by Liz Fielding
‘Kam?’
‘I’m just tired.’
‘I’ll stay with you.’
‘No.’ He took her hand. ‘Not here. Not in this room.’ He heaved himself to his feet, sat on the bed and lay back. ‘We have a date, you and I... The first of June...’
He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
She loosened his belt, eased off his trousers and covered him with the blanket then, unsure whether he was exhausted or suffering from the effects of the blow to his chin, she curled up on the bed beside him and watched him until his colour returned. Only leaving when the sky began to grow light in the east.
* * *
‘Let’s leave it at that, Agnès.’ The door to the chapel had opened and she didn’t need to look around to know that it was Kam. The flower arranger’s indulgent smile warned her long before he came up behind her and she felt the weight of his arm across her shoulders.
‘Hello, Mrs George. How’s Harry?’
‘He’s well, thank you, Kam. Looking forward to the wedding.’
Neither of them spoke until the door closed behind her, the only movement that of the dust motes dancing in the shafts of coloured light streaming in through the stained glass.
Kam broke the silence. ‘I’ve made my peace with Jamie about last night, Apologised to Suzanna.’
‘I have a question about that.’
‘Only one?’
‘I was wondering how you knew that room was mine.’ She turned to look up at him.
‘It was years ago. I wanted to see where you lived. How you lived. Your grandfather had gone to London, you were away at school and I slipped in through the back door and walked through every room. Your room was so bare, it had fewer comforts than mine. I only knew it was yours because of the books you had, and the pictures drawn by your mother hanging on the wall.’
‘Did you feel sorry for me?’
‘Not sorry for you. Sad for you.’
‘There was a teddy bear on my pillow when I came home one holidays. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke. You didn’t say anything but I knew it had to be yours. I still have it.’ She put her hand in his. ‘Come and sit down. I need to tell you something.’
‘Is this going to be bad?’
‘It’s family business and you are going to be my family.’
She’d never told the story to anyone before and it took her a moment to organise her thoughts. ‘This,’ she said, with a gesture that took in the chapel, ‘the sweet legend on the website about how Henri Prideaux fell in love with the young Elizabeth Draycott, is all lies. Henri Prideaux, dashing smuggler, hero of a dozen fanciful stories, was a monster.’
That was clearly not what Kam was expecting. An eyebrow rose, but he waited.
‘Elizabeth was just sixteen years old when he raped her.’ Her voice wobbled as she thought of herself, only a few weeks younger, eager, full of anticipation, wanting to give herself to the boy she adored; how different, how terrifying, how painful it must have been for Elizabeth. ‘Shame, fear, kept her silent. When it became obvious that she was pregnant, Henri swore to her father, in this chapel, on the family bible that still sits on that lectern, that she’d thrown herself at him. He acted out the role of a decent man, tormented beyond his strength, but said he’d save her from the shame and marry her. She was not given a choice. Within weeks of their son being born, her father fell from the tower.’
‘Murder?’
‘When Elizabeth suggested it had not been an accident Henri warned her that she and her infant son would go the same way, if she didn’t behave. And, should she have any ideas of her own in that direction, his son by his first wife would take his place and he would see that she and her precious boy followed him to Hades.’
‘Like father like son?’
‘Elizabeth had no one to fight for her so she buckled under, did her duty and bore him seven children before, mercifully, he fell in the creek after drinking one too many bottles of the brandy in his cellar. His French son arrived, as promised, no doubt planning to take possession, but Elizabeth had wasted no time in summoning the local militia to guard her children and the lawyers had a will written in Henri’s own hand and sealed with his ring.’
‘With the entail.’
‘With the entail,’ she agreed. ‘There was only one problem with that. Unlike his wife Henri could not read or write English.’
‘Elizabeth forged it?’
‘Her or a friendly lawyer. Henri was not popular.’
‘His son didn’t contest it?’
‘He might have done but news arrived that Napoleon had escaped from Elba. Overnight he was on enemy territory. A swift exit was called for and he never returned.’
Kam uttered a single expletive.
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised, ‘but how do you know all this?’
‘Elizabeth kept a diary.’ She took it from the pocket of the long linen top she was wearing. ‘She must have hidden it rather than have her own daughters know what kind of man their father was. No one would ever have known but three years ago the radiator in Grandma’s room sprung a leak. The plumber had to lift the floorboards to get at the pipe and he found a package wrapped in oilcloth. Once I opened it, started reading it...’
‘How did your grandmother take it?’
‘I never showed it to her. She hasn’t been in good health for years and I knew it would upset her and my grandfather would have burned it.’
‘So you kept the secret.’
‘Who would I share it with?’
Him, Kam thought. She had shared it with him.
‘Are you happy to have the wedding here?’ he asked.
It wasn’t to be a religious ceremony but Henri’s oath had been sacrilegious.
‘Grandfather had left instructions that his funeral service should take place here,’ she replied. ‘There hadn’t been a service here since my christening. I wasn’t sure whether it was still consecrated even, so I asked the bishop to come and perform that service and bless it. Henri and his vile lie have been cleaned away.’
* * *
There was a string quartet playing in the choir as the congregation gathered for the wedding of Miss Agnès Elizabeth Prideaux to Kamal David Faulkner. The chapel was decorated with country casual flowers in pink and white with knots of ribbons and a bunch of pink and white balloons bearing their names and the date floating above the lectern.
Kam was sitting with his best man and business partner, Raj Chowdry, beside him. His mother, sitting behind him, touched his shoulder as if she knew that he was nervous, as only a bridegroom, suffering that last moment of uncertainty about whether his beloved would arrive, could ever be.
‘She will be here.’
He placed his hand on hers then looked around.
He knew most of the people in the chapel. There were old friends from his school days, people who had helped him build his business, those who’d worked on the estate and had since retired. There were a few faces on the bride’s side of the aisle he didn’t recognise, school friends of Agnès, distant relatives.
The sleek, elegantly tailored man sitting with her grandmother looked vaguely familiar, but before he could put his mind to where he’d seen him before there was a rustle of activity at the rear of the chapel. A child’s voice asking in a loud whisper when there would be cake provoked a ripple of laughter.
Finally the celebrant stepped forward and there was a moment of silence before the first notes of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon’ filled the chapel.
As one, their guests rose to watch as Agnès walked, alone and unsupported, towards him, a posse of bridesmaids, being gently corralled by Suzanna, following her down the aisle.
She had no one to give her away. She was a strong woman, making her own choice as she gave herself to him, knowing that he was giving himself to her.
Strong, beautif
ul, a vision in white lace worn over a simple dress. There was no veil to hide her face, just the Prideaux tiara in her hair, a posy of the roses she’d named for her mother in her hand as she walked towards him.
As she reached her grandmother she stopped to kiss her cheek, give her the bouquet to hold. Then, as she straightened and saw the man standing beside her grandmother, she stilled.
In that moment he knew where he had seen that face before. On the portrait of Henri Prideaux hanging over the fireplace in the library.
The man murmured something to Agnès that only she and her grandmother could hear.
He was at her side in a step, and without a word his mother crossed the aisle and took Lady Prideaux away to sit with her.
‘If you have something to say, Prideaux,’ he said, ‘you will have your chance to stand up and say it in front of everyone but we are here to celebrate a wedding.’
The service was a simple one. It began with the simple declaration from Agnès and from himself that they knew of no impediment to their marriage. Pierre Prideaux appeared to have thought better of interrupting the service and it continued with one of Raj’s children reading How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Someone Agnès knew from school sang ‘The Rose’.
Then it was time for their vows.
Agnès took his hands and said, ‘I chose you as my friend when I was six years old, Kam Faulkner, when you were a scruffy boy and I was a lonely little girl. I chose you as my lover when I was a few weeks shy of my sixteenth birthday, too young to know that love isn’t always enough. In all the time since then no one has ever touched my heart as you did then, and now that I am twenty-six I still choose you as my friend, my lover, my joy. I will choose you and choose you and choose you, Kam, with all my heart, with all my soul, with everything I have and I will still be choosing you with my dying breath.’
For a moment his throat was thick with emotion and he could do nothing but tighten his grip on her hands before gathering himself to respond.
‘I had a pretty vow written for you, my lovely Agnès, but at this moment I want to make you a promise. It’s not pretty, but it’s my solemn vow to you and it’s this. If we are not blessed with children and anything, God forbid, should happen to you, I swear that before I let Pierre Prideaux or any of his ilk step foot in Priddy Castle, I will make it your funeral pyre.’
There was an audible gasp from the congregation, followed by footsteps and the crash of the ancient oak doors as Pierre Prideaux left the chapel, but none of that mattered because Agnès was kissing him.
After a moment the celebrant cleared her throat. ‘We seem to have got a little ahead of ourselves. There are a few formalities before you get to the good part.’ There was a ripple of relieved laughter from the congregation as she turned to Raj and said, ‘Do you have the rings?’
They exchanged rings, signed the register, then they were outside in the sunshine, a photographer doing his best to marshal them into position.
‘What did he say to you?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing I’d soil my mouth with. The words of a man who has lost, Kam. You wiped them clean away with the power of your promise.’
* * *
Agnès had chosen to celebrate their wedding with a picnic in the wild part of the garden.
There was a carousel, an entertainer for the children, a conjurer moving among the crowd amusing everyone with close-up magic. And after the feasting, when the light began to fade and the fairy lights strung amongst the wild roses and honeysuckle climbing through the trees began to twinkle, there was a dance floor with a local group providing the music.
‘What did you choose as a first dance?’ Agnès asked as Kam took her hand and led her onto the dance floor.
‘This.’ One of the group handed him a guitar. ‘You gave me this a long time ago asking only that one day I play a song just for you. This is it.’
He ran his fingers lightly over the strings and then he began to sing.
He sang the first verse, the chorus and then he handed the guitar to someone standing in the crowd and took her in his arms. Still singing, with everyone standing around watching them as, dancing in the dark, he spun her slowly around all their friends who had gathered to watch. And then, when the song ended, they just stood there in each other’s arms and he said, ‘Did I do okay?’
And, smiling, she said, ‘It was...perfect.’
* * *
It was dark. Behind the castle, the party was still in full swing but down on the beach the only sound was the water lapping against the sand, the churring of a nightjar, the soft grumble of a duck.
The only light as Agnès walked out of the cave where she had left her dress, the lacy underwear expected of a bride, came from the stars and the thinnest crescent moon.
The water was cold as she waded in up to her waist then launched herself out into the creek, but Kam was waiting as she reached the little beach and walked towards him, star-silvered water streaming from her body.
‘You’re cold,’ he said, as he took her hand. Just as he had that first time.
And she said, ‘Warm me.’
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, check out these other great reads from Liz Fielding
Her Pregnancy Bombshell
The Sheikh’s Convenient Princess
Vettori’s Damsel in Distress
The Last Woman He’d Ever Date
All available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss by Jessica Gilmore.
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Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss
by Jessica Gilmore
CHAPTER ONE
‘COME ALONG, HATTY. Leave that!’
Harriet Fairchild looked up from her computer screen, eyes full of spreadsheets and numbers and projections, and smiled at the petite woman jiggling impatiently from foot to foot by the side of the pretty antique desk.
‘I just need to finish this and I’ll be right there. Five minutes, Amber, I promise.’
‘You said that ten minutes ago,’ Amber pointed out. ‘Our guests will be here in fifteen minutes and we haven’t had our private toast yet. Those spreadsheets will still be there in the morning.’
‘Along with everything else I haven’t managed to do yet. I can’t believe I’m so behind, when we haven’t even opened the agency.’ But Harriet was saving the documents as she spoke, closing down the laptop and shutting the l
id with a sigh she did her best to hide from the bubbly redhead. Her new business partners—and best friends—had been more than understanding when Harriet disappeared across London most days to sit with her father after yet another fall, but with the Happy Ever After Agency due to open its doors imminently she knew it should have been all hands on deck back at the elegant Chelsea townhouse where they now lived, worked and dreamed.
‘I can’t believe it’s actually happening.’ Amber bounced up and down on her trainer-clad tiptoes as Harriet slipped her laptop into the desk drawer and locked it. ‘That we’ve made it.’
‘We’re not there yet; we need some clients first.’ But although Harriet was trying to maintain her usual calm and sensible manner, excitement fizzed inside her like the champagne Emilia was getting ready to uncork on the other side of the room.
‘Well, that’s what tonight’s about. Launching the business. After tonight we’ll have more work than we can cope with, you’ll see.’
‘We will if the other two have anything to do with it. Between Emilia’s event skills and Alex’s PR skills, how can our launch event be anything but a success? And if it isn’t, well, we can live off canapés and champagne for the next week!’
She followed Amber through the office and into the freshly decorated reception area, where the other two co-owners of the Happy Ever After Agency were waiting for her. As she joined them Emilia finally let the cork go with a resounding pop, Alexandra deftly holding a glass under the bottle to catch the first rush of golden bubbles, handing the filled glass to Harriet with a smile.
‘Thank you!’ Harriet took the glass and held it out, waiting till the other three each held their own to join her in the toast. ‘To dreams coming true and happy-ever-afters,’ she said.
‘To happy-ever-afters,’ Emilia echoed, her answering smile for once full and frank, the shadows that usually haunted her eyes nowhere to be seen.
‘And to all our dreams.’ Alexandra could never be anything but cool and collected, but her even, polite smile was genuinely warm, the excitement in her voice unfeigned.