He waited impatiently for the rest of that life to start at the front of Byerd’s stone chapel. The interior was cool inside, the altar simply decorated with a pristine white linen cloth and a vase of summer wildflowers. Pen had not wanted anything lavish and neither had he. In his opinion, the love between a man and a woman was a private matter for them to celebrate alone with their closest friends. To turn it into a circus cheapened it. The guest list was short but meaningful, limited to Pen’s family and his. His parents sat in the front pew across from Phin and Pen’s aunt. Behind his parents sat Inigo and his father, the Duke of Boscastle, followed by Eaton and his family—his wife, Eliza, and her daughter, Sophie—Eaton’s father and mother with them. Behind them were Sir Jock Treleven and his wife along with their oldest daughter, Rosenwyn, her husband Cador Kitto and their new infant son born in March. Nearly all of Cassian’s friends and mentors were there. Only Vennor was missing. But Cassian understood. When Ven was ready to celebrate life again, he would return to the fold.
At the corner of the altar, the five unmarried Treleven girls sat with bows poised to provide music. With a nod from the vicar, the girls began a beautiful rendition of a Vivaldi piece on their violins and cello. Cassian had chosen the piece as a remembrance of the night at the St Piran’s Day fair and the Venetian glass-blower.
The heavy oak doors of the chapel opened and Cassian’s heart began to pound. His bride was coming. And she was there, standing in the doorway, framed by sunlight; an angel, a Madonna, his. Another perfect moment, the beginning of his life. Pen made her way down the short aisle, slow and dignified on her father’s arm, dressed in her mother’s wedding gown, a pale blue slip overlaid with an overskirt of white lace, a high waist like the ones worn at the turn of the century, a wide expanse of blue ribbon under her breasts, her mother’s pearls at her neck, her mother’s veil of old lace covering her hair. But at her wrist, tied in a blue ribbon to match, was the glass heart he’d given her that first night. Blue for truth. Blue for loyalty. She’d not worn gloves today, had insisted on it, in fact, saying she wanted to feel his hands when he held hers, skin to skin, in prelude for the night to come.
Pen reached the front, her father placed her hand in Cassian’s and Cassian nodded his thanks. He knew what an effort this was for Redruth. In some ways, the earl was losing his daughter, setting her free into a world where he couldn’t protect her. ‘I’ll take good care of her, sir,’ Cassian said in low undertones as Redruth stepped away.
Eaton had told him he wouldn’t remember any of the service, that it would all be a blur. Eaton was wrong. Cassian imprinted every moment of it on his mind: the way Pen looked as she took his hand, the way tears had glistened in her eyes as he’d said his vows, promising to worship her with his body, the tremulous smile on her face when he’d slipped the ring on her slender finger, the feel of her warm lips when he kissed her. He would remember all of it. Most of all, he’d remember the hope in her eyes when she looked at him. Together, they would dream new dreams, see new places and build a new world. Starting tomorrow. Tonight was to be spent in the gamekeeper’s cottage and tomorrow they’d begin their honeymoon—a year-long affair of travel. He would take her to Italy, to Venice and Rome, they’d yacht the Mediterranean and see the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul and the great temples of Greece.
‘This is the best day of my life,’ he whispered as he led her down the aisle and out into the sunlight and the cheers of those assembled.
She laughed up at him. ‘Only until the next one.’ He drew her close and kissed her hard, much to the approval of the crowd. She was right. There would be other best days: the day she’d tell him she was expecting their first child, the day she had their first child, the day she told him she was expecting their second child, and their third and their fourth. There’d be every morning he woke up next to her and every night he went to bed beside her and those would be the best of days too. He had meant to show her the world, but, deep at his core, he knew that she’d been the one to show the world to him, a secret, private world of the heart.
He recalled the words she’d spoken to him that first day in the cottage. ‘You are my adventure in the very best of ways.’ Yes. Every word of it was true.
Epilogue
Late summer, 1825
Cassian stood at the ship’s rail, his arms wrapped about his wife as the Truro Quay came into view. They were home. Very shortly they’d be on Cornish soil after nearly a year away, a year spent on a travelling honeymoon, a year spent watching his wife’s eyes light in joy at the wonders of Venice, of the Turkish bazaar. More than that, it had been a year of discovering love, a love that enabled him to forgive himself, to find peace with his brother’s memory, to let go of dreams that had weighed him down instead of setting him free. He might not be building a pleasure garden, but he was more than that. He understood that now. That dream did not define him. He would find other ways to help promote economic recovery.
Pen looked up at him. ‘Are you happy to be home?’
Cassian grinned. ‘I’ve been home all year. I’ve been with you, haven’t I? Wherever you are, that’s where my home is.’
‘I think it will be nice to sleep in one bed for a while.’ Pen laughed. They waved to the figures on the dock, growing closer. Inigo was there, with his new bride, a veil covering her face. He’d sent word to one of the ports that he’d married. ‘I wonder who she is? He was so mysterious not telling us.’
Cassian wasn’t quite as interested in Inigo’s new bride as he was in his wife. He was pleased to be home despite his comments. After all, he had responsibilities to see to and one could not rely on stewards for ever. But he would miss the rhythm of the road, of not having to share Pen with anyone. On the road his time was all hers. ‘It was a grand adventure, though.’ He nuzzled her ear with his mouth. ‘We’ll be unpacking our souvenirs for weeks.’ His wife had proven to be an insatiable shopper and a shrewd bargainer. The hold of the ship was full of carpets and silks and gifts for everyone.
Pen turned in his arms, her smile coy. ‘Some of the souvenirs might take longer than that, up to nine months even.’
It took him a moment to fully comprehend, but when he did, a broad smile took his mouth. ‘You’re pregnant? Are you sure?’
‘Three months. I am pretty sure.’ Pen smiled. ‘Are you happy? It’s not too soon? We won’t be wandering again any time soon.’
‘It’s not too soon,’ Cassian assured her. ‘It looks like Inigo won’t be the only one with a surprise to share.’ He was counting backwards in his mind. Three months would mean Venice. They’d spent the spring there in a palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal.
‘I think it was the night we took the gondola ride.’ She laughed.
‘That only narrows it down slightly. I have fond memories of many gondola rides. Too bad England doesn’t have more canals.’ Cassian kissed her, long and hard, as the anchor dropped. Pen had already given him so much: her love, her trust, his life back. And now, she was going to give him a child. He could want for nothing.
‘I have something else for you.’ Pen reached into the pocket of her travelling skirt for an envelope. ‘I don’t want you to be bored here at home, so I thought this might keep you busy.’
‘What is it?’ Cassian eyed his wife with mock suspicion as he unfolded the paper inside. His brow furrowed. It looked very legal. He read slowly, carefully, not daring to believe what his eyes saw.
‘It’s a deed for the land my father refused you,’ she explained. He was aware of her eyes on him, of the hesitance in her voice. ‘Do you like it? I thought it was what you wanted.’
‘I do like it.’ Cassian folded the deed and put it back in the envelope. He tucked it away with reverence, overwhelmed. She’d found a way. He was going to build his amusement garden. No, correction. They were going to build their amusement garden. He’d let that dream go willingly, and it had come back to him. ‘But make no mistake, Pen. You are wh
at I wanted always. I won’t say that thirty-two acres of empty land between Redruth and Hayle doesn’t excite me. But rest assured, nothing will excite me as much as my wife and thought of our child.’ He took her face between his hands. ‘How did you convince your father to release the land?’
‘Love works in mysterious ways.’ Pen wrapped her arms about his waist. ‘I told him you were worth it.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘Yes, but I think in the end it was you he believed, a man who would give up his dream for the sake of love. Your actions spoke to him far louder than any words ever could. You showed him love was worth fighting for.’
‘Well, it is.’ Cassian drew her close for a last kiss as the boat thumped against the pier, or maybe that was the thump of his heart. He was home and all of his dreams were within reach because one good woman was in his arms; because love had found a way.
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, check out the
first book in The Cornish Dukes miniseries
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
And whilst you’re waiting for the next book,
be sure to read Bronwyn Scott’s
Allied at the Altar miniseries
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount
One Night with the Major
Tempted by His Secret Cinderella
Captivated by Her Convenient Husband
Keep reading for an excerpt from Stolen by the Viking by Michelle Willingham.
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Stolen by the Viking
by Michelle Willingham
Prologue
The kingdom of Maerr, Norway—ad 874
It was the morning of his wedding. Although most men would have welcomed the day, Alarr Sigurdsson had the sense that something was not right. The shadowed harvest moon last night had promised an ill omen, and the wise woman had cautioned him to delay the marriage.
Alarr had ignored the volva, for he was not a man who believed in curses or evil omens. The union would bring a strong alliance for his tribe. He had known Gilla Vigmarrsdottir since they were children, and she always had a smile and was even-tempered. She was not beautiful in the traditional way, but that didn’t matter. Her kindness made him amenable to the match. His father, Sigurd, had negotiated for her bride price, and the mundr was high, demonstrating their family’s wealth.
‘Are you ready to be chained into the bonds of marriage?’ his half-brother Danr teased. ‘Or do you think Gilla has fled?’
He didn’t rise to Danr’s bait. ‘She will be there.’
Alarr had worn his best tunic, adorned with silver-braided trim along the hem, and dark hose. His black cloak hung over his shoulders, but it was the absence of his weapons that bothered him most. His mother had asked him to leave them behind, claiming that they would only offend the gods. It was an unusual request, and one that made him uneasy, given all the foreign guests.
Her beliefs did not mean he intended to remain defenceless, however. During the wedding, he would receive a ceremonial sword from Gilla as a gift, and at least he would have that. Weapons were a part of him, and he took comfort in a balanced blade. He felt more comfortable fighting than joining in a conversation.
It was strange being the centre of attention, for he had two brothers and two half-brothers. As the second-born, Alarr was accustomed to being overlooked and ignored, a fact that usually allowed him to retreat into solitude and train for warfare. The intense physical exertion brought a strange sense of peace within him. While he practised with a blade, he didn’t have to compete with anyone, save himself. And now that he had earned his status as a fighter, the men respected him. No one challenged him, and he had confidence that he could win any battle he fought.
Not that Sigurd had ever noticed.
Although his father tried to behave as if they had no enemies, Alarr was no fool. There was an air of restlessness brewing among the tribes. He had visited several neighbouring jarls and had overheard the whispers of rebellion. Yet, his father did not want to believe it.
Danr shot him a sidelong grin. ‘Are you afraid of losing your innocence this night?’ With that, Alarr swung his fist, and Danr ducked, laughing. ‘I hope she is gentle with you, Brother.’
‘Be silent, unless you want me to cut out your tongue,’ he threatened. But both knew it was an idle threat. His half-brother was never serious, and he often made jests. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, all the women were fascinated by the man, and Danr was only too willing to accept their offerings. Alarr knew that his half-brother would find his way into a woman’s bed this night.
The scent of roasting meat lingered in the air, and both cattle and sheep had been slaughtered for the wedding feast. Sigurd had invited the leaders of neighbouring tribes, as well as their daughters. Undoubtedly, he would be trying to arrange future weddings to advance his own position. Although Sigurd was a petty king, it was never enough for him. He hungered for more status and greater power.
Alarr walked towards his father’s longhouse and found Sigurd waiting there. The older man had a satisfied expression on his face, though he was wearing only a simple woollen tunic and hose. His hair was greying, with threads of white mingled in his beard and hair. Even so, there was not a trace of weakness upon the man. His body was a warrior’s, lean and strong. Sigurd had bested many men in combat, even at his advanced age. ‘Are you ready?’
Alarr nodded, and they walked alongside one another in silence. Outside their settlement, his ancestors were buried within the Barrow. The graves of former warriors—his grandsire and those who had died before him—were waiting. There, Alarr would dig up a sword from one of the burial mounds. The weapon would become his, forged with the knowledge of his forebears, to be given to his firstborn son.
* * *
After a quarter-hour of walking in silence, Sigurd paused at the base of the Barrow and gestured for Alarr to choose. He was glad of it, for he already knew whose sword he wanted.
He climbed to the top of the Barrow and stopped in front of the grave that belonged to his uncle, who had died only a year ago, in battle. Hafr had trained him in sword fighting from the moment Alarr was strong enough to lift a weapon. There was no one else whose sword he wanted more.
He and his father dug alongside one another until they reached the possessions belonging to Hafr. Alarr tried to dispel the sense of foreboding that lingered while he respected the ashes of his uncle. The sword had been carefully wrapped in leather, and Alarr took it, uncovering the weapon. The iron glinted in the morning light, but it would need to be cleaned and sharpened.
‘Do you wish to take the sword?’ Sigurd asked quietly.
‘I do.’
His father then reached out to seize the weapon. Once he had given it over, Sigurd regarded him. ‘Much is expected of you with this marriage. Our kingdom of Maerr has risen to great power, and we need to strengthen our ties with the other jarls. You must conceive a son with Gilla immediately and ensure that our alliance is strong.’ He wrapped the sword in the leather once more and set it aside. ‘Perhaps my brother’s wisdom and strength will be yours, now that you have his sword.’
Alarr gave a nod, though he didn’t believe it. He wanted the sword because it gave him a tangible memory of his uncle. Hafr had been more of a father to him than Sigurd, whether he’d known it or not. Alarr had spent most of his life trying to gain Sigurd’s approval, to little avail.
They reburied the ashes of his uncle, along with Hafr’s worldly possessions, before returning to the settlement. Alarr walked towards the bathhouse, for it was time for the purification ritual. He had not seen Gilla since her arrival, but he had seen several of her kinsmen and a f
ew others he didn’t recognise.
When he entered the bathhouse, the heat struck him instantly. Steam rose up within the air from heated stones set inside basins of water. Wooden benches were placed at intervals, along with several drying cloths.
Alarr stripped off his clothing and saw that three of his brothers were waiting. His youngest brother Sandulf was there, along with his older brother, Brandt, and their half-brother Rurik, Danr’s twin. Unlike Danr, Rurik was dark-haired and quiet. In many ways, Alarr found it easier to talk with Rurik. They trained together often, and he considered the man a close friend, as well as a brother. Their youngest brother, Sandulf, had a thirst to prove himself. He had dark-blond hair and blue eyes and had nearly put adolescence behind him. Even so, Alarr didn’t like the thought of his brother fighting in battle. Sandulf lacked the reflexes, though he’d trained hard. He feared that only experience would help the young man gain the knowledge he needed now.
‘Whose sword did you choose?’ Sandulf asked.
‘Hafr’s,’ Alarr answered. At his answer, Rurik met his gaze and gave a silent nod of approval. His brother had also been close to Hafr, since Sigurd had distanced himself from his bastard sons.
Alarr strode towards the wooden trough containing heated water. He began the purification ritual, pouring the warmed water over his body with a wooden bowl and scrubbing off the dirt with soap. As he did, Brandt remarked in a low voice, ‘There are many strangers among the guests. Did you notice?’
‘I did,’ Alarr answered. ‘But then, our tribe is well known across the North. It’s not uncommon. And we know that Sigurd wants to make other marriage alliances.’ He sent a pointed look towards Rurik, which his half-brother ignored.
Even so, Brandt looked uneasy. ‘He’s endangering our tribe by bringing in warriors we don’t know. Some were from Éireann.’
The Passions of Lord Trevethow Page 22
