The Notorious Lord

by Nicola Cornick

  Rachel stared. The beautiful golden cup rolled slightly in the water, catching the light. Rachel set her lips. She took several steps away. The cup tumbled over in the current and floated a few yards downstream before stopping again. It was almost as though it was waiting for her.

  With a little, irritable sigh, Rachel scrambled down the bank again and reached into the water. The Midwinter Treasure rolled closer, coming neatly into her hand. Rachel smiled ruefully and pulled it from the water. It felt cold and clean and precious. It felt as though it was meant for her.

  ‘Well,’ she said aloud, ‘since you are here now, you had better come with me.’

  Almost at the same time, she heard the sound of hooves on the road and looked up, startled. Cory was riding along the track towards her. Rachel watched him approach. He looked heart-breakingly the same and yet somehow different. Thinner, older, more worn, perhaps…Rachel felt an overwhelming love that closed her throat and left her trembling. Her heart was beating like a drum.

  It was about three seconds before Cory realised that she was there and then he reined in and slowed the horse to a walk. He did not take his eyes off her as he came closer.

  Rachel found that she could not speak and she could not move. She waited. She had even forgotten the gold chalice, although she was clutching it so tightly that the sand scored her fingers.

  Cory reached her side and swung down from the horse and stood before her. At last she found her tongue.

  ‘How are you, Cory?’ she said, and it amazed her that her voice sounded so steady when inside she was in turmoil. ‘I heard that you had returned to Midwinter. I was coming to see you.’

  ‘Rachel.’ Cory’s gaze did not waver from her face. He had not even glanced at the cup in her hand.

  ‘I…’ Rachel looked down. She felt utterly tongue-tied, so instead of speaking she held out the Midwinter Treasure. ‘I found this just now…along the river bank. It must have washed up there after the floods. I thought that you should have it.’

  Cory glanced briefly at the chalice, but did not take it. ‘The Midwinter Treasure,’ he said. ‘I see. Is that why you were coming to find me?’

  ‘No,’ Rachel said. She put the cup down gently on the ground. ‘I came to find you because I wanted to talk to you.’

  Cory’s face did not change. He looked expressionless, remote. Rachel felt her heart shrivel a little. She realised now that she had hoped there would be no need for explanations. She had wanted to run into his arms, to love and be loved without reservation. Instead there was a coldness and a distance that had to be bridged between them. And there was no guarantee of success.

  ‘What did you wish to say to me?’ Cory asked.

  Now that the moment had come, it was even more difficult than Rachel had imagined. She felt that she was relinquishing something of her dreams and yet a tiny, excited hope pushed her onwards in the faith that she would gain something infinitely more precious.

  ‘I have been thinking about your proposal,’ she said, with difficulty. ‘If you have not withdrawn your offer of marriage, then I would like to reconsider.’

  She thought that she saw a brief flash of humour in Cory’s eyes but he still looked grave. ‘Did you come all this way in your slippers to tell me that, Rachel?’ he asked. ‘I thought that you could not bear to abandon your dreams of a settled life.’

  ‘I have changed my mind,’ Rachel said, her voice wavering slightly. She glanced down at her ruined shoes. ‘I can do it for you. I will do it for you. If you still want me.’

  There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch into infinity and Rachel was utterly terrified of what Cory was about to say. Then he dropped the horse’s reins and reached for her. His arms went about her, gently, sweetly, drawing her home. He held her and Rachel closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest and inhaled the scent of him and felt such an overpowering relief that her legs trembled and her hot tears scalded his shirt.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, muffled. ‘I love you, Cory Newlyn, with all my heart.’

  ‘I know,’ Cory said. ‘Brace up, Rachel. Do not turn sentimental on me now or I may change my mind.’

  ‘Beast,’ Rachel said, with a little sparkle of spirit.

  She felt Cory smile and rub his cheek against her hair. ‘We never were conventionally polite to each other, were we?’ he said. ‘I suppose that there is no need to start now.’ All the same, his arms tightened about her.

  ‘I thought about you every minute we were apart,’ he said, and the raw emotion in his voice cut straight to Rachel’s heart. ‘I thought that I would never touch you again, Rae, and I could not bear it.’

  Rachel tilted her head to look up at him and snuggled closer against his chest. ‘I rather enjoyed you touching me,’ she said dreamily. ‘May we be married soon?’

  Cory laughed. ‘That is a good plan.’ His voice changed. ‘Rae?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Rachel did not want to move.

  ‘I have something to tell you too.’ He loosened his grip and Rachel reluctantly fell back a step so that she could see his face.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘I too had been thinking that life would be no life without you,’ Cory said. ‘There are plenty of things that I can do without the need to travel. There is my hieroglyph work for the British Museum and there is the fogou to excavate at Newlyn and should you wish to stay here in Midwinter…’ he smiled ‘…then there is still plenty of work to be done on the Midwinter burials. Now that you have found the cup-’ he looked down at it ‘-it may be that the rest of the Treasure is willing to be found. So you see, we need not stray far from home at all.’

  Rachel flung herself back into his arms and hugged him tightly. She knew without words the sacrifice that he was prepared to make for her, just as he knew what she was prepared to give up for him. The old friendship was still there, warm, comforting, familiar, strong enough to build on. Cory drew her closer to him and the shadows of the past faded and they faced the future together.

  ‘I expect that you might still want to travel sometimes,’ she said, putting a hand up to his face to trace lovingly those familiar lines she thought she might never see again.

  ‘I might,’ Cory said, turning his lips against her palm. His silver eyes were bright as he looked down at her. ‘Do you think that you would be able to come with me?’

  ‘I might,’ Rachel said, smiling rosily, ‘if you would be able to stay at home with me the rest of the time.’

  Cory was laughing as he bent his head to kiss her. ‘We neither of us bend easily, do we, Rachel Odell? I fear that we are both obstinate people. We might quarrel…’

  ‘It will be worth it,’ Rachel said, kissing him back, ‘if we can make up like this.’

  There was a very long pause whilst they kissed each other with passion and love and commitment, then Cory took her hand in his and bent to pick up the Midwinter Treasure, holding it up to the sun.

  ‘It looks a little battered,’ he said, ‘but it is treasure right enough.’

  Rachel smiled up at him and nestled into the curve of his arm.

  ‘Treasure indeed,’ she said.

  Epilogue

  Rachel and Cory were married two weeks later at the church of St Martin’s. Mrs Deborah Stratton was the bride’s attendant and Lord Richard Kestrel was the groomsman and they spent a large part of their time studiously ignoring each other. The Reverend Lang officiated, but when his daughter Helena rushed to be the first to catch the bride’s bouquet, it sailed over her head and landed in the arms of Richard Kestrel instead.

  ‘I do think,’ Lady Sally Saltire said to the Duke of Kestrel, adjusting the brim of her outrageously fashionable bonnet against the autumn sunshine, ‘that there might be quite a spate of weddings in the Midwinter villages this year. It seems that there is something in the air.’ She watched in amusement as Lord Richard tried to present the spray of delicate pink roses to Deborah Stratton, only for Mrs Stratton to turn her shoulder and bid him pay hi
s addresses to a more receptive lady.

  Justin Kestrel was also watching his brother, who looked rather forlorn with an unwanted bouquet wilting in his hand. ‘Poor Richard,’ he said. ‘It will take more than pink roses to make Mrs Stratton view him more kindly. Will he succeed, do you think, Sally?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Sally said comfortably. She gave the Duke a sparkling look. ‘They will be married within three months, mark my words. Mrs Stratton, for all her coldness, is not indifferent to Lord Richard.’

  Justin looked vaguely startled. ‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘And Lucas? Will he be caught as well?’

  They both turned to look at Lord Lucas Kestrel, who was flirting outrageously with Lady Burgh of Northcote.

  ‘Ah.’ Lady Sally smiled indulgently. ‘There is a man who swears he will never enter parson’s mousetrap, but-’ she shrugged charmingly ‘-pride comes before a fall!’

  ‘All bachelors married…’ the Duke murmured.

  ‘Save one, Justin,’ Lady Sally pointed out.

  ‘Oh, I feel I am almost too set in my ways for matrimony now,’ Justin Kestrel said. ‘Let Richard or Lucas and their future brides provide the Kestrel heirs!’

  He offered Lady Sally his arm and they started to walk slowly up the path towards the church door, where Cory was kissing the new Lady Newlyn with considerable fervour amidst a swirl of rose petals thrown by the appreciative congregation. ‘What of you, Sally?’ Justin added, with a sly glance at his companion. ‘Have you ever considered entering the state of matrimony again?’

  ‘Marriage is a noble undertaking,’ Lady Sally said, dimpling, ‘but I have had my fill of it. I do not seek to wed again.’

  ‘That is your final word?’ the Duke questioned gently.

  ‘It is, dear Justin.’ Lady Sally smiled at him. ‘You and I, my dear, will wear the willow and dance at other people’s weddings.’

  ‘A melancholy prospect.’

  ‘The dancing?’

  ‘Wearing the willow. I confess that I look forward to the dancing, however, if you will grant me your hand for the first.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Sally said. They fell into step behind the wedding party as it started the short walk back to Midwinter Royal.

  ‘The toast at the wedding breakfast should be to old friends,’ Justin said thoughtfully, eyeing the entwined figures of Rachel and Cory. ‘A most fitting end to a long and deep friendship.’

  ‘Old friends and new lovers,’ Lady Sally agreed, her observant gaze noting that Deborah Stratton would glance up every so often from her conversation with her sister and fix upon the tall figure of Lord Richard Kestrel.

  ‘Three months, eh?’ Justin said, following the direction of her look. ‘I cannot believe it. Would you care to bet on that, Sally?’

  ‘I will take that wager,’ Lady Sally said. ‘Your brother and Mrs Stratton will be married within three months. My hand on it!’

  ‘Done!’ the Duke said. ‘I look forward to collecting on my debt.’

  Lady Sally looked at him, the expression in her eyes suddenly arrested. ‘Almost, Justin, I regret making that wager with you,’ she said.

  ‘So you should,’ the Duke said softly, ‘when I come to demand payment.’

  Lady Sally’s green eyes were suddenly wary. ‘I forgot to ask the stake,’ she said.

  ‘So you did,’ Justin Kestrel agreed. He smiled, kissed her hand and walked away. Lady Sally watched his tall figure for a few moments and then sighed softly.

  ‘This time I shall be safe,’ she said, half to herself, ‘for I am certain that Deborah and Richard will be next.’ She shook her head slightly. ‘The next time Justin challenges me to a wager, though, I shall have to think twice. Decidedly I shall.’

  And following the direction the Duke had gone, she went to raise a glass to the bride and groom.

  Nicola Cornick

  ***

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