by Jo Beverley
“Sweetheart,” Race fluttered, “I’m yours in all things.”
Con felt a spurt of irrational jealousy. He knew neither of them was serious, but what if Susan did find another man to love? He had no right to mind, but it cut like a knife.
The thought of Lady Anne and him had to hurt her as grievously.
“How’s David?” he asked deliberately, to turn her mind to other things.
She sobered and came over to him. “Not too bad. A ball in the shoulder, but not deep. What’s Gifford going to do now?”
“Absolutely nothing, if he has any sense.” He told her what had happened.
Her smile was brilliant. “Wickedly clever! As you say, now he’ll have to be careful about any moves he makes around here. I do wish David would accept the idea of being the earl, though.”
“Let’s go and put it to him. This might have made it more attractive.”
Nicholas and Hawk had gathered the children. Nicholas seemed to have confiscated the cider from the women as well. Con went over to where Amelia was finishing bandaging David Kerslake.
“Damn fool. Broad daylight?”
The younger man looked up, unabashed. “Creative thinking. Gifford’s been all over this area with extra troops at night. I tried to bring the tea in here last night, but a navy ship came close. So I had it dropped as floaters. You know what that means?”
“Weighted so it rides just under the water with a marker on top. Seaweed or something like that.”
“Right. We waited until Gifford was away from here, then brought ’round a couple of boats to haul them in and bring them to shore. Gifford and his men have been up all night the last few nights. They should have been fast asleep!”
“How did you get shot?”
“A boatman called for me to halt. I hoped he was bluffing.”
“David!” Susan exclaimed. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
“Lucky he was trying to kill me, you mean,” Kerslake said with a grin. “The chance of Saul Cogley actually hitting his target is remote.”
Con shook his head. “Have you had time to think about the earldom? It would make this sort of thing a great deal easier, I assure you.”
Kerslake winced as Amelia tightened the bandage. She looked cross, too.
“It’s not a burden a man of twenty-four wants,” he said, pulling a face. “Since I would be living here, I’d have to host a plaguey number of events and take part in county affairs. Then there’s London and Parliament, for heaven’s sake.”
“The price of leadership,” Con said without sympathy.
“Damn you.”
“And you didn’t even mention the fact that you’ll instantly become a prize trophy in the marriage hunt.”
“Didn’t you say you wanted me to accept it?” But Kerslake sighed. “I don’t really have any choice, do I, if I’m going to do the best for my people here.”
Con noted that “my people” with a slight smile. Yes, willing or not, David Kerslake would be good for this area.
“Help me up, will you?” Kerslake asked, and Con supported him. “I wrenched my knee as well, which was another reason I couldn’t make a break for it. Very well, damn you,” he added as soon as he was standing. “I’ll try to prize the earldom from your clutching fingers. As you said, Susan, Mel will be cock-a-hoop over it if it works.”
Susan came to hug him and for a moment Con could steal a hug, too.
Then he pulled apart.
This truly was the end. He could leave Crag Wyvern immediately. Perhaps even ride over to stay at Nicholas’s place today.
Never have reason to return.
So be it.
After one last shared look with Susan, he turned his mind to the logistics of getting Kerslake back to Church Wyvern. Carry him over the rocks, or use one of Nicholas’s and Hawk’s horses and go the long way around?
He chose the latter course, and helped Kerslake into the saddle. Hawk prepared to mount to go with him, but then Race spoke up, in the arch, feminine manner that went with his disguise.
“My dear sirs, I do hope I can depend upon you for protection.”
“What?” Con asked, sharing a look with Nicholas and Hawk.
“I have a little sin to confess,” Race said, digging flirtatiously in his plump bosom.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Con suppressed an urge toward minor violence. “Race, this is no time for idiocy.”
“Well really, my lord! That is rather a case of the pot calling the kettle dirty. Here.” He pulled out a rolled-up paper and offered it, limp-wristed.
It was a letter of some sort. Con took it impatiently, but then his heart stopped. It beat again, it thundered, as he broke the seal and scanned it. It was! It was the letter he’d written to Lady Anne a lifetime ago.
Three days ago.
“Devil take you!” He glared at Race, not sure whether to throttle him or kiss him. “What right have you to hold back my letters?”
“The right of a friend,” Race said in a normal manner. “I didn’t read it, but Diego and I decided it couldn’t be urgent and might be unwise. Send it now if you want.”
Con looked again at his fateful words, thinking for a moment of Lady Anne. He was certain there was no grand passion there, but he must have raised hopes. He was truly fond of her. Not fond enough, however, to sacrifice everything now he had a second chance.
He looked at Susan who was staring at him as if afraid to believe. “I mentioned writing to a lady. . . .”
The last trace of color left her cheeks. “Con?”
Eyes on her, he ripped the letter into tiny shreds and let the breeze tumble them across the headland and into the endless sea.
“By a miracle,” he said, “I have hope of winning you for my wife, Susan, for my friend, my helpmeet all my days.”
Susan had so firmly sealed off hope that now she could not quite believe. “Con . . . ?” she asked again, reaching tentatively toward him.
He met her and took her hand, strong, firm, real. She wasn’t dreaming.
“I’m not committed, Susan. I’m free. . . .” Then his eyes twinkled. “Oh dear, you’ve changed your mind. Race’s luscious figure has—”
She threw herself into his arms to be swept up, to be swung around and around in the clean air and sunshine.
Then they kissed.
With scarcely a thought to their audience, they kissed as never before, because this time, after so long, it promised true eternity.
It was hard to stop kissing, to unseal their bodies for even a moment, but they slowly parted, smiling, blushing under the interested eyes of friends, family, and neighbors.
“Don’t tell me you were sacrificing yourself for the honor of the Rogues, Con,” Delaney said.
“It wouldn’t have been a dire sacrifice.” He turned to look at Susan, a look that made her breath catch and her toes curl. “Then.”
She sensed his honorable concern and drew him close. “If Lady Anne is as good a person as you say, love, she’ll find her true mate. Someone who loves her as we love.”
Numbness, then delirium were turning into urgent purpose. “When can we marry?” she demanded.
His expression showed the same needs. “It is for you to name the day.”
“Today?”
He laughed unsteadily. “I don’t think even an earl can quite manage that.” He brushed his lips close to her ear. “And though I desire you here and now, beloved, I want to celebrate our love with May blossoms, and ribbons, and grain thrown in promise of a bountiful future. . . .”
She turned her head to meet his lips in a kiss. “A normal wedding?” How had he known before she knew how much she wanted that? “How long will it take?”
“I have no idea. If we set Hawk to organizing it, it can doubtless be done in brisk military efficiency.”
She laughed and turned to look at the major, but found that their audience was courteously moving away, leaving them blessedly alone.
Miraculously they h
ad forever, but these first moments were a jewellike treasure.
Hands linked, they wandered to look down on Irish Cove, then sat together there in one another’s arms, in silent wonder.
“I still can’t quite believe it,” she said at last, turning to him, unable to resist raising a hand to touch his face, to trace the beloved lines of his face. “I longed for a miniature of you once, you know.” She told him about the one his brother had brought to Kerslake Manor.
He trapped her hand and kissed the palm, slowly, lids lowered. “I had no picture of you. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t want one, but it was a lie.”
“Con, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Hush,” he whispered against her skin. “Hush, love. Right or wrong it’s all in the past, and who can say if it will not be better now, from this beginning? What did those children know of life, of temptation, of faltering steps and brave recoveries?”
He looked at her, smiling. No, more than smiling, adoring. Her tears began to flow.
“I know women have this damnable habit of crying when they’re happy,” he said, “but please don’t, love. Listen to my words. You, as you are, with all your past, both good and bad, are perfect to me now. That is the Susan I love beyond words to express it.”
She did her best to swallow the tears. “I can’t imagine better words.” She took his hand and kissed it. “I have always loved you, but I adore the man you are now, tested and true. I feel drunk with it, as if I could leap off this cliff and fly!”
He pinned her to the ground. “No, you don’t!”
So like that first night, but now everything was different. It turned into a kiss. It turned into more, sprawled there on the rough greenery above Irish Cove, but they did not make love. They drew apart in the end, though seething with hunger.
“Cold water,” she said, glancing at the sea. “I hear it’s a good cure for this.”
He leaped to his feet and took her hand to pull her up. “There’s no cure for this save death, love. Let’s go to your home and see how quickly a decorous wedding can be arranged.”
With a license and many willing hands, it took only days, and could likely have been quicker except for the time needed for Con’s family to travel from Sussex.
Van escorted them, and brought along his bride-to-be, Mrs. Celestine, as well. Susan understood that the matter had been uncertain, but no one could doubt the love and veiled passion between them now.
“I confess,” said Mrs. Celestine, on greeting her, “you make me regret my setting a date some weeks from now.”
She was an elegant, composed woman—except when Lord Vandeimen made her blush. Susan sensed genuine warmth in her, however. It was pleasant to think of them as neighbors and friends.
“I wanted a grand celebration in Van’s home,” Mrs. Celestine said. “A homecoming. A new start. A way for me to begin to belong, I hope. Please say you will take part, even though your wedding is to be here.”
Susan took her hands with true gratitude. “That is so generous of you, Mrs. Celestine. Are you sure you won’t mind? I confess, the idea of going to live among strangers daunts me.”
The older woman smiled. “Van and I are not strangers. Nor is Major Hawkinville. Nor is Lord Wyvern’s family.”
Susan had already been warmly accepted by Con’s mother and sister, and knew the words were true. She would not be going to live among strangers. Venturing forth into the world did still make her a little nervous, but it was becoming a more anticipated adventure day by day.
On the eve of their wedding, however, as they strolled in the orchard, Con said, “Somerford Court is not by the sea.”
Susan kissed him. “I’m not a fish, love. I can live away from the sea.”
“It’s five miles away.”
She looked into his eyes seriously. “I can live anywhere with you, Con. You are my world. I should have realized that long ago.”
“No dwelling on the past.” He pulled her close and they rested in one another’s arms, a lark filling the soft air with song. “If I am your world, then I will work to make your world as perfect as humanly possible. That is, and always will be, my main intent.”
“And I yours,” she replied. “We have a second chance at heaven, and will treasure it.”
Susan felt as if they said their vows then, but the next day, in a gaily decorated church full of family, friends, and neighbors, they said the traditional vows, then ran out together to be showered with grain.
When the first person greeted her as Lady Wyvern, she shared a look with Con, one that smiled at the folly of the past. It was only for a little while, anyway, and then she would become Lady Amleigh, a title that held no dark shadows or memories.
They shared their joy with everyone, but then at last they were alone together, man and wife.
Susan looked at the big bed, its sage-green coverlet strewn with petals. “Con, I have to say that I feel very strange about doing this in my aunt and uncle’s bed.”
He embraced her from behind, laughing. “I, on the other hand, am exceedingly grateful to them. I certainly had no intention of sleeping again in Crag Wyvern.”
Henry and David had moved up there to make room in the manor, and they were playing host to a number of the guests. The Delaneys were sleeping there, along with Lord Vandeimen and Mrs. Celestine, and Major Hawkinville. There were some other Rogues there, too—the Earl and Countess of Charrington, Mr. and Mrs. Miles Cavanagh, Major Beaumont, and Mr. Stephen Ball.
There had been warm messages and generous gifts from the Marquess and Marchioness of Arden and Lord and Lady Middlethorpe. Apparently both couples were awaiting a happy event.
Susan felt as if she were swimming in new and welcoming friends. It was terrifying in a way, but glorious, like swimming in the high waves.
Con nuzzled her neck. “However, if you truly don’t think it right, we can wait. . . .”
She turned in his arms. “I could call your bluff.”
“I’d win.”
With a smile, she eased free the silk fichu that filled the low bodice of her gown. “Are you sure?” The bodice, by her design, was extremely low.
She saw his eyes darken and his lips part. Stepping back, she raised one foot on a chair and slid up her skirts to reveal a flesh-colored silk stocking embroidered with red roses. A red, rose-trimmed garter, held it up. Slowly, she undid it—
He fell to his knees beside her and took over the task. “You win.”
“I thought so.”
He looked up, laughing with her. “I am undoubtedly the happiest loser the world has ever known.”
Later, lying limply in one another’s arms, Con said, “Shame about that bath, though. There’s no room for such a thing at home. When David’s earl, we’ll have to pay him a visit.”
Susan rolled to face him. “Only when he’s done considerable renovations.” She traced the coiled dragon on his chest. “Shame about this too, but you are not the dragon, Con Somerford. You are Saint George. My Saint George.” She had to refer to the past, though it was a past no longer able to hurt them. “I said it once, and I mean it now. My George, forever and ever.”
“Amen.” He rubbed his head gently against hers. “And I’m pleased to see that I was right,” her murmured.
“Right?”
His tongue traced slowly around the rim of her ear, making her shiver. “I always suspected that when Saint George rescued the dragon’s bride, his true reward came later, more or less like this. . . .”
Author’s Note
I usually set my books in a correct geographical location, with only the homes of the principal characters invented, but with this book, it’s pretty well all made up. The coast of Devon is as I describe it, which I confirmed during a visit there. Exeter and Honiton are real places. However, you’ll never find the villages of Church Wyvern and Dragon’s Cove, no matter how carefully you look, or a house like Crag Wyvern. The reason is that this community came to my imagination full-blown.
To step back a pace, I did originally plan for Con Somerford’s lady to be Lady Anne Peckworth. However, when I tried to write it, it didn’t go well. Lady Anne complained that he was cold, and he thought of her as a good deed. Even throwing them into an adventure didn’t make them get on any better. I’d always wondered what would happen if my hero and heroine didn’t fall in love, and now I knew. The book didn’t work.
I fought them for a while and then opened my mind to other possibilities. All of a sudden I was off with Con to this strange house in Devon where lurked a secret of his youth. And the rest is the story called The Dragon’s Bride.
The smuggling parts are based on truth, however. Smuggling was the major industry all around the coast of England in this period, but especially on the south coast, so temptingly close to the continent. During the long war, smugglers had conveyed spies, messages, and gold in both directions. With peace, matters did become much more difficult, but it would be another generation or so before the government brought about change by lowering taxes instead of throwing more and more money at trying to stop the smugglers.
It is also true that there were good gangs and bad ones. Some were thorough thugs, feared and despised by all. Others, however, were led by clever businessmen who built cooperation and trust in an area and minimized violence.
The situation of the riding officers was often very difficult. In the past, Preventive men had often been local, but that led to obvious problems, so it became the rule that a riding officer be sent to a place far from his home. Friendless and unpopular, they did not have an easy life because few people anywhere in England thought there was anything wrong with dodging a bit of tax. Even a parson reported paying his smuggler twenty-one shillings for a gallon of brandy in his diary.
I’ve been jokingly calling this series “Three guys called George,” and I can remember idly playing around in my mind with three very different men linked by geography and long friendship. I imagined them all together in the army and at Waterloo, but then I realized that their very different natures would, over ten years, send them in vastly different directions.
