by Linda Cajio
She sobered. “I hated what I was doing, Rick. I don’t know how I can ever make it up to you.”
“Just keep telling me you really love me.”
She smiled. “I really love you, Roderick Kitteridge.”
“Good. When I saw the—” He stopped. “I couldn’t blame you. I would have done anything to get it back, if it were mine.”
“I didn’t think you would understand that.”
“I didn’t until I actually saw it,” he admitted. “By the way, I called my friend before we left. He found the material we sent him very interesting. The Yard is following it up. Now all we have to do is eat Cornish pastries and have tea and tarts with clotted cream.”
“Sounds wonderful.” They had a lot to talk about, too, a lot to work out. She was very grateful there was something to work out.
“Have you given any thought to the book?” he asked.
She froze, her stomach crawling with fear.
He stopped with her. “I’m pushing, aren’t I?”
“Somebody better get pushing.” She pointed to a bank on the other side of the street.
Colonel Fitchworth-Leeds was standing on the steps, glancing through some papers. At any second he would look up and spot them. She had no doubt he’d know exactly why they were there. Anything could happen then, and that’s what worried her.
Rick cursed and glanced around. “No near side streets to duck into. The taxi stand.”
“But the car—”
“Is way up the street and around the corner.” He hustled her to the pedestrian crossing and over to the center island of trees and benches. “We’ll come back for it later.”
“The shops—” she began, but he shoved her toward the first taxi.
“Need a lift, mate?” the young driver asked.
Rick nodded, even as he opened the rear door and pushed her inside the cramped Fiat. He scrambled in beside her, and both of them sank down in the seat. Jill grabbed Rick’s hand and held on to it tightly. He squeezed back in reassurance.
“Hi, I’m Chris,” the driver said, getting into the front and starting up the car. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful,” Jill said, wishing he would hurry.
The driver pulled out of the stand with all the speed of the tortoise on race day. “Been to Falmouth before?”
Jill willed herself to be calm. “No. I’m from the States.”
“An American!” the driver exclaimed. “Lovely. And you, sir?”
“Cotswolds.”
They were just passing the bank. Jill had an overwhelming urge to check what the Colonel was doing. She tried to resist it, but the urge was too much. She peeked.
The Colonel was peeking back.
Actually, he was staring openmouthed at the taxi, then his face went livid with rage. They turned up a side street, but not before they saw him sprinting toward the back of the bank. Jill was positive he had his car parked there.
“Damn!” Rick muttered. “He must have come down to take the necklaces across the Channel and discovered he had visitors.”
“And you thought it was all downhill from here.”
The driver laughed, overhearing her. “Nay, it’s all uphill. The Cornish hills are very steep, miss. Nearly everybody takes the taxi back from town.”
“I can see why.” Jill peered ahead up the hill road for another cross street.
“Now, where to, folks?” the driver asked, clearly oblivious to the drama in the back seat. The taxi’s speed did increase as they sped away from the center of Falmouth.
Rick looked at her blankly. She shrugged.
The driver grinned. “Not quite ready to go back to your hotel, eh?”
“Not really,” Rick said, in the understatement of the year.
“Ever been up to Pendennis Castle?”
“Castle?” Jill said absently, glancing behind her to see it they were still clear. They were.
“Oh, it’s lovely. Henry the Eighth built it ages ago. It’s just on the other side of town—”
“No!” she and Rick said at the same time.
Rick went on, “Castles are … well …”
“Not your cup o’ tea?” Chris finished. “Since your lady friend is from America, how about a tour of the area? I can take you along the little country lanes and show you things you’ll never see regularlike—”
“Perfect!” Rick snapped the suggestion up like a starving man.
“Oh, you’ll really enjoy this, miss.” The driver waxed enthusiastic. “The novelist Daphne du Maurier lived on the Helford River, just over the hill there.”
“Really?” Jill said, her curiosity piqued. Over the hill was to the south of Falmouth, away from the north and the cottage they were staying in. And far enough away from the Colonel to suit her.
“Oh, yes.” The taxi suddenly jolted forward as the driver fed the car gas. “I had two writers from America once who insisted on seeing it. They wrote romances, I think. Do you know the movie star Roger Moore?”
Jill allowed that she did.
“Well, I’ll take you past the cottage he rented last year. You’ll like that. You’ll like all of Cornwall, miss. Nowhere on earth like it. I know. I went up to London a few years back, but I came home again. Whenever a Cornishman crosses the Tamar River, he breathes a sigh of relief to be back in Cornwall, I can tell you …”
Rick relaxed as they sped along winding country lanes. Up and down and around they went—and farther and farther from Falmouth. He looked back, but no one was following them that he could see. As they passed farms and cow pastures, one little village, then another, the more confident he became that they’d lost the Colonel. He wasn’t sure whether the man had been running away from them or ready to chase them, but he hadn’t wanted to wait around to find out. He’d have the driver drop them off at a pub soon, and they would call Grahame at the cottage. The driv er’s lecture on things Cornish was an easy price to pay in the meantime.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured in Jill’s ear. “I was too damned cocky.”
“I think I can manage to forgive you,” she whispered back.
The lane plunged down out of the trees and along a small cozy-looking river.
“Here’s the Helford River,” Chris announced proudly as the taxi zoomed along by it. “It’s not as tame as it looks. Very treacherous. Daphne du Maurier lived somewhere along it, any road, so everyone says. And we’re just coming into the village of Gweek. Funny little name, isn’t it?”
The cab no sooner entered the village than it screeched to a halt in front of flashing orange pedestrian crossing lights. A group of children trotted across the road.
“Outing to the Seal Sanctuary,” Chris explained cheerfully. “I Swear every school in the West Country sends their kids here.”
Rick let out his breath as the car moved forward again. He looked behind them. Still clear. Five minutes on the other side of the village, the taxi screeched to another halt. A herd of cows plodded across the lane.
“Cattle crossing,” the driver announced. “This here’s called Goonhilly Downs. Irish name. Lots of cattle crossings.”
Jill looked at Rick. He looked at her. They both looked behind them. Clear. Rick relaxed in the seat and watched the meter mount up over ten pounds. This was becoming an expensive getaway.
They actually got to the next village before the cab stopped again. Two elderly women slowly crossed the road.
“Elderly crossing,” Jill announced this time, pointing to the yellow sign with man and woman stick figures on it. The woman was discernible only by the purse hanging on one arm. Her other was linked to the man. Jill chuckled and added, “She looks like she’s picking his pocket.”
“As long as nobody’s picking ours,” Rick muttered, glancing behind them yet again. All clear.
Once out of the village, two more stops were made in short order, one for sheep and one for a tractor. The hairs prickled along the back of his neck, and he turned around frequently, although he saw nothing su
spicious. These halts were just getting on his nerves, he decided. And so was the driver, as the fee mounted over fifteen pounds—nearly thirty dollars in Jill’s money. He had a feeling they were getting taken for a ride in more ways than one.
The driver’s next words confirmed it. He pointed to three houses set in a steep cliff overlooking the Helford. “Here! Roger Moore stayed in one of those three.”
“Ohhh,” Jill said appropriately.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her struggling not to giggle. Only Jill would find the joke in the most dire of situations, he thought. It was one of the things he loved about her. He stopped worrying about the cost of the taxi. He stopped worrying about the Colonel too. They had to have lost him by now anyway.
The village of Helford on the Helford was busy with boaters and tourists. The streets were jammed and traffic was heavy. The taxi slowed to a crawl.
“Everybody must be out lookin’ for the Morgawr,” Chris said. “That’s our version of the Nessie. It’s got a humped back and stumpy horns. Ugly as sin. If you like, I can take you out tonight to go looking for it—”
He stopped the car so suddenly, Jill and Rick were jostled forward.
“What is it now?” Rick asked, craning his neck to see the problem this time.
“Swans crossing. Ruddy things take forever to get over to the tidal creek too.”
“Swans crossing!” Rick exploded. “Look, I am not some bloody fool tourist you can take for some ride—”
“Here now!” the driver exclaimed, turning around.
Jill pulled on Rick’s arm. He whipped back to face her.
She pointed down.
He looked out the side window and saw several swans and two cygnets meandering nearly under the car tires. The adults were honking loudly. Above, tacked to the side of a building, was a sign that actually said Swans Crossing.
Jill burst into laughter. The cabbie looked righteous. Rick grumbled an apology.
“At least we’re far from the Colonel,” he said, and looked behind them in a casual check.
Traffic was stopped on the narrow street, but three cars back a man stood at his open driver’s door. The Colonel spotted him the moment he spotted the Colonel. The Colonel got back in his car and began to ease it around the traffic onto the wrong side of the road.
Rick swore under his breath and checked on the swans. They were still wandering and honking in the middle of the road. They’d never make it across in time.
“Many thanks for the tour, mate,” he said, yanking bills out of his pocket. He tossed three tenners into the front seat. “That ought to do it. Jill, love, the Colonel. Out on my side.”
“But, but …” The driver sputtered in astonishment as his passengers slipped out of the back seat. They were running up the road, Rick trusting the swans to continue to hold up traffic while they made a cheap getaway this time.
“How could he have tracked us?” Jill asked, gasping. Her eyes were wide with fright.
“He did somehow.” Rick contemplated the question, though, and added, “He must have been driving all through here, hoping to pick up on us.”
“He must be desperate.”
“Very. Down this road.”
They were off the main road along the beach and heading back into the peninsula. They glanced back, then stopped and stared.
The Colonel’s car, now effectively blocking the wrong side of the road, was surrounded by furiously honking swans, ready to defend against this new threat to the family unit. It was clear the creatures wouldn’t budge until he did, and he couldn’t budge until they did. Humans blared mechanical honkers and shouted their anger.
Jill collapsed into Rick’s arms and they burst into laughter.
“You certainly make life interesting,” he gasped out.
“So do you.”
“Enough to stay forever?” Suddenly, he was deadly serious.
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Oh, yes.”
He glanced back at the street. A police car was pulling up behind the Colonel’s, its orange lights flashing.
Rick smiled. “Let’s go home.”
Epilogue
“I still can’t get over how beautiful it is,” Rick said, staring down at the book display on the table.
“Neither can I.” Jill smiled as she leaned against him, still in awe at seeing her words turned into a book. Better still, a book the public liked. Castles and Cots: The Customs of the Medieval Man by Jill Daneforth Kitteridge had been on the London Times bestseller list for three months.
He put his arm around her and kissed her. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Not quite as adventurous as our burglary days, but not bad,” she murmured. The book had taken two years to research and write, a job that had never been more satisfying. Or more appropriate, she’d discovered. Like a medieval cathedral built stone by stone, a book had been built page by page.
Rick looked around at the anniversary party being given for them at Devil’s Hall. His grandmother, in typical fashion, had descended on them with the families for the event, completely disrupting their quiet life. Not quite so quiet, he mused, remembering all the interruptions for lovemaking. How Jill had ever gotten the book out and how he ever kept the manor running was a major miracle.
He grinned at her and surreptiously dropped his hand below her waist.
“Sex fiend,” she murmured affectionately.
“Love slave.” He glanced around their crowded drawing room again, then shook his head. “She must have chartered a damned jet. The Colonel would have had a field day with this crowd.”
Jill chuckled. The Colonel had been well and truly caught by those swans. Thanks to the information Rick had provided his friend, a long list of cons attributed to the Colonel, under various names, had come to light. The Colonel was now in long-term residence at Strangeways Prison. She caught sight of the loaded buffet table. “And Grahame’s in his glory, cooking.”
“And off my back for once,” Rick said, then added, “I suppose we’re overdue for a visit to the States.”
“They’re all here, so I think we can skip it this year. Besides, who would feed George and the new kits?”
Rick grinned at the mention of his old friend finding a new mate. “And the new farm manager would never manage either.”
“Why do I think we’d have been great as serfs tied to the land?” she teased, knowing her husband preferred to do the managing anyway.
He stared at her with that intense gaze of his. “As long as you never have a regret making your home in England.”
After the Colonel had been caught, Jill had taken the emerald necklace home, dumped it into her father’s lap with a lecture to keep it safe and get his marriage back in order, then quit her new job before it even started, and then turned around and caught the first plane back to England. It had been the most sensible thing she’d ever done in her life.
She kissed him softly on the lips. “Never.” She kissed him again. “I’m home.” She kissed him a third time, their mouths lingering. “It’s spring. Let’s go make a baby.”
“Now see, Caroline. Of course she’s happy.”
Jill turned around in time to see her mother nod dubiously. Lettice was beaming.
“Grandmother,” Rick said dryly, “you have all the timing of a bull elephant in a china shop.”
“You ought to be more grateful,” Lettice snapped back. “You never would have met Jill if I hadn’t brought her to you.”
“Here she goes again about this matchmaking,” Rick’s sister Susan said.
Rick’s cousins crowded around them, several chiming in with similar comments.
“No, she didn’t,” Rick said, amused at the notion.
“You honestly don’t think I forgot your parents would be in Moscow, now did you?” Lettice asked. She glared at Rick, who stared back at her. “Senile, ha! In a pig’s eye, I’m senile!”
“You—you did it on purpose?” Jill asked.
�
��Well, of course I did it on purpose. I’m not bad for a spur-of-the-moment plan.” She chuckled. “And to think I thought you two would be perfect because you’re both so sensible.”
“Got that bleedin’ wrong, didn’t you, Mrs. K.?” Grahame said, bringing around the hors de’oeuvres tray. He rolled his eyes heavenward. “The tales I could tell you about these two.”
“Which you won’t!” Rick ordered.
“No labor disputes on an anniversary,” Jill’s father broke in, trying to keep the peace. Lawrence Daneforth reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a long flat box. He smiled at Jill, a knowing smile that was slightly sad around the edges. Suddenly she knew what was in the box. His next words confirmed it. “It’s time to receive your heritage.”
He opened the lid and the square-cut emeralds flashed in the sunlight. Everyone gasped.
“It would seem,” her father went on, “they have come home to England where they started out, three hundred years ago.” He paused, then added ruefully, “At least they’ll be in safer hands than mine or Caroline’s.”
“They were perfectly safe—” Caroline began, then subsided at a look from her husband. She kissed Jill on the cheek. “I suppose your father’s right. Anyway, I’ll be glad not to have to worry about them.”
“Now I bloody do,” Grahame said in disgust. He held out a tray to Caroline. “Have a salmon and crab dab, Mrs. D.”
Rick lifted the necklace out of the box and fastened it around Jill’s neck. She could feel the pearls warming against her skin, even as the green gems burned a cool fire. She touched the necklace at her throat.
“Someday for our daughter,” she whispered, gazing at her husband.
“I love you,” Rick whispered back, pulling her into his embrace.
Lettice smiled.
This book is dedicated to Chris, who keeps alive the true tradition and spirit of Cornishmen. The location of Roger Moore’s house has been changed to protect the innocent.
Words can never express my gratitude to Rainy Kirkland, who made the impossible possible. Many thanks to Linda and Roger L. for taking a friend of a friend into their gracious home. I still see England in my dreams.