by Bold, Diana
Once they got to the altar, he released her hand and turned to face her, awed by her beauty, enchanted by her kindness and purity of heart. His love for her filled him, and he sent up a quick prayer that despite the lies and deceit that had gotten him here, he’d somehow be worthy of her and the title.
One thing he knew for certain was that he’d be a better husband to her than Andrew ever could have been.
As the parson began the ceremony, he listened carefully, making his responses with absolute sincerity. It felt strange to use Andrew’s name, and he hated that he could never be Christian again, but he also realized that Christian really had died on that battlefield.
Christian had been lost and adrift, searching for his place in the world. As Andrew, he’d found that place, and if all he had to give up was his name, it seemed a small price to pay.
“...I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Just like that, they were married, and his heart swelled with joy as he leaned forward and sealed their vows with a kiss. Rebecca clung to him, her eyes dancing with faith and love, and he knew he’d do whatever he had to in order to keep that look of happiness on her face.
They turned to accept the earl and Sabrina’s congratulations, then burst out once again into the cold winter’s day. It still seemed a bit surreal to him that she was coming home with him, his to love and cherish for evermore, but a few moments later, they were snug in his carriage, with a hot brick and lap blanket to warm them.
“What now?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.
“Now, we go home and build our lives together.”
Epilogue
Trowbridge Manor
June 1817
“Is Mama okay, Papa?”
Christian glanced down at Sammy, who paced the hall outside the master bedroom at his side, struggling to keep up with Christian’s long strides. Wincing, Christian knelt, looking the little boy who had become so dear to him in the eyes. “She’ll be fine,” he promised, as another of Rebecca’s cries rang down the hall, worrying him more than he could ever let his son know. “Very soon now, it will all be over, and you’ll have a little brother or sister.”
“It’s hurting her,” Sammy said doubtfully. “I didn’t know it was going to hurt her.”
“I really didn’t either,” Christian admitted. The last few hours had rocked him to the core. He couldn’t bear to think of her suffering, laboring to bring his child into the world. He’d tried to enter the room, to be by her side, but the midwife had scolded him ferociously and insisted it was not a man’s place, but now he thought he should have defied her.
“Did I hurt my mother when I was born?” Sammy asked softly.
“I imagine you did,” Christian told him. “I think we all hurt our mothers on our way into the world. But most mothers think that all the pain was worth it, because a baby is a precious gift.”
“My mother didn’t think so.” Sammy stared dejectedly at the floor, his bottom lips quivering.
They’d heard nothing of Miranda since the day she’d left Sammy and fled with Christian’s money, and Christian had stopped worrying that they would. Sammy had always seemed to be all right with things as they were, never asking about the woman who’d abandoned him. To Christian’s delight, Rebecca had embraced the boy as her own, showing him such love and kindness that the boy was devoted to her. But now he realized that Sammy did indeed still think of Miranda, and that her abandonment still pained him.
“The viscountess is your mother now, Sammy,” he reminded the boy gently. “And she loves you with all her heart.”
Sammy bit his lip. “But soon she’ll have a baby of her own... so will you.”
Christian pulled Sammy into a fierce embrace. “It doesn’t matter if we have a dozen babies. You’ll always be our first, and you’ll always have a special place in our hearts.”
Sammy hugged him back tightly. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Christian said firmly.
Just as he released the boy, Rebecca gave a long, sustained scream. He surged to his feet, determined to enter the birthing room whether the midwife wanted him there or not, just as a baby’s cry pierced the air.
“The baby’s here,” Sammy cried excitedly, his earlier upset seeming to vanish and leaving Christian to once again marvel at the boy’s resilience.
Christian blinked, a wide smile breaking through his earlier fear. “The baby’s here,” he repeated. “The baby is finally here!”
He and Sammy dance a little jig in the hall, stopping only when Theo arrived with a tray of food. “I assume this means everything is all right?” the older man asked, watching them with a broad smile of his own. He’d been very uncomfortable listening to Rebecca’s cries and had volunteered to make them something to eat over an hour ago.
Christian and his uncle had become very close during the past few years. He counted on Theo heavily, and the man had never steered him wrong. Trowbridge Manor was operating firmly in the black, and they were starting to build a name for themselves with their horses, thanks in large part to his amazing wife.
“Everything is wonderful,” Christian said. “In fact, I’m going in there now.”
Just as he started toward the room, Rebecca suddenly screamed again. Christian didn’t know much about childbirth, but he knew that the woman should not be screaming once the baby arrived. Sharing a terrified look with his uncle, he surged forward, throwing open the bedroom door.
One of the housemaids was in a corner, cleaning up a squalling baby, but Christian’s entire focus was on Rebecca, who was panting and straining, the midwife still positioned between her legs.
“What’s happening?” he shouted, moving past the woman to stand at Rebecca’s side. She grabbed his hand, squeezing so tightly he wondered if she might break some bones, but he didn’t care. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked the midwife frantically.
The woman glared at him. “I told you this is no place for a man.”
“I’m not leaving,” he snapped. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“There’s another baby,” the woman finally answered grouchily. “Twins.”
“Twins?” he said incredulously, looking down into his beautiful wife’s straining face. “Twins, darling. We’re having twins.”
“I’m aware,” she told him breathlessly, then bore down with one final agonizing cry.
Christian watched in awe as yet another baby made its way into the world. As the midwife handily caught the child, Rebecca fell back against the pillows, panting heavily.
“It’s another girl,” the midwife told them.
Two daughters. Christian found himself speechless with awe and wonder as the housemaid approached and placed the first baby girl, who was now clean and swaddled in a soft yellow blanket, into his arms. He blinked down at her tiny face, tears of joy filling his eyes.
“Hello,” he said at last. “I’m your father.”
She looked up at him, and he grinned when he noticed that she had a few tiny tufts of red hair. He hoped that both the girls looked exactly like their beautiful mother.
A few minutes later, the midwife put the other child in Rebecca’s arms, then went back to the foot of the bed with a basin of water. Rebecca seemed not to care what she was doing, though he saw her wince a few times. Instead, her whole attention was centered on their daughters.
“They’re perfect,” Rebecca whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”
“You did an amazing job,” he breathed. “I’m sorry it hurt you so bad.”
Finally, the woman drew away and covered Rebecca up with clean sheets, turning away with her basin so full of blood and afterbirth that he blanched a bit, humbled by Rebecca’s strength.
Rebecca shook her head, her own eyes welling with tears. “Can you believe we have twins?”
Before he could say anything else, the maid and the midwife left, and then Theo and Sammy peeked in.
“Two?” Theo asked, as Sammy crawled up on the bed to stare down at one of his new siste
rs.
“Two,” Christian said happily.
“I think we should name them Lillian and Joan,” Rebecca said softly.
He nodded, his eyes burning once again, as those were the names of their mothers, who’d both left this life far too soon.
“Twins...” Suddenly, Rebecca went even paler, if such a thing was possible. “She was right. She was right about everything.” Trembling, she reached over to the nightstand and picked up a small round object.
“Who was right?” Christian asked softly.
With an uneven laugh, she pressed it into his hand. He looked down to see that it was a talisman of some sort, with a rune carved into the side.
“Madame Zeta,” Rebecca told him, as though the answer was obvious. “This is Gemini, the twins. She gave it to me. I thought that it represented you. I thought she meant my confusion, the duality of who you’d been before compared to who you are now, but maybe she knew this would happen. She said, ‘the twins will be nothing but a blessing to you.’”
“Maybe she did.” He smiled and handed it back to her. After everything that had happened, how could he deny that something magical had been at work the day that Rebecca had encountered Madame Zeta?
He stared down at the baby in his arms, then his gaze moved to his beautiful wife holding his other daughter, his amazing son, and the uncle who was like a father to him. His entire heart and soul were in this room, and he knew he was the luckiest man on earth.
THE END
KEEP SCROLLING FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT FORTUNE’S WISH, BOOK FOUR IN THE FORTUNES OF FATE SERIES BY EILEEN RICHARDS!
About Diana Bold
Diana Bold writes passionate, emotional historical romance. Her books have won or finaled in over twenty national writing contests, including RWA’s Golden Heart. She loves genealogy, cooking, and gardening. She has three grown sons and five darling grandchildren she loves to spoil. She lives in a sleepy southern Colorado mountain town with the love of her life, who she met rather late in life, but was worth the wait!
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Other Books by Diana Bold
Once a Pirate
A Knight in Atlantis
BRIDES OF SCANDAL SERIES - Victorian
Gambling on the Duke’s Daughter
Marrying the American Heiress
Finding the Black Orchid
UNMASKING PROMETHEUS SERIES – Victorian
Masked Intentions
Masked Promises
WESTERN HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Once a Gunslinger
Once an Outlaw
Once a Bandit
FORTUNE’S WISH
By Eileen Richards
Chapter One
Beetham, Westmoreland
June 1821
If ever there was a time for magic, this would be it.
Sir John Townsend stood at the bottom of a set of rough, stone steps—the Fairy Steps— and pondered his fate, his future, his sanity.
It didn’t matter that two of his three sisters had sworn that the wish granted by the fairy at the top —if you successfully reached the top— had helped them find the perfect husbands. They were women, prone to flights of fancy and nonsense. Nonsense that had no effect on a man of the world, such as he.
He needed a wife and his horse needed a mare. It was as simple, as plain, as complicated as that.
The stallion had the easy path. Valiant was a combination of fast and long, just the right height and weight, just the right chestnut color, just short of perfection. All Valiant needed was a mare in heat and he was done.
Too bad it didn’t work that way for humans.
The perfect match for Valiant was here in Beetham and belonged to Martin Penwith of Rosethorne. Same chestnut color, same build, but with more stamina. Penwith’s horse had beaten nearly every racehorse on this side of England. Watching Tychee race was perfection. Watching Tychee handle the crowds with a calm demeanor was exactly what John was looking for.
Mr. Penwith’s daughter, Victoria, had managed to breed the perfect horse.
Mr. Penwith had managed to breed the perfect woman — for John.
He’d met her once when he was last in Beetham. Nice, rather pretty, and capable of carrying on a conversation about anything but fashion, the weather, or gossip. John liked her. A great deal. She’d been the only young lady that he thought he might be able to tolerate forever. Because marriage came with a life sentence and shackles, and he needed something besides a pretty face.
In the weeks he’d been in Beetham, he’d managed to try to court her, despite his lack of knowledge in the ways and means of courtship. Frankly, some days she seemed interested in him. Other days he believed she thought he was horse dung. Then there were the moments he was certain she thought he was the nasty bits of straw under the horse dung. John wasn’t sure what caused Victoria’s range of emotions where he was concerned.
He wished he was more like his horse. Breed and go.
But he wasn’t. He wanted a wife to warm the nights, children to fill the silence, and his house to become a home. Gah! He sounded like a woman!
What he really needed was a partner. Someone who knew horses better than him because he planned to raise the best carriage horses in England. Victoria, with her experience with breeding horses, could help him do that. If he could convince her to marry him. And convincing her to marry him was going to take magic, a great deal of magic.
His horse, a rather nice black tethered nearby, snorted.
“Keep your equine opinions to yourself.” He yelled at the horse.
He was dicked in the nob. Ready for Bedlam. Touched in the upper works.
He was climbing the Fairy Steps for a bloody wish to make a woman like him. Most men wouldn’t worry about it, but John’s reputation in Beetham wasn’t the best. There was also the fact that he was still rebuilding his estate out of dun territory. Magic might be the only way any woman would consent to marry him.
John placed a booted foot on the first step, then the next. He kept his arms down at his sides resisting the urge to steady himself. If he touched the sides, it was all for naught. He should know, this was the eighth time he’d tried it.
Thank God no one was there to witness his spiral into madness, especially his sisters.
He stepped up to a more uneven, narrower step, his balance faltered and his arm automatically lifted to catch himself, but he didn’t touch the stone.
From there the steps narrowed and grew more uneven. He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to fit. This was something he hadn’t considered. He wasn’t a heavy man, but he wasn’t lanky either. God forbid he became stuck in the stone and was found that way.
He pushed forward, carefully, fighting the urge to rush and just get it over with. Fairies and magic be damned. He felt like a proper fool.
Taking the steps as quickly as he could, focusing on the top rather than each step, he climbed the remaining ones and stood at the top. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Bloody hell? Where was the damn fairy? Wasn’t she supposed to pop out of thin air and say something? A simple what-is-your-wish-human would suffice.
But there was nothing.
A slight breeze brushed across his skin, cool against the sweat on his face. He glanced around. He had to admit that the view was spectacular. His sister, Juliet, had been right about that. The distant hills, the quaint village, and lush summer green of the trees stretched out before him. Birds chirped, trees swayed gently, and a peaceful quiet settled over him like a child’s blanket.
He sat on the top step, not ready to leave. He propped his arms on his knees and folded his hands. How foolish he’d been to come here seeking magic to make his life different. As if a wi
sh would fix things like loneliness, regret. Or a struggling estate. Not to mention the affairs of the heart. Maybe all these things were out of the reach of fairies and mortal men.
Even forgiveness didn’t take away regret. He should know. He’d apologized enough times to his sister, Anne, for his treatment of her. Juliet as well. He’d been an ass for most of his life. Hell, his father had bred it into him. Yet he was determined to put the past behind him and be less of an ass. But not today.
He’d climbed these damn death trap steps and now he wanted his bloody wish.
“I wish—”
“Sir John?”
Victoria Penwith’s voice came from behind him. He jolted from shock. Good God, had she heard him speak? Had she witnessed the climb? Curses rang in his head like church bells. He quickly climbed to his feet and removed his hat as he turned to face the path that ran behind the steps. Miss Penwith sat upon a beautiful white horse. “I’m sorry, Miss Penwith. I didn’t see you there.”
She dismounted her horse and looped the reins over a nearby branch. “I’m rather surprised to find you here, Sir John.”
He stood there like a complete, mindless dunce as she smiled and moved towards him. Every word that was in his head, flew out of it with the speed of a racing horse. He couldn’t form a coherent sentence if his life depended upon it.
It was how he knew she was the one for him.
“I didn’t think magic fairy stories were your cup of tea.” Her voice had a teasing lilt to it that constantly made him want to smile like some silly sap.
“I thought I should see what the fuss is about. My sister raves about it.”
“The view is lovely. It’s one of my favorite spots in Beetham.”
“It’s nice.”
Bloody hell. Nice? That was all he could say? He needed to pay more attention to her words and less attention to her lips as they moved. She was wearing a dark blue riding habit this morning that outlined her figure entirely too well. Her bonnet had a jaunty feather in it to match. “How is your father?”
