She laughed at his coyness and kissed him brazenly.
Until it dawned—he hadn’t returned the laugh.
The carriage continued to Scotland, his question echoing in her mind.
Highwayman
My dearest Estella,
Mourning ended yesterday. No longer must I feign sorrow. Do not think your dearest friend wicked or unchristian. For too long I sought the good in my husband. For too long I hid the pain he caused me. His death was a welcomed release, embraced with tears of relief. Today, I shed the cloak of gloom. My cousin arrives on the morrow to fetch me, for it would seem a widow should not live alone. Hoping to see you during the Season.
Your Faithful Friend, Laura
Estella,
I write to you from an inn between my old home and my new one. Cousin arrived punctually. The journey is tedious in his company. He is a kind, staid gentleman. For all that, you will be surprised when I say he proposed within the first hour. Yes, dearest Estella, the dullest gentleman of my acquaintance has proposed. My heart did flutter, but only from the resulting indigestion.
As politely as I might, kerchief in hand, did I dab at my eyes sorrowfully and say, “But my dear Lord Bluton has too soon passed from my heart. Give me time, Cousin.” To which, he replied, “Lord Bluton would desire your security. Do reconsider my offer.”
Only just have I been freed from my bonds, and now another wishes to capture me! I will not give in.
Your Determined Friend, Laura
My dearest friend,
Oh, Estella! Such monstrous adventure! I write to you from the safety of an inn near my family home. It shan’t be long before I am safe in the bosom of my parents. But that is the last place I wish to be. What has happened to prompt this letter, you ask? A highwayman, Estella!
He came upon us after nightfall. A man in black. He seized the carriage, wrested the door from my cousin’s grip, and with one hand pulled my cousin free of his seat. Grunts, shuffling feet, and hushed tones ensued. I knew not what I heard. Quiet followed, a strangled quiet that had me biting my knuckle. I was afeared, Estella! Oh, how my heart did pound. What happened next, you ask? You shall think me mad or else a fibber.
A masked face thrust into the carriage. He must have been startled to see me, for he paused to take my measure. In that moment, I knew not fear—only yearning. It was his eyes, Estella. Eyes not of danger but of adventure and daring. Though I could not see his face to know if he were hideous or handsome, I fell for his eyes. I said to him with my own, “Take me with you!” Perchance he does not read eyes, for his response was a gentlemanly bow before departing.
Fear not for my staid cousin, for the dullard returned to the carriage before long, scuffed but unharmed. He mumbled about spies then told me not to worry my fair head when I queried his meaning.
I wonder if I shall see those eyes again. Oh, how I long for an adventure! Do you think me mad, Estella? I do not believe him a highwayman. Fanciful tales I have weaved since I saw him, but I do believe he is a spy for Crown and country! Though what he should want with my cousin, I know not.
Your Lovestruck Friend, Laura
Estella,
I am bored silly. The country assemblies are nothing more than rooms of dolts and boobies. I wish not for their company. Cousin has applied for my hand twice more. I want to escape. I want to live. I want to be free of these fools.
When Lord Bluton passed, I knew my chance had arrived. And yet, here I sit at the escritoire, wasting away of boredom. Return soon to regale me with tales from the continent. Certainly, you are having more fun than I. If I stole a horse and paced the King’s road, do you suppose a highwayman with daring eyes would rescue me?
Your Bored Friend, Laura
My darling Estella,
This shall be my last letter for I know not how long. Do not fret for my safety—I am launching myself into an adventure!
Last night’s assembly was another dull affair. The same dances, the same partners, the same jests. But then, a late arrival was announced, a Lord Rohr. At first, I did not turn, for what is one more dullard? Words flitted around me—rogue, beast, spy. It was the one word I longed to hear.
I turned, and what do you think I saw? The eyes. Eyes of daring cut across the room to settle on me. Around the perimeter, he prowled, resolute. I knew, then, my adventure was about to begin. With steady, determined steps, he came upon me. With a bow and mocking smile, he said, “Come.”
And I did.
Shipwreck
Colin braced for impact.
Shoulder met wood.
The floor became the wall.
A symphony of groaning and creaking lumber accompanied his curse. The room rocked, sending a crate toppling across the cabin, narrowly missing his head. Outside, the storm raged. Waves beat against the window, a startling white-capped sight when lightning lit the sky.
He had to get out. He had to help the crew. He had to do something. He had to get out.
The room tilted, wall becoming floor once more as the ship pitched. Lurching to his feet, the pain in his shoulder simultaneously throbbing and piercing daggers down his arm, he wrenched open the cabin door.
Water slammed against his chest, grabbed his shirt points, and pulled him under.
His eyes fluttered open. He shivered from the cold, the icy hand of Death cradling his body. Next to him perched an angel. An angel in the body of his ladylove, encircled by a halo of vibrant light. He reached for the ethereal hand. All went dark.
Gasping for breath, he came to. Instead of the inside of a murky coffin, he found himself staring at a wooden canopy. Gulping air, he clawed about him, fighting to orient himself in time and space, life and death. His fists curled around damp bedsheets—wet with his sweat? With seawater? Steadying his breathing, Colin crooked his elbows to hoist himself up. A lancing pain sliced at his leg. His arms slid back to his sides. His body responded in kind, pulsing with torment. Limp. Helpless. Unconscious.
He awoke fuzzy, groggy, the foul taste of parched sleep in his mouth. With a tentative twitch of his arm, he tested his body and sensed his surroundings. Definitely a bed. Dry sheets. Pain now a dull throb. Manageable. Opening his eyes against the crust of sleep, he saw the same wooden canopy. How long since the storm? A day? A month?
Inch by inch, Colin turned his protesting body onto its side, propping himself on his elbow. A room. Moderate size. Modest wealth. Brocade curtains framed a sun-drenched window, illuminating the mahogany-red furnishings and Rococo art. A chair sat next to his bedside, hosting an empty vigil. The bedside table held a stubbed candle, a bowl of water, and cloths.
A door at the far end of the room opened. Colin tensed. Against the pain, he readied for fight or flight.
Carrying a bundle of linens, paying no mind to the man on the bed, was a slender maiden with flaxen hair. Julia. His stomach clenched, and his heart seized. Only when he exhaled noisily, a breath turned cough, did she look at him, her eyes wide, cheeks flushed, eyebrows raised.
“Mr. Trowbridge, you’re awake.”
“Am I dead?” he rasped, his throat scratching words.
Shaking her head, she brought the bundle to his bedside. “You’ll be fit as a fiddle soon and able to return to work.”
“The crew. Where are they? Where’s the ship?” Colin tried to push the bedsheets aside, but a hand blocked his progress.
“Please, lie back. I need to change your bandage.” With a familiarity they had not shared in years, she pressed a hand to his chest to ease him back.
His head nestled into the pillow. “What bandage? Where are my men?”
“The bandage on your leg. The physician was able to remove all the wooden splinters, but you need time to heal.”
Panic clutched his throat. His leg? A physician had hacked at his leg? Bolting upright through a blinding pain, he tore away the sheets. His eyes feasted on
the sight of his legs, both legs, still intact and looking normal aside from bruising. A bandage wrapped about one thigh.
Only after he had settled against the pillow again did he realize he wore nothing but a nightshirt, and not even his own nightshirt, as his ladylove from years past tended to him. Good Lord!
He squeezed shut his eyes, clenching his jaw against the ache as her hands unwound the old bandage.
“A bit of wood impaled your leg. Nothing too deep, the physician assured, but the muscle needs time to heal.”
“And my men?” he grunted.
“They’re being tended. You must rest and not worry. All are well and in rooms of their own. You’re in my home, you see. There was nowhere else large enough to take them.” Her hands worked deftly to secure a new bandage. “The ship, I’m afraid, didn’t fare as well.”
Braving a peek, he admired her head bent over his leg, her bottom lip captured between her teeth in concentration. Colin’s heart swelled to see her again. The years had been too long. Years and a continent apart…
Then it struck him. Her home. Had she married? Had she not waited for his return? All his work for naught.
Years, a continent, and now a shipwreck. He dared not wait for death to tear their love asunder.
“Julia. I may not look like much at present, but I’ve returned to you. Tell me you’ve not given up hope. Tell me you’ll marry me.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Shaking her head, she blinked them away, covered his leg with the bed cover, and gathered the linens to leave.
“I can’t.”
The pain in his heart ripped his chest in two. She had married someone else. He could not face another day.
“I waited,” she said. “I hoped. I planned. Then you washed into the cove, you and your men, and father knew you’d come back for me. He was furious. He said I could never marry a deckhand.”
Eyes wide, Colin turned to face her. Her cheeks were pale, lined with rivers.
“I’m no longer a deckhand, Julia. That was my ship. Your father said I must prove myself worthy, and I did. I worked from nothing. Now I own the shipping company, Julia. My solicitor has purchased the old Gaines manor and is refurbishing it. Oh, tell me you aren’t married. Tell me your father will grant me an audience. I did it all for you.”
Color flooded her cheeks, and her lips curved into a wide smile. Throwing herself against his chest, she hugged his neck, her face burrowing into the pillow with muffled shrieks of laughter.
She mumbled into the linen, “Yes. Oh, yes! I’ll fetch him now, this very minute.” She rose above him, her face inches from his. “Should he ask, the maid saw to your bandage. And…” She blushed. “I only peeked once.”
Colin laughed despite the fire in his lungs, a happy man indeed. After all his hard work, his dreams were at last coming true.
Entangled
Velvet greenery caressed Emmaline’s fingertips. Yew hedges, soft to her trailing hands, towered on either side.
At the sound of heels against stone, she quickened her pace.
A chase was afoot.
Turning a corner, she dashed down a darkened path. A quick glance back. No one. But he was in pursuit. One path behind her? Two?
She took another corner, frantic, her feet tingling.
Jerked to a stop. Collapsed into the hedge.
A tug at her dress. Her heart galloped.
A branch. It was a branch! She laughed. It had snagged the silk of her dress, caught on the petticoat beneath. Wrenching free, she grasped at the yew to propel herself forward.
Another turn. And another.
Dead end.
Spinning, she backtracked, desperate. A third turn revealed a long dark path.
Around her echoed the titters of women and guffaws of men as they chased each other through the hedge maze, the highlight of Lady Levinford’s annual May Day fête. In the center: a maypole.
Emmaline stumbled forward, turning another corner, nearly toppling two partygoers. Without sparing them a glance, she raced down another path. He would find her. The rogue would win.
Lanterns swayed, shifting their haloes at unreliable intervals, the world dark at the dead edges.
Another turn. A dead end.
She had to pause to catch her breath. Bracing herself against the hedge, she sucked in quick breaths. One hand held her steady, the other clutched her side, a sharp pain twinging from the exertion.
A crack penetrated the air, startling her. Color lit the sky. Someone had found the center. The maypole dance would begin.
She was alone, then. Alone in a dark dead end, awaiting her fate.
It was the shadow she saw first. A crackle of color illuminated the man, his silhouette cast on the stone ground. His outline loomed, prowling towards her, stalking with silent grace.
“You’ve found me, Lord Levinford. Now, what will you do?” she asked, only the tremor on his name belying her anticipation.
A low laugh slipped from his lips. In swift strides, he was to her, pinning her into the hedge.
“I’ll have my wicked way with you,” he promised.
Emmaline gasped. His hand grasped her thigh, sliding upwards, lifting her dress and petticoat, hoisting her leg around his derrière. The heat of his body scalded her. His tongue invaded her mouth.
Her petticoat about her waist and her heart in her throat, she clutched a fistful of his hair. He captured her mouth with his and kissed her near to madness.
In the distance, shrieks and applause accompanied the anticipated maypole dance.
“Next year, I’ll catch you,” she vowed.
A chuckle tickled her ear. “As you wish, Lady Levinford.”
Midsummer
It began with a kiss.
An eager thirteen-year-old lad and his bashful ten-year-old neighbor. Beneath the cypress, beside the lake. The sun at its highest point on the longest day of the year.
With that kiss, Rothchild knew himself wed.
But life had other plans.
Every year, they met at the lake on the summer solstice. Every year, a kiss renewed their childhood vows. Every year, until he purchased a commission.
He had written. She had replied. Six years of promises. Travel was frequent, battles more so. Last year, he stopped writing. She would understand.
Bloodshed, mayhem, chaos. A bayonet to the face. He returned home a baronet, scared, scarred, and broken. He did not write. She would understand.
Two reclusive years lost in the shadows of pain and regret. She would understand.
At last, he faced the man in the mirror. Worn. Wounded. Dignified. An elder in a body of no more than five and twenty years. The day had arrived.
In the library of Mr. Kempwood, father of his ladylove, the longcase clock ticked the passage of time, ominous. Fifteen minutes and counting.
Tugging at his waistcoat, he waited.
Running a hand through his hair, he waited.
Smoothing a gloved hand over riding breeches, he waited.
The study door opened with a swish and closed with a click.
Ferocious as ever with bushy brows speaking their own dialect above narrowed eyes, Mr. Kempwood grunted in greeting, strode behind his desk, and harrumphed into his chair, the inquisitor at the ready.
Rothchild swallowed, the sound echoing in the silence.
“Well?” barked Mr. Kempwood.
A bead of sweat etched a path down Rothchild’s temple. Facing the enemy’s cavalry could not be more tense.
“I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. As a baronet with a new estate, both granted by the King for services to the Crown, I have much to offer.”
“You’re too late. I’ve already accepted Lord Hammerly’s suit. If that will be all?” Mr. Kempwood did not await an answer before striding from the room.
<
br /> A bayonet to the face could not compare to a dagger to the heart. She had not understood. She had not waited.
A painful heat behind his eyes, he left the study for the front door.
“Rothchild?” came a soft voice.
One hand on the banister, one foot on the first step, she stood at the top of the stairwell, a traitor in the guise of his love. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, a hesitation about her stance as though she might take flight. She had not changed. And yet she had.
He turned away and left for home.
The silk-spun memory of her had given him reason to hope, reason to return, reason to recover. She had not understood. She had not waited.
To smother his heartache, he attended a house party. What more did a man need than a house full of women lusting after eligible men?
Except love had lost its allure. As he could not have Cecily, there would be no one for him. Evening after tedious evening, he sat in the same leather chair, observing the tittering women swooning over false men.
With a change in the air, Lord Hammerly arrived, all shoulders and smugness. Apprehension beat in Rothchild’s chest.
Lord Hammerly winked, sparkled, and dazzled. From behind palms, Rothchild stalked him. From behind garden walls, Rothchild haunted him. From behind columns, Rothchild spied him. How could Cecily throw over her true love for a preening peacock?
The night of the dance, Lord Hammerly vanished. Rothchild paced, fretted, and searched. But what was he to do, challenge the man? No offense had been made other than stealing his love.
Giggles and groans from behind a parlor door halted his steps. He should ignore them. This was not his business. Was it her behind the door? With her betrothed?
Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, hands fisted, he threw open the door. The Devil! Piled on a settee were Lord Hammerly, Lord Bumbarden, and Mrs. Snow. Unclothed.
“Deuces and devils!” Rothchild said louder than he’d expected.
A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 19
