by Beverly Adam
“Will you love her, comfort her, and keep her, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”
“I will,” answered the viscount coolly, giving her hand a crushing squeeze.
“Will you, Lady Beatrice Kathryn Margaret O’Brien, take this man to be your beloved husband, to live together in the covenant of marriage?”
Lady Beatrice, a smile on her face as gracious as the sun coming over the green hills of Ireland on a fine spring morning, looked at the cleric as if he had just said something highly amusing. She then turned around, her emerald eyes set on those she loved most of all in the world and answered in a strong voice. “I most certainly will not.”
She removed her hand from the viscount’s clasp.
“Are you certain, Lady O’Brien? Perhaps, my lady, you would like to, uh—to reconsider?” the cleric squeaked, glancing fearfully at the glowering red face of the pock-marked groom.
“No,” she answered simply. Her smile, if that were possible, brighter than before. “I most certainly will not take this man for my husband, Father.”
“Didna you hear the fey, lass?” someone in the room heckled. “She gave her answer. She didna want ’im.”
“Aye! We all heard her, Father. She donna care for the white faced codfish you’ve presented her,” another added. And at this jeering barb, the tall man stepped forward, offering his arm to her.
“She’s done with you, sir,” the tall gentleman said, looking down at the viscount from his greater height. He gently led her over to the older gentleman, who had previously commented on what a pretty bride she made.
The old gentleman grinned from beneath his long silver beard, merry green eyes the same color as hers twinkling.
“Da!” she said, her voice hitching with joy and recognition as she tenderly looked at her adoring parent. His large arms grasped his beloved daughter about the shoulders in a fierce, fatherly hug.
“My darlin’ lass,” he murmured, holding onto her as if afraid they’d once more be separated from each other.
“Take your hands off her!” growled the viscount, drawing down one of the small swords from the mantel of the fireplace.
At the sight of the drawn blade, weapons from all over the smoke-filled room were produced. The viscount and his men, although more numerous, were outmaneuvered by the pub’s Saturday night crowd. Looking at the winsome bride and her handsome supporter, the tall gypsy gentleman, they quickly sided with them.
He, the obvious leader of the group, took off his cloak.
“It’s you!” spat the viscount in recognition as he found himself eyeing his nemesis, the Earl of Drennan. “You’ll pay for this meddling with your life!” he cried lunging madly forward, thrusting his blade at his enemy’s heart.
Captain James, quick on his feet, side-stepped in time to save his vulnerable breast. The blade, nonetheless, sliced easily through his blue, wool shirt, exposing his bronzed flesh.
“Here, man!” yelled out Beau Powers, realizing his friend stood in perilous danger. He pulled down the remaining sword and tossed it to him.
All eyes were upon the two opposing gentlemen.
The squinty-eyed mercenary who stood next to Beatrice slowly drew out a hunting knife from his belt, in preparation of throwing it into the earl’s exposed back.
Beatrice, seeing the blade, quickly seized her father’s blunderbuss from his belt and trained the ancient weapon upon the mercenary’s scowling, wrinkled face.
“Have a care, sir,” she said proudly eyeing the familiar weapon. “It donna look like much. But ’tis known to have shot down a bigger man than you.”
The viscount, legs spread apart, knees bent, growled, ready to skewer her beloved to death.
The sizzling sound of two blades meeting sang in the air as Captain James met the thrust with a counter parry of his own, knocking his adversary’s blade to one side. The blades sliced the air and all drew back to give them more room.
Beatrice’s hand shook as she watched.
“Hand it here, lass,” her father said taking the weapon from her. “We donna want to be paying the pallbearer for two bodies, now do we?”
She quietly nodded. Her eyes never left the forms of the two men battling in front of her.
The earl was a trained swordsman who had picked up the art of fencing during his service from a Maltese fencing-master in Valleta, Spain. Sweating, his hand gripped the hilt of the small sword, he feinted and lunged. The lunge was parried, and as he made a rapid extension of his sword arm, his well-toned body and legs tightened as he tried to reach his opponent again.
Only while he maintained this attack was his life safe. The moment it slackened, or his attention wondered, the viscount’s blade would most certainly dart forward and swiftly kill him.
He beat against the viscount’s blade, thrusting first, over and under, his strength and the long reach of his muscled arms to his advantage. The viscount’s pencil-thin figure and years of advanced training made it more difficult for him to find a target wherein he might wound him.
The earl may not have had the private tutoring of French fencing masters all of his life like the viscount, but he’d had experience and control from the battlefield. The blades met harshly, jarring his long fingers, and only in the nick of time did he beat the second thrust, which the viscount made as he advanced.
The viscount sneered mirthlessly. His snarling thin lips parted, his temper flaring into blind rage for revenge.
The blades slipped apart. He prepared to end the earl’s life.
James seized the moment and leaped forward with lightning speed, slicing a line through the viscount’s upper exposed breast. Red blood bubbled heavily to the surface staining the white chemise of his silk shirt.
The viscount cried out, dropping his weapon.
The earl kicked the small sword aside with his foot. It slid across the plank floor and landed at Beatrice’s feet. Jumping over it, she rushed forward into his arms. He held her fiercely to him, his heart pounding with relief and joy as she covered his face with kisses.
Lord Patrick leaned over the wounded viscount and said with disgust, “He’s not dead, just fainted. More’s the pity . . .”
A maidservant appeared with fresh linens and the local surgeon, who had been sent for, during the rencontre.
Beatrice tended her beloved James. Several haggled cuts across the hand and the thin jagged line on his shoulder bore witness to where the viscount’s sword had lightly scored during the battle. There was a mad shock of delight and pleasure for James when he discovered the light of love still shining in her emerald green eyes.
Beatrice tenderly bound his hand herself, disinfecting the wounds with strong spirits and binding them tight with clean linens and sweet kisses.
“Beatrice,” he said, stilling her hands by holding them, “please, darling—please put me out of my agony. I know I’ve behaved like an absolute cad and each of my past proposals were cocky and full of arrogance. I was a fool and rightly deserved your refusals . . .” He paused in his speech to tenderly brush aside the strands of her black hair, which had managed to escape from beneath the wedding veil. “I love you. I have since the very first. My brave darling, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling at him through tears of joy, “I will.”
“The third time is the charm, then,” he said, kissing her and pledging, “I vow to prove my love to you, my darling, every day for the rest my life.”
* * *
Two weeks later, after the banns were published, the new Earl of Drennan was seen driving a high-sprung, open carriage drawn by two fine matching-white horses, to the Ryan family’s farm to pay visit to his betrothed’s goddaughter. The little girl, who was to be named Beatrice Ann Ryan, was to be baptized in the castle’s newly renovated chapel on the next day.
His lovely bride-to-be, wearing a cream-colored morning gown with a straw bonnet trimmed in leafy green ribbon,
smiled up at her groom as she sat next to him.
A shout was heard by a young boy with the signature Ryan red hair as they approached. “They’re here!”
Maureen stepped outside, carrying her baby daughter in her arms. Her large brawny husband, Paddy, appeared at the door. The husband nodded to his eldest son to hold the horses’ reins for the earl. Delighted to be in charge of such a fine pair, the young man did as asked.
Descending, James greeted the family and shook hands with the patriarch, an elderly man who sat in a rocking chair nearby smoking on his dhudeen pipe.
“Go fetch us some ale, Mary,” said Paddy to his capable daughter standing next to him, “so we might toast the earl and his new bride.”
James handed down Beatrice from the carriage, and much to the amusement of all who watched, refused to release her.
“You know what I want,” he murmured into her ear when she tried to remove herself.
“Very well,” said the bride with a small sigh of pretend exasperation,
She kissed her groom willingly on the mouth in front of the large brood, which caused the entire clan to cheer and applaud in approval.
James took from the back of the carriage, two large baskets filled with preserves, tea, and hard to find spices and salt to the father of the family.
“We never forgot your kindness in sending us a hamper when we were working on the castle,” he said. He looked fondly at his bride, remembering the day he mistook her tiny aunt for a fairy. “It was unforgettably delicious.”
“’Twas nothing, Your Grace,” said Paddy with a blush. “It was all m’ fine wife’s idea. She wanted to show Lady Beatrice her gratitude for helping her birth our little Bea Ann. We don’t know what we would’ve done without her help, fine midwife that her ladyship be.”
They stepped inside the farmhouse sitting room. Mary arrived with a large tray filled with tankards of ale, which she passed around.
“To Your Grace and your fine bride, Lady Beatrice,” said the father of the large red-haired brood. “May you both enjoy good health and have many children. Slainte!”
To which all loudly responded, “Slainte!”
In turn James toasted the Ryan family and his wife’s new goddaughter, who was soundly sleeping in her mother’s arms, unaware of the presence of the important guests.
Beatrice brought forth an off-white christening gown made of fine, Irish lace, beribboned in white and seeded with small pearls, a matching bonnet dangled from her hands by the ribbons, and everyone exclaimed over its elegance.
“My mother made this for me for my christening,” she said. “I thought I would loan it to my goddaughter for tomorrow.”
“So delicate and lovely,” murmured Maureen, reverently touching the lace. “It’s a real honor, my lady. And our Bea Ann will look like an angel when she wears this tomorrow.”
Looking down at the sleeping baby with wisps of red hair, a dreamy smile appeared on Beatrice’s face as she thought of the children she and James would have together. They were going to have a wonderful life, working on the castle and manor estates, while raising a family.
She briefly wondered if the fairies knew of the happiness they had given them when the magic coin passed into her hands? Had they seen the love grow between them?
She was soon to have her answer.
James put his left hand into his right pocket and brought forth his lucky coin, tossing it freely into the air as was his habit. And as he did so, and many in the room swore later when asked to retell the tale, it mysteriously shimmered and disappeared into thin air.
“The devil take it. I’ve gone and tossed it away,” he said when it did not land back into the palm of his hand.
“No, Your Grace, you haven’t thrown it away,” said the winsome beauty by his side. “The fairies have merely taken back what was rightfully theirs. They were just waiting for the right moment, didna you know?”
The ex-soldier who had inherited a title, rebuilt a castle, and fought for the lady beside him, dreamily smiled. “Faith,” he said in brogue, “And I wish them joy of it. For I’ve got the real treasure right here in m’arms.”
“Aye, then what are you waiting for? Why don’t you kiss me, then?” The ex-Spinster of Brightwood Manor smiled back.
And the valiant lord obediently complied.
Author’s Biography
Engaging, romantic frolics are how author, Beverly Adam, describes her Regency Romance series: Gentlemen of Honor. The redheaded writer currently resides in California where she revisits history on a regular basis as a romance novelist and biographer.
