Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3

by Lynne Connolly

  Or would he want to use his own room? She had no idea. The protocol of the marriage bed eluded her. Nobody had told her what was expected. Her mother used her own room and frequently complained of her father’s loud snores, audible from the next room. Portia had heard them herself a time or two, when she’d sneaked out of her room in search of a drink or a book late at night.

  Would Edmund snore? Would that stop her sharing his bed? No. Her heart rejected that, as violently as she could at this time in the morning.

  Then she laughed at the fecundity of her imagination.

  “Miss Portia?” The maid frowned, her hands folded before her. “Your bath will be up in a moment.”

  “On its own?” The notion of a tin tub climbing the stairs made her giggle.

  The maid gave her a long-suffering sigh. “No indeed, ma’am. It’s all ready.”

  After her bath she sat in front of the mirror and let the maid dry and style her hair. It was a little damp when they’d done, but she could don her new satin stays and the petticoats and hoop, then a loose sacque gown before she went down to breakfast. She was right. The morning was galloping away and she had to rush her meal.

  The family, embarrassingly, applauded when she entered the room and her father made a jovial comment about getting egg on her new gown.

  “No, Papa, I won’t be married in this.”

  “It appears perfectly good to me.”

  She took her usual seat and refused to become melancholy. This was the last time she’d do this. If she came for breakfast in the future, it would be as a married woman. Annoyingly, she found she couldn’t eat much, but she did her best with a few rashers of bacon, a kidney and some scrambled egg. Not exactly a taxing meal, although she pushed it away half-finished. The family, gossiping about the guests and if Edmund would invite anyone, hardly noticed, apart from her mother, who fixed her gaze on the plate and then pushed a rack of toast towards her. Sighing, she took a piece and accepted the honey.

  “Will he have anyone on his side of the church?” Millicent turned to address Portia. Finally she’d remembered her sister was there. “Did you send any invitations to them?”

  She shook her head. “His mother lives in Scotland and they do not speak much. Apart from that, I don’t think he has anyone. Because he’s spent so much time abroad, his friends won’t come for the ceremony.”

  “That seems so sad.” Millicent helped herself to more coffee. “Especially if his mother doesn’t attend.”

  “You will have that house to yourself.” Anthea’s remark was rendered less than innocent by the twinkle in her eyes.

  “You’re not supposed to think such things, Anthea!” her mother admonished.

  “I can’t wait.” Being an immortal, Anthea would probably go through the ritual of “losing her virginity” several times, if she lived a long life. Immortals had to move on, as they put it—start a new life as another person. In the future, Portia wanted to do that with Edmund. Would he wish it with her? Their father had had several wives. Mostly they’d parted by mutual consent, but he’d remained with her mother for a few lifetimes and gave no indication of tiring of her. So it could be done. She couldn’t imagine a life without Edmund, which was passing strange, since she had lived quite happily without him up to now.

  He was a part of her. To lose him—didn’t bear thinking about.

  She would lose her virginity once, and that would happen tonight. She couldn’t wait.

  They were to visit the house for the wedding breakfast, and she could hardly wait for that either. Since their visits last month, she had not visited again. Edmund had told her he wanted to surprise her, though he promised he’d leave plenty for her to do, if she wished it. A few weeks ago Portia and her sisters had watched as covered wagons made their way through the village and up to the house on the cliff. She saw hardly anything and wondered at the quantity of the items below the canvas-shrouded heaps. Did he have enough room to fit in so much, and why had he purchased so many things?

  Later that day when he’d visited, he wouldn’t answer her questions and laughingly stopped them with a kiss.

  The memory of that kiss tingled her lips and Portia had to fight not to smile. He kissed so well. Would he make love as well? Of course he would. The notion made her excited, apprehensive and heaven knew what else. She hastily pushed her mind in another direction when her mother gave her a questioning glance. Living with the same people all her life could have problems. Her mother knew so much Portia often speculated on the power of her mind.

  After breakfast, and a little good-natured teasing from her father, Portia got away and slipped up to her room, where her maid waited.

  Her gown was blue with a white petticoat embroidered with forget-me-nots and tiny gold bees. The silk brocade was the finest she’d ever owned, since her father preferred to keep their presence understated. Now she’d be the wife of a wealthy man and she could indulge her long-suppressed yearnings for fine clothes. Maybe she’d even prevail on him to take her to London.

  Getting into the gown took some adjustments. The maid threw the petticoat over her head and tightened the cords at the back, before disposing the folds over the hoop and under-petticoat. Then came the gown. Although lace ruffles decorated the ends of her shift, still more ruffles adorned the sleeves of the gown, finest Rochelle lace. She flicked them out, fluffing them, and adored the way the gossamer-fine fabric settled slowly over her forearms. Then her gloves. Her maid handed her the fan Edmund had presented her with last week, cream spangled lace with ivory sticks, so delicate she hardly dared use it.

  Gazing into the mirror she barely recognised herself. Since she’d opted to wear powder, the whiteness bleached her skin into ivory purity. She appeared more like a fashion doll than herself, especially when she held the fan just so and lifted her chin in an imitation of the arrogant stance she’d seen in portraits.

  She’d let the maid apply a fine covering of rice powder to her face and bosom, but only a little. Some ladies affected the extreme fashion of pure white face and circles of red on their cheeks, turning themselves into completely artificial beings. Portia couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do that. Very few went to such lengths in local society, although she’d seen it sometimes on some of the passengers disembarking from the packets that constantly put in at Dover.

  Now she’d visit the town as a married lady. She thrust her foot forward, the better to admire her new satin shoes, the same blue as her gown, and the twinkling buckles adorning them. Not diamonds, like the buttons on Edmund’s evening coat, but fine all the same, and new. She wore her pearl necklace and then pinned Edmund’s gift, the arrow brooch, to the lace at her bosom.

  She practiced walking up and down the room, her short train swishing behind her. She’d heard the ladies presented at court would walk backwards in gowns with trains. She tried the feat herself and stumbled, would have fallen if Jane hadn’t caught her. They exchanged a laugh, embarrassed on Portia’s part. She walked forward this time, to meet her fate.

  In the hall the maid helped her into her hat and gloves and draped a light cape around her shoulders against the still-fresh spring air outside. She felt none of it as she stepped outside. Only warmth that was anticipation at meeting the man who would make her his own.

  The day was fair, spring well on the way, buds on the trees burgeoning into new growth. Snowdrops teased the trunks of the two gnarled oaks before the house. The carriage waited for her, although the journey wasn’t a long one. She wouldn’t arrive at her wedding on foot, her father declared, and so he was waiting for her inside the vehicle. He grunted when she settled next to him, and Jane arranged her skirts so they wouldn’t crease too much.

  “I thought you were never coming. I was about to order them to walk the horses.”

  She laughed, light-headed with happiness. “You shouldn’t have ordered the greys put to, Papa. The chestnuts are steadier
.”

  “Humph. The greys are younger and they look better.”

  Her father had considered appearances for once and she loved him for it. Impulsively she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, nearly tumbling into his lap when the coach jolted forward as it began its short trip to the church. “Are the others taking the chestnuts?” she enquired as he helped her back to her seat, his hands firm on her arms.

  “Yes. Why not get out both carriages?” He watched as the coachman negotiated the tricky bend outside the house. Going from the drive to the road was easy enough, but whoever had built the road had decided on a sharp turn to ease the approach to the bridge over the stream. Her father had long castigated him as a damn fool, but he hadn’t had the mistake remedied yet. So they all had to brace themselves for the turn, and she did so now almost automatically.

  “My girl, you must always come to me if he does wrong by you.” He laid his big hand over hers. “Remember.”

  Touched by his gruff pronouncement, she studied their linked hands. “Thank you, Papa. I’m very happy. I love him, and he loves me. I know it was sudden, but I have no doubts, none at all.”

  She lifted her gaze to his face, to find him smiling at her. His gaze sharpened, and he touched the arrow brooch. She’d pinned it at her bosom, a token of Edmund’s love. “I’ve not seen that before.”

  “Edmund gave it to me.” Warmth spread through her when she recalled the day when they’d both pricked themselves and discovered they were immortals. The brooch had behaved itself ever since. She hadn’t failed to pin it to some part of her clothing every day since he’d given it to her.

  “A strange token. Unless—” He touched the arrow.

  “Unless what, Papa?”

  “Nothing. A notion, that’s all.” The smile returned, but not as wholeheartedly as before. “Did he tell you what kind of immortal he is?”

  “No, Papa.” She trusted Edmund. Because of his limited abilities, she assumed he was like her, a minor. Some didn’t know what they were, nymphs or dryads or whatever, until they discovered an affinity to something. She was a sea nymph, but she’d only known that so young because her father had told her. Naturally he knew what he’d fathered. She was happy with her state and never failed to tell him so if he asked. He had only done so twice in her life.

  “When he tells you, you must inform me.”

  “Papa, I can’t if he forbids it. I’ll owe my loyalty to him.”

  Her father shook his head. “You will always owe me your loyalty. I’m a powerful man, girl, and I need all the information I can find to ensure your safety. I own this countryside. It’s mine, both as leader of the smuggling gang and because of my wealth. People look up to me and I keep them safe.” He took her hand again and squeezed it. “I don’t want to come between you.”

  She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. “You did between Millicent and her husband.” She had to be frank with him. There was no other way with her father. Millicent had married a mortal and Sir Mortimer had never approved of him. His sad death from a sudden apoplexy had brought Millicent home.

  “I learned from that.” He squeezed her hand again. “He was a mortal. She should never have married him. You know your sister—she’s restless and ambitious. She’d have me join with the other Titans and fight the Olympians.” He made a sound of disgust. “Like the Duke of Boscobel. Kronos, that was. He can’t do anything now; he’s an invalid, lucky to leave his room occasionally. Why he wanted to rule the human race, I’ll never know. Just too much work and too much risk. Humans can be very resourceful and very disobedient. What is the point of all that trouble, when you can’t have the benefit of it all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, unless you can visit every part and every person, I can’t see the point. We have our kingdom here. I know all my subjects, and I’m wealthy enough for ten lifetimes.” He smiled, complacency in the comfortable curve of his mouth. “I can understand your reluctance and I would never ask you to betray your husband. He said he wanted nothing to do with the business, but I live in hope. He refused to come on a run with me, but you can press him a little harder, can you not?”

  She gasped. Rapidly she assessed the state of the moon. It would be dark moon next week. That meant another run, since the best time was in the dark of the moon, when natural light betrayed little. This being spring, they might even get an overcast sky, although rain would not be good news. “How soon?”

  “Preferably next week. I have some special cargo arriving. Damn, but I should have bought that house when I could. Poor value, you see; I was waiting for the price to go down. Thorncroft Grange is witness to everything. I can trust most of the servants he’s employed, but there are a few, like that man he calls a valet and factotum. Whatever that is.” He growled his last words, his good humour temporarily gone. “I would rather Welles was involved with the business. While he is separate from it, he is always a danger.”

  Did his words hold a veiled threat? She couldn’t let that happen. “He won’t betray you.”

  She couldn’t be sure. She didn’t know his opinions, although the cask of brandy left outside his back door, a greeting and a notice from the smugglers hadn’t come back, or been left with messages. Some locals preferred to have nothing to do with the smugglers, but one by one her father had won them over. Now he wanted Edmund.

  The notion that Edmund would become one of her father’s “people” didn’t sit well with Portia. She wanted him to be her person, not beholden to her father. But she would mention it, for the sake of peace. “I’ll ask him. He must know about the smugglers.”

  “He does,” her father said. “When he asked me if he could pay his addresses to you, he intimated as such. He knew how the damage happened to the Grange, and he doesn’t want for intelligence. He would have worked out the reason someone would not want the Grange occupied.”

  “Why didn’t you buy it when you could, Papa?”

  He growled again, low in his chest, the sound rumbling like a small earthquake. “I intended to, but I didn’t want to rush into it. I made sure nobody local would buy it, then waited for the weather to do its worst. I was sure the house was in a bad way, but apparently not. He has repaired it very quickly. I didn’t do as good a job as I thought—or rather, my agents did not. I should have overseen it personally. If you can persuade your husband to aid us, or at the very least to turn his back, then his ownership of the Grange could become a positive merit. I might even make him my heir. Do you think that he would appreciate that?”

  “What about Freddie? Would you refuse him his inheritance?” Indignation rose in her heart to mar her sunny mood when she considered her lively young brother.

  “Of course not. I have fortune to spare. It would give him a choice and a chance to grow up. We could even extend our activities. I had thought of that for when your sisters marry.”

  “Is there any sign of that?” Not from her side of the breakfast table, there wasn’t.

  “Not as yet, but there will be. Anthea will not appreciate being left behind and Millicent is itching for her own household again.”

  She smiled. Yes, she could understand that. “And as a married woman I can chaperone them easily. Maybe people would talk to me more. I don’t know, Papa. I’ve never been married before.”

  They’d reached the village now and the carriage bowled through the main street on the way to the common at the end and the church. The parish church was nothing special, a fifteenth-century stone building with a spire that the Tudors had despoiled so none of its old treasures remained. Subsequent generations had reendowed it with new stained glass windows and silver, but amongst the many noble churches of the district, St. Olaf’s remained relatively unvisited and unloved, except by local residents.

  When the carriage drew up, her father alighted first and helped her down. He made a fine figure with his red-ribbed silk coat and heavily
embroidered ivory waistcoat. His very size commanded attention, but the bold colour of his clothes drew the eye even more. He rarely wore anything other than dark country colours, so today demonstrated his determination to give his daughter a good send-off. Even if she was his youngest.

  Carriages lined the rough road. Parishioners would attend too, those who weren’t busy in the fields or otherwise making a living.

  She laid her hand on his arm and let him take her through the lych-gate and up the short path to the church.

  They were all waiting for her.

  Inside, people turned to look at Portia, but she knew they would. She let them, lifting her chin and smiling. At the front a flash of dark blue showed, and then she saw him properly. Edmund, hair tied back simply, but in a breathtakingly elaborate set of clothes, velvet, embroidery and his diamond buttons. For her. He was here for her. Nothing was as precious as the expression on his face, openly loving, encouraging her without words of any kind to join him.

  She walked up the aisle with her father, her stately pace not at all the one she would have chosen, had she the chance. She wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his arms. Joy overcame her. Spots danced before her eyes, not all of them the result of the sun, which had chosen that moment to peep out from behind the clouds and fill the church with coloured light, as the windows blazed into glory.

  Dazzled, she felt her father step back rather than saw him, because all her attention lay on one man. Without hesitation she went forward to him and laid her hand over his. Heedless of tradition, Edmund raised it to his mouth and let his lips touch her fingers for all to see. If she hadn’t been wearing gloves, the moment would have been even more intimate. As it was, she shivered with anticipation.

  She removed her gloves, handing them to Anthea. She would remember every moment of this day forever, because it was the only wedding she intended to have. She knew that now.

  They started the Eucharist service and at the appropriate spot, the vicar began the marriage service.