Aidan grew tense, wondering if this man posed a threat to Olwyn. “With your trespassing here, I hope you realize you’re risking the same fate as your employer.”
“I mean no harm,” Drystan said, his eyes on the drink. “I’m coming to you now to make you an offer, is all.”
“An offer.”
“Right.” Drystan reached into his grubby coat jacket and withdrew a ratty paper that was faded and browned with age, and was crisp and blackened on the edges as if it had been burned. Drystan swallowed heavily again, his gaze following the sloshing of the whiskey as Aidan held it. “Thought you might be interested in buying a bit of information about the girl. I’ll sell it to you, if you’ll help me get back home. And if you throw in a few bottles of that whiskey, I’ll tell you about the truth of what went on in that keep.”
Olwyn woke slowly, reluctant to leave the dream that had wrapped around her as warm and safe as a blanket. In her dream her mother had been telling her their story, and Olwyn could hear Talfryn’s voice clearly, a sound she’d longed for since the day her mother left.
A soft sobbing sigh came from her throat as reality crashed into her dreamscape. She rolled to her side, her beaten body achy and sore despite the salts the servants had added to her bathwater, her face tender in spite of the cool compresses they’d pressed to her bruises. But none of that compared to the hurting in her heart.
She’d lain on the bed after her bath and wept, too heartsick and beaten to do anything else. Sleep must have come to her, for as she looked at the clock she saw morning had arrived.
Olwyn forced herself to her feet and caught a glimpse of herself in the cheval mirror. Her cheeks were bruised, her lips split and swollen. Aidan had been correct—she did feel precisely like hell.
She wondered briefly if Rhys had been buried, and then dismissed that thought from her mind. There would be no further mourning for him. The father she remembered had died years ago, and the man who’d taken his place had been a murderer and a madman.
Olwyn hefted her bag and tossed her cloak over her arm. No one would stop her from leaving, and so she had no need to sneak away.
Aidan had given her freedom to make decisions. She hoped she had chosen wisely.
Olwyn left the room and walked through the corridor. Though she noticed the opulence of the manse, it no longer made her feel completely uncomfortable.
She heard Emeline’s voice in her memory—Do you believe in fairy tales, Miss Gawain?
Olwyn mentally answered the question: she didn’t believe in magic, but she did think there was a certain enchanting charm in choosing to imbue happenings with as much meaning as one might desire.
As for fairy tales, Olwyn believed in them as much as she did the dark, evil goblins that crawled from the shadows of a gibbous moon to steal away what little magic one allowed for themselves.
She heard Emeline’s words again—I don’t think it so terrible, to want to find splendor amongst the shadows.
Could there be splendor there, hidden in the darkness where Olwyn had only known dragons and goblins to reside? If Olwyn opened the doors wide and exposed everything to the light, would the evil shrivel, die, and blow away like dust caught in a cool, pleasant breeze?
Olwyn found herself standing outside Camille’s door.
There was, she decided, only one way to find out.
Olwyn knew what leaving would mean for her. She knew she’d never see Aidan again, never hold him close and be joined with him, never again know the bliss of lying with him in the darkness where she alone was privy to his truest self.
But what of staying?
Mira and her bloody journals, she sneered inwardly. Mira and her selfishness.
Olwyn could only wonder what Camille would think of Mira’s threats. She’d sensed in Camille great strength, determination, and wisdom.
Believe in the fairy tales that make you happy, Miss Gawain, and then dare to dream and dare to love. Most of all, dare to believe that the very best things are not only possible, but that you are worthy of them. If you can manage all three, magic happens. Trust me. I know.
Olwyn suspected that the Duchess of Eton knew far more about the power of dreams than most people.
Raising her hand, she knocked sharply on Camille’s door.
And Olwyn Gawain let her dreams, her trust, and her belief have their way with her until they became stronger than her fears.
Camille’s voice came from behind the door. “Who calls?”
“Olwyn Gawain, my lady. Might I have a brief word with you?”
“Of course. Give me a moment.”
The time she stood in the corridor spanned an eternity. Her heart became a thunder in chest and her hands shook and grew damp. She wiped them on her skirts and patted her hair, wishing she’d taken more time with her appearance.
Trust, she told herself. Believe.
She didn’t need to tell herself to love. She did that already, completely and with such passion that it forced her to surrender to the power of hope.
Camille opened the door. Her lovely face betrayed her curiosity, and though she wore her bedclothes, her hair was immaculately brushed and pinned. Camille’s vivid green eyes assessed her from her head to her heels, taking in the bruises, no doubt, and the cloak and traveling bag as well. She stood back and beckoned Olwyn with a graceful wave of her hand. “Come in, Miss Gawain. You’ve the look of a woman with much to say.”
Olwyn stepped into the luxurious suite, entering the sitting room where a fire burned merrily and the drapes were wide open to the morning light. The room smelled of lavender and lemon oil, and the plump chairs by the fire looked inviting as they were, draped with warm lap robes, the table between them laden with books of poetry.
Camille gestured to the closed doors that led further into the suite. “My husband is still abed,” she said in a quiet voice. “But he sleeps soundly. We won’t disturb him if we chat by the fire. Take a seat, please.”
Olwyn obediently sat. Camille came around and took her own chair, pulled a throw over her lap, and tilted her head to the side as she settled into the cushions, one arm trailing casually over the back of the chair.
Olwyn didn’t know quite where to begin.
“My lady, I want you to know that I hold you in the very highest esteem.”
Camille raised a brow as if amused. “Thank you, though if you want the truth, I’d rather hear about what happened to your beautiful face.”
“Well…” Olwyn hesitated. The truth, ugly and shameful, had tied her tongue.
“Did I ever mention to you that my back is striped with scars? My mother did not believe in sparing the rod, lest she spoil the child.” Camille leaned forward, and took Olwyn’s hand and lightly squeezed. “I promise you I’ll understand.”
Trust. Believe. Above all, love.
Olwyn began with Mira and the journals, of Mira’s plans to humiliate Camille and expose her father as a bastard. Olwyn told Camille of her love for Aidan, and their private handfast. She admitted her selfishness, in that she’d taken Aidan’s vows and given her own, knowing she’d leave. And then she recounted the rest, telling the truth as it was, plain, raw, and without even the thinnest veneer of civility.
Olwyn’s fingers drifted upward to her cheek, pressed lightly against the soreness there. “My father is dead, my lady. And I am at a loss as to what I should do. I love your grandson more than I love my own life. And I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’ve grown to love you, too. I cannot bear knowing that my staying here with Aidan would cause such harm to you and your family, and yet, I cannot bear to leave him.”
“Full circle, indeed,” Camille murmured.
“My lady?”
Camille sighed and smiled gently. “That girl had the look of Bret Kimball, and I could only hope that she didn’t also inherit her great-uncle’s selfish, narcissistic heart.”
“So it’s true?”
“Every word,” Camille said simply and without shame. “I was a headstrong
girl, and though my mother’s methods were harsh, she rarely beat me without provocation. All the things I did in my youth were in the pursuit of freedom and happiness. I loved a man who was completely unsuitable for me, and I would have crawled on my belly through a desert to be with him. For him, I would have done anything.”
Camille smiled at Olwyn with all the secrets and mystery of a woman’s heart. “We handfasted in private, before God and under the light of the moon, a secret love and a marriage that was not only unsanctified, but was also dangerous and forbidden. And as a result, my heart is free and happy, and my true love lies in my bed even until this very day, and so I consider the scars on my back to be battle scars from a war well worth fighting.”
Camille rose from her chair, her strength a palpable thing. “Come, Miss Gawain,” she said to Olwyn. “There are people in this world who can’t abide seeing other’s happiness. They cannot be permitted to win the wars they wage.”
“But my lady, if she has the journals printed, your entire family, and you most of all, will be shamed.”
Camille laughed, a melodic, free, easy sound, like water rippling over a rocky stream. “For the man I loved, I defied my family and the entire English aristocracy. Do you truly think I care a whit what they might say about me now?”
Crossing the room, Camille pulled on the silken rope that hung beside her door to call for her maid. She then returned to Olwyn, and took both her hands. “I’m glad you came to me, and that you, too, found a love worth fighting for.”
Camille’s smile widened, and her green eyes shone brighter and more beautiful than emeralds. “I admit to a bit of bias, but I do believe my grandson’s rather worthy of the battle.”
“He is, my lady,” Olwyn said, her voice choked with emotion. “Quite.”
In the face of Camille’s certainty and bravery, Olwyn felt her spirits rise. Before her was a woman of indomitable strength and courage, and it inspired Olwyn and touched her deeply.
Olwyn squared her shoulders and raised her head high, ready for war.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Camille saw to her toilette with the serenity of a woman unconcerned by trivial matters. She emerged from her dressing room perfectly gowned in a fashionable shade of pale green, her hair smooth and immaculately coiffed. She offered an assessing glance at Olwyn. “Much better.”
Camille’s maids had assisted Olwyn with changing into one of the finer gowns Camille had purchased for her. The pearly pink fabric clung to her breasts and then fell in a long column to the floor, the bodice trimmed in black grosgrain. They’d fixed her hair, arranging it in a high sweep off her face, with trailing curls cascading down her back, the black of her hair striking against the pink gown. Her face, bruised as it was, benefitted from a touch of powder, and her lips were glossed with a soothing balm.
Holding up one finger, Camille bade Olwyn to wait. She fetched a necklace of black jet and fiery iridescent opals. “This will look perfect.”
Olwyn allowed Camille to fasten the piece of jewelry around her slim neck, and then turned to face herself in the mirror. The girl that looked back at her from the silvery looking glass was slim and lovely despite being battered. Her eyes had a wary, cautious expression, as they always did when she approached her own reflection.
Olwyn suspected it would take her years to get accustomed to seeing beauty in the mirror.
Her hand involuntarily went to her waist. No belt cinched her middle, and her dagger had been lost in the battle with her father. She felt naked without it, a girl without defenses.
“There are better ways,” Camille said.
Olwyn turned to face her, and saw that Camille had gone to the tall armoire that sat opposite the fireplace, opened it, and was rummaging in a deep drawer. She returned with a large velvet pouch, and handed it to Olwyn with a strange smile.
Before Olwyn could open it, Patrick emerged from their sleeping chamber. He was fully dressed, still handsome for his age, and as he bent to kiss his wife, Olwyn felt a sharp pang of longing. Someday, she hoped, Aidan would be Patrick’s age, and he would greet her in the morning with a kiss and a softly spoken word.
Camille said a few words to Patrick, asking for his assistance in preparation for the battle to come, and when Patrick left to do her bidding, she turned back to Olwyn. “Go on. Open it.”
Plucking open the ribbons, Olwyn reached inside and withdrew a dagger sheathed in black leather. Its pommel was plain and sat within an odd metal catch, and buckled straps hung from the sheath. It appeared to be old, but was also well-maintained, the leather scarred and split in places, but still supple and smooth.
“Tis meant to be worn beneath your skirts,” Camille said, and a fond look came over her countenance as she saw Olwyn with the dagger. “I think I mentioned to you that once upon a time, I felt the need to arm myself with a dagger as well. And I’ll have you know, that weapon has served to comfort a few other women in our family. ’Tis fitting, I think, that Aidan’s wife should wear it.
“Put it on, Miss Gawain, if it makes you feel better prepared to deal with life’s unexpected contingencies. And should the time come that you’re ready to set it aside, keep it in mind for another woman who might be in need of a bit of extra confidence. After all, we do let our men look after us, but there often comes a time when we need to see to ourselves.”
Olwyn pressed the catch open and slid the knife from the sheath. It was balanced and feather-light in her hand. She smiled with delight, and instantly longed to practice throwing it as she had her old dagger, again and again into a hay bale until she could hit with absolute precision. It felt wrong to take more, and yet the power of the weapon inflamed her, and she didn’t want to refuse it, either. “You’re certain, my lady?”
“Quite,” Camille answered definitively. She laughed again, girlish, easy music. “And see? No need to ruin the line of your gown.”
And she couldn’t resist any longer. Olwyn latched the dagger securely within the sheath, raised her skirts, and strapped it to her upper thigh, high above her garter. It shone like black death against her white skin before she dropped her skirts back down to the floor.
Camille raised her brow and smiled knowingly. “Do you mind the feel of it?”
“On the contrary. I rather fancy having a secret weapon, rather than wearing one in my belt for all to see.”
And she did. The leather sheath warmed against her skin, molded to her thigh in a way that was purely scandalous for how it made Olwyn feel. A woman shouldn’t become aroused by wearing a weapon, Olwyn chastised herself.
“Yes,” Camille said softly. She lifted another packet, tucked it under her arm, and said, “I’ve a secret weapon of my own, my dear. Let’s go launch it, shall we?”
Mira woke late, and lay in the warm soft comfort of her bed for a time, enjoying the morning. The fire was out, and so she snuggled in the thick blankets until the urge to urinate forced her from the bed.
Once on the hard, cold floor, Mira did a little jig of happiness, for by now Olwyn Gawain would be aboard a ship, bound for the Americas.
She called for her maid, who was sleeping in the small alcove off her bed chamber, and began to dress to greet the day. She took special care with her appearance, for she’d noticed Padraig’s attentions had been rather pleasant toward her. The scamp, Roman de Gama, had shown her interest as well, but no matter how devilishly handsome he might be, Mira did not forget that he was common. Roman was fun to toy with, but Padraig Mullen still provided the best option for her next suitor.
While her maid coiffed her hair into a charming array of ringlets, Mira daydreamed about her wedding to Padraig. He’d be tall and dark and dangerously handsome in an expertly cut jacket and breeches. She would be as beautiful as any bride has ever been, and her gown would spark envy in every woman’s breast. Most definitely, Mira thought with delicious vindictiveness, those unmarried tarts, Portia and Sophia de Gama, whose beauty annoyed Mira to no end. Portia and Sophia might be incredibly beautiful, Mir
a consoled herself, but they would never be well-bred, and Mira was both.
She pressed her rose water behind her ears and along her inner wrist, as a lady does, and when her maid wasn’t looking, she trailed some between her breasts, as she’d heard the scandalous woman did. That Padraig Mullen was a roguish male animal, and would have to be baited with a sensual hook.
Delighting herself, Mira imagined the surprised and envious faces of the other girls at court when they heard that Mira had called off her engagement to Aidan, and had instead decided to marry Padraig.
After all, Aidan had assured Mira that he would not contradict her story of why they ended their betrothal. And when the announcement would be made that Mira had chosen Padraig, she was certain to make them all positively green.
Mira Kimball, after all, was the only woman desirable enough and of such impeccable heritage, that both men would vie for her hand.
Not just brothers, but twins! She laughed with delight at the thought. And not just twins, but the most eligible and handsome of all the men in England.
A smug smile curved her lips, for all would know that Mira had had her choice of both of them.
She eyed herself critically in the mirror and found herself without flaw. Her cheeks glowed with health, and her hair was the perfect combination of girlish bounce and womanly sophistication. The gown she’d chosen for her celebratory day of Olwyn’s passage to America was an elegant creation of buttery yellow silk and white lace. Mira noted that her eyes had never looked so blue, her face so pretty, and her smile so radiant.
Mira Kimball left her room and descended the stairs to take her breakfast. As she passed through the corridors, she noticed a few young serving girls with their heads together, gossiping furiously.
“Back to work,” she shooed them, and they scattered with satisfying swiftness. When Mira was mistress of her own household, she would not tolerate such indolence, but even as a guest in someone’s home, she felt it her duty to intervene.
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