard of her tranquil nature, temperate manners, and uncomplicated habits. After nearly six months of evading the traps of ambitious mamas and his own mother’s attempts at matchmaking, Temple had found an alternative. He would marry the daughter of the man who had saved his life in the Crimea.
There was a knock. Busy adding a closure to his letter, Temple didn’t answer it. After a moment, the door opened enough to admit
a wide head with a ruddy complexion and crimson nose. Gray hair lay flat on the head and curled at the ends as it fell from crown to forehead in an outdated Napoleonic style. A gruff, low voice spoke.
“T’ain’t going to be much longer before the dowager countess comes looking for you, m’lord major.” A career cavalryman, Sergeant Mungo Fidkin had yet to adjust to civilian life. His manners were having an even harder time. “You bean’t writing that letter, are you?”
“Go away, Fidkin.”
“It ain’t fitting.” The sergeant slipped into the room, put his back to the door, and shook a stubby finger at Temple. “I didn’t spend all these months nursing you and your wounds like you was a sick lamb to have you go marrying some doctor’s daughter. Your mum—the countess—will take a fit over this. You got to think of your position. You ain’t a wild young cavalry officer no more.”
Temple was busy blotting his signature and didn’t look up. “It’s not my fault Robert fell off his horse and got his neck broken. I was happy being the feckless younger brother that everyone wanted to get rid of.”
“Feckless persons don’t get given the Victoria Cross by Her Majesty herself,” Fidkin replied.
“Don’t some of my morning coats need pressing?” Temple asked.
“Is this what you want after being near blown to bits in that cussed Crimea, to marry some doctor’s chit? It ain’t respectable.”
“Fidkin, you’re a snob.”
Temple ran a hand through soft black hair in a futile attempt to make it stay off his forehead. As he began to fold the letter, glass shattered with a loud report in the hall outside his door. His body jerked, and his hands slipped, sending the letter sliding across the desk. Temple squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight off the images of men and horses exploding into bloody pulp. He smelled burning flesh, swallowed the dull, bitter taste of blood. Then a voice with the texture of a saw cutting wood broke through the vision.
“M’lord major.”
Temple blinked and focused on the sergeant’s crimson nose. He glanced down to find that Fidkin had grabbed his wrist. Temple looked at his hand and was surprised to see he was gripping the blade of a medieval dagger he used as a letter opener.
“One of the footmen dropped a tray of lamps. Open your hand, m’lord, slowly.”
Fidkin removed the dagger. Two thin lines of blood crossed Temple’s palm and fingers. The sergeant pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around the hand.
“Not too bad this time, m’lord major. You’re getting better.”
“So you say.”
“Was a time you didn’t need no noise to push you into one of them visions.”
“True,” Temple said. “But if I marry one of these society princesses I’ll never get any peace. My life will be plagued with balls and drawing rooms and …” Temple shuddered. “The Season. Have you had a Season, Fidkin?”
“No, m’lord major.”
“You’re blessed by Providence. It’s a torture worse than any the Russians devised in the Crimea. And if I marry one of the girls my mother has in mind, both families will want me to enter politics. Politics, Fidkin. It’s not to be borne. I have to marry or my dear brother Hal will inherit and drink away the family fortune. But I’m going to marry a girl who is quiet and biddable and undemanding.” Temple gave his valet a severe look. “And FU not hear another word on the subject. It’s an unconscionable liberty for you to speak of it to me. I don’t know why I allowed you to talk me into keeping you as my man.”
“You need me, m’lord major. You and me been together since you was a young pup of a cornet.” Fidkin put a hand over his heart, gazed up at the ceiling. Tears brimmed in his eyes. “I never will forget the night you came to that tavern and dragged me back to the barracks before I could be missed. And there was that time when I got the dysentery outside of Sebastopol. I woulda died then if you hadn’t took care of me.” Fidkin’s bloodshot eyes slid sideways to glance inquiringly at Temple.
Temple inserted his letter into an envelope and sealed it. “And for these ill deeds I’m to be cursed with you forever?”
“Yes, m’lord major.”
“Then make yourself useful and post this.” Temple handed Fidkin the letter. “And on your way, stop at Bywell Park and ask Lady Alberta if I may see her this evening.”
“You ain’t going to see that widow again. It ain’t proper, you being almost ten years younger than her, and her a respectable lady.”
“I’ve never been respectable, Fidkin.”
“That’s what I mean.”
Temple rose and walked around the desk. “I’m going for a ride.”
“What am I to say to the countess when she wants to know why you didn’t come in to see her lady guests?”
“Tell her I forgot.”
“I can’t tell her that.”
“I don’t care what you tell her. She’s never approved of me anyway, so one more little sin won’t matter.”
“You’re going to see that woman!”
Temple stopped at the door and half turned, his gaze that of a Roman emperor ready to condemn a gladiator. “To whom do you refer, Fidkin?”
“Er, no one, m’lord major.”
“I thought not,” Temple said. “Post the letter.”
“Don’t see it will do much good if you’re just going to prowl around the neighborhood hen houses like a loose cock.”
Temple sighed as he opened the door. “Do you know, Fidkin, that ever since I inherited, you’ve become as strict and censorious as the governess of a king’s daughter?”
“Somebody has to get you to behave like an earl and marry a lady of suitable rank. You won’t listen to your mother.”
Temple slammed the door shut and rounded on his valet. “Rank be damned! My parents were of suitable rank, and they fought like ravenous crocodiles until the day Father died. Savaged each other with their tongues, screaming at each other, trying their damnedest to cause the greatest pain. I’m not having that. If I’ve got to marry, I’ll have a girl who won’t argue, who won’t create a great noise with her Society friends, one who’ll leave me be to go my own way. And I’ll allow her to do as she pleases, to a point.”
Fidkin was silent for a moment. Then he came across the room to stand before his master, fists planted on his ample waist.
“I see you got it all planned. Very thoughtful, that is. And marvelous. Marvelous that a man who’s known as many women as you could conceive of such a folly. These ladies what that countess has proposed, they come from blood like yours. They know what to expect. Some doctor’s daughter ain’t going to know what’s proper, and believe me, she sure as eggs won’t like it when you go back to your ways. She won’t understand if you take a fancy to a duke’s wife, and she ain’t going to like it when some precious lady decides she wants you in her bed for the Season while her husband sports with his mistress.”
Temple felt a flush rise from his neck to his forehead. It was most embarrassing to be confronted with his private habits by a servant, even if that servant was Fidkin.
“How do you know so much about—Society?”
“Talk, m’lord major. The ranks talk about their officers, you know, and it’s the same belowstairs.”
“Well, don’t do it,” Temple snapped. He walked back to his desk, sat, and propped his booted feet on it. “Post the letter at once, Fidkin.”
Once the sergeant was gone, Temple sat lost in thought for a few minutes. Then he drew a key from his vest pocket and opened a drawer set in a recess of his desk. Rummaging beneath a stack of papers, he pulled out a black velvet envelope tied with a ribbon. Inside lay a hinged triple frame bearing daguerreotypes of three girls, each with a name etched at the bottom of the frame.
Last year he’d been on an outlying picket, riding ahead with the scouts searching for any Russian approach. It had been so foggy he couldn’t see past his horse’s ears. That was when he’d heard the artillery. He couldn’t remember much else, except waking up in an overc
rowded makeshift hospital. Dr. Peabody was bending over him, his spectacles nearly falling off his nose, his hands bloody. He’d glanced at Temple and called for an orderly.
After that, Temple could recall nothing until he woke, fevered and in such pain that he cried out. But the doctors had run out of medicine. There was no relief. Only hours of fever, shakes, and agony. Until Dr. Peabody had come to see him, bringing with him the pictures of his daughters. He distracted Temple and the men near him with tales of his girls. Then another wave of wounded came, and the doctor was gone, leaving the picture frame behind. Nine days of delirium and pain followed, but the worst was hearing the men around him scream and cry. He’d survived by fixing all his attention on the pictures and recalling the doctor’s descriptions of his daughters. There was the youngest, who loved horses and nearly broke her neck in a fall from one. There was the one with the biting wit who was determined to save every stray and homeless animal in the kingdom.
And then there was the ethereal one whose presence brought peace and spread tranquillity and gentleness among all lucky enough to be her companions. When the pain grew unbearable, Temple would clench her picture in his hand and stare into her eyes, imagine her serene presence, as soothing as cool blue silk. He would sink into a floating state, wrapped in images of her sitting at a pianoforte playing wondrous music just for him. Once he was deep in the image, it became a dream, and if he was lucky, he slept.
Temple set the picture frame on the desk in front of him and surveyed the three girls. Two had dark hair. Of these, one was barely out of childhood and bore the name Marie-Claire. The other, Madeleine, was older but small, so small that her bell-shaped skirt made her look squat. Temple passed over the slight smile and nondescript face to the third picture, the one labeled Mélisande. This was a slender version of a Baroque angel. He remembered Dr. Peabody’s description of her sunrise-golden hair, her cream-and-pink skin, which the doctor compared to that seen only in a portrait by Gainsborough or Reynolds.
He’d come home, still weak, still suffering more from memories of battle than his own wounds. His family had never liked his headstrong nature and no doubt had considered themselves well rid of him when he joined the cavalry. With his father dead, his mother’s pride and hopes had fixed on his older brother, Robert. She had little time to nurse a wild younger son who’d lived a scandalous life among the fast set of London’s aristocracy. Then Robert had got himself killed, blast him.