Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  “No more,” he said. “It seems we are finally free, together.”

  Epilogue

  Del hummed to herself as she added the long column of numbers. A heady warmth suffused her body, the after-effect of a morning spent with her husband that had yet to dissipate. Almost a year after their wedding, she still thrilled at calling him her husband, still reacted with heated readiness when she saw his face or heard his voice. Every time with him was like the first time, and she hoped it always would be. Their passion never abated, their giddiness with each other never subsided, and she didn’t think it ever would.

  Del tried not to get too distracted with thoughts of her husband, but they always intruded no matter what she was doing, no matter how pressing her work. Something always reminded her of one of their late-night conversations whispered to each other in bed, or of the feel of his naked body against her skin, or of his laughter when she said something to amuse him. The smallest thing would bring up the memories of any of the thousand looks or words or touches they shared and she would want to drop everything and go to him. She wanted it now, but she needed to stay focused and finish the accounts and so she deliberately banished from her mind the images of them together that morning.

  Camden always hated the bookkeeping and preferred to be outdoors, but she found the numbers comforting. They were logical and predictable. Two plus two always equaled four. There were no surprises in the math, nothing unexpected. It soothed her to sit in her cozy office and track expenses and income, to file receipts and organize their records, and she was good at it.

  She had finally succeeded in turning her full attention to the accounts when she heard the creak of wheels and the jangle of tack outside. She looked out her window to see a carriage coming up the long drive to their home, and the sight made her smile. It would be either Wittingham or Jane, as they were both expected to arrive sometime today for an extended visit. Putting aside for a moment her excitement to see old friends, she finished her addition, checked her numbers one last time, and then closed the ledger. Work was done for now.

  She went outside to find Camden, knowing he would want to greet the arriving guests. She found him exactly where she expected: in the small side paddock working a chestnut colt on a lunge line. She stood for a moment, just watching him. His blond hair was tousled, his shirt and breeches dusty, and he looked utterly gorgeous. He was loose-limbed and relaxed, with an expression of carefree joy on his face. Outside on their land, working with their horses, it was the happiest he was when not with her, and Del could stand and watch him all day.

  He turned to look at her, breaking into a wide smile at the sight of her, and Del’s heart melted just a little. He was so beautiful, so kind and amazing, and she still couldn’t believe her luck that he was hers.

  “Come to help me, my dear?”

  Del shook her head, smiling at his address, and gestured to the front of the house where Wittingham was alighting from his carriage.

  “Right. Seems you are granted a reprieve for the day,” he said to the colt. He removed the lunge line to let the horse scamper free about the paddock, and then he leapt over the fence in an easy, fluid motion to join his wife. Taking her hand in his, he led the way to greet their friend.

  “Ho, Wittingham!” Camden called. The men clasped hands and slapped each other’s backs in the age-old gesture of male affability and affection.

  Wittingham bowed to Del and smiled at her in greeting. “Mrs. Camden,” he said, taking her proffered hand for a genial kiss. “You are looking well.”

  “I see you’ve made the long journey to the uncivilized north relatively unscathed,” Camden said.

  Wittingham frowned at him. “If you call a wretchedly sore ass, a pounding headache from riding over the pitted monstrosities you call roads, and clothes covered in more wrinkles and dirt than an old naked man in mud pit ‘unscathed,’ then yes, I’ve got here just fine.” Wittingham made a great show of straightening his impeccable cravat and dusting off his sleeves.

  Camden laughed and gave his friend another playful punch, which made Del laugh, and then even Wittingham couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

  “I’m surprised you could bring yourself to make the trip,” Camden teased.

  “Yes, well, I’ve need for a new horse, and I hear you breed the finest specimens in England. I expect an exceedingly good deal, of course.”

  “You will have to speak to my wife about deals and discounts. I just breed the horses, she runs the business aspects of it all. I’ll warn you not to get your hopes up, however. She is a shrewd negotiator that could talk a miser into paying her to take his goods off his hands. You will likely pay full price and more, and never be happier doing it.” Camden leaned down to kiss Del’s cheek, his admiration showing clearly on his face.

  “Oh, Camden, stop,” Del said, laughing. “I have never dealt unfairly with anyone or cheated them their due, and you know it.”

  “Cheated them? Never. You have a way of making people willingly and happily give over everything to you. As I have.” Camden looked at her meaningfully, and Del blushed under his gaze. He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her close, and she leaned into him. They were losing themselves in each other, as they always did, and would have forgotten Wittingham completely if he hadn’t cleared his throat pointedly.

  “Ah, yes. Let’s get you inside and settled before we talk business,” Camden said, gesturing to a footman to unload Wittingham’s things from the carriage. “William will show you to your quarters, and when you’re ready, I’ll show you around the grounds.”

  Wittingham followed the servant into the house, and Del turned to go inside as well, but Camden caught her hand and stopped her.

  “I meant it, what I said.” Camden looked down at her earnestly, encircling her with his strong arms. “I’ve given everything of myself to you, happily and willingly.” He kissed her, the gesture tender yet strong.

  Long ago, when Del was another person in another life, someone had told her she was like an orchid under glass. That she was closed off and anyone trying to reach her faced only jagged edges and injury. That she was delicate and fragile and would curl and wither at the slightest pressure and so she held herself back from others, walled off lest they caused her harm. Trying to be with her only resulted in the destruction of them both.

  Here, now, standing on their land in her husband’s embrace, she realized she had become an orchid made of glass. She was open, transparent, everything about her freely shown. She was enduring and unable to be crumpled or bent; she would hold up to the bruising pressure of others. For hers was a heavy, toughened glass, and while still smooth and beautiful, it made her deceptively strong. If hit with just the right blow, yes, her edges could crack, but she would never completely shatter and her essential core would hold.

  “And I am yours, completely,” she said, kissing him back.

  She marveled that there had ever been a time when such a declaration would have filled her with fear and a sense of weakness. Now it gave her confidence. She had her own strength, and with the addition of her husband’s loving hands around her, she could withstand anything she faced. He wouldn’t let her fall, wouldn’t let her break, he would temper any of her remaining vulnerabilities.

  With him, she was invincible.

  About the Author

  Emma Barron lives in upstate New York with her family and two dogs. When not writing, she’s usually chasing her daughter, starting house projects she makes her husband finish, or killing all the plants in her garden. Learn more about her at www.emmabarronbooks.com, find her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @barron_emma.

  Sneak Peek at Crimson Romance

  One Moment's Pleasure by Rue Allyn

  Love’s Destiny

  Elizabeth Meyette

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Ro
mance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Meyette

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-5062-X

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5062-1

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-5061-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5061-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © istockphoto.com/Simon Podgorsek, Heather McGrath

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  Chapter 1

  London, April 1774

  Emily Wentworth waged a battle between grief and anger. Today grief was winning.

  She sat lost in thought, burrowed deeply into the comfort of the brown leather chair, one of two that sat before the large fireplace in the study. It was a room she visited often, one that usually brought a feeling of warmth and closeness to her father when he was away at sea. Today, however, an aching emptiness filled her as it had for the last two weeks since she had received word of her father’s death. A violent winter storm had surged across the Atlantic ravaging George Wentworth’s ship, the Spirit. The few survivors rescued by a passing merchant ship spoke of George’s bravery in his futile attempts to save his men and his ship.

  Emily gazed around the room that reflected her father. Well-loved books lined the shelves on the walls surrounding the enormous mahogany desk where he pored over ledgers and charts when he was home. Emily smiled as she remembered how he would set them aside when she entered the room.

  “Am I bothering you, Father?” she would ask, her timid smile revealing a dimple in each cheek.

  “Nothing is as important as you, Em,” he would chuckle, falling willingly to her ploy.

  They spent hours talking of his voyages, Emily sitting entranced with his tales of the wild animals and exotic people of Africa, of lands scorched under unending heat and sun, of women dressed in beautiful silks in Asia. She imagined she could hear the vendors hawking their wares in crowded markets, the bustle of the people, the lilt and cadence of their languages, the smell of exotic spices and the aromas of mysterious foods. He also told her stories of the colonies in America and the proud spirit that was the cornerstone of that land. Emily tried to picture the vast territory yet to be settled and the rugged Indians who lived there. She knew some were friendly and helped the British, while others were fierce and terrifying. She wondered about the men and women who would travel across the ocean to live in a land so far from their beloved England.

  Emily stared at the embers dying in the hearth. The room took on a chill as the sun settled in the west. Her cheeks were wet, and she realized that she had been crying. Rising, she paced the room. She touched the smoke-stained pipes, always stationed on his desk, and ran her fingertips lightly across the books that lined the shelves. She had read many of them herself, unusual for most girls of her day. George Wentworth had insisted that reading and writing be a part of her education.

  “No child of mine is going to be a simpering idiot! There is more to life for Em than embroidery and coquetry,” he insisted. “She will receive an education as fine as her brother Andrew’s!”

  Emily smiled to herself. Father usually got his way, if not with his charm, then with his temper. But her mother, Jessica, had agreed that Emily should be well educated, as she had been herself. Many evenings at supper her parents had drawn her into conversations and asked her to share her opinions. Consequently, at social affairs when the women gathered together, she was bored with their prattle and gossip, sometimes catching her mother’s amused glance as they smiled in camaraderie.

  “You must not think you are better than others just because you have had the benefit of an education,” Jessica would admonish when Emily mocked those “prissy know-nothings.” Jessica was always pleasant to the other ladies even though, as Emily suspected, she was often bored, too.

  Emily missed the late evening chats they shared after such events. Jessica had died of consumption two years earlier. The family was just recovering from the shock of her death.

  “And now they are both gone,” Emily whispered.

  Jessica’s death had brought Emily and her father even closer. Although she was only seventeen, he began to leave much of the running of the house to her, trusting her judgment. Yet, she was still his little girl.

  She reached for the open letter on the desk. Her father’s solicitor had given it to her after the reading of the will. She knew the words by heart, but she looked at them again as if willing them to change:

  My Dearest Emily,

  Your reading this means that I am either dead or lost at sea. This must be a difficult time for you and Andrew. Draw on your faith in God and your love for one another to see you through. You have a quiet strength, Em. You helped me through my grief and sorrow at your mother’s passing. You are so much like her, not only in looks, but also in courage, gentleness and honesty. Now you must help Andrew. You must be strong for him.

  Please know how much I love you both. That is why I have taken measures to see that you and Andrew are properly cared for. I have appointed my dear friend, Captain Jonathon Brentwood of Virginia, as your guardian. He is a good man, Em, and a trusted friend. He saved my life once, and that is why I am entrusting him with the dearest treasures in my life. You and Andrew have brought me more joy than you will ever know. I love you both and will be watching you from the caring arms of our God in heaven.

  Your loving father

  “Come and eat, darlin’.” Etta Mason had come into the room. “You cannot spend all your days hidin’ in here and missin’ your father,” she said gently. The housekeeper put her arm around Emily’s shoulders and led her out of the study.

  “Oh, Etta, I miss him so,” Emily whispered through the lump in her throat, fighting back the tears.

  “I know, darlin’,” she replied.

  Andrew was already at the table. He stood up when Emily entered and held her chair.

  “How are you, Em?” he asked. He loved their father very much, but he was aware of the special bond his father and Emily had shared. He wished he could help her.

  “Oh, Drew, when is that colonial captain supposed to arrive?” she cried, anger claiming the upper hand now.

  “Now, Em, Father would not appoint an ogre to be our guardian. I am sure Captain Brentwood will be a kind man.”

  Emily looked at her younger brother. He was probably right. At fifteen, Andrew had more common sense than many of the older suitors who had been calling on her.

  “You are right. It is just that everything is so different for us now. With no one left in either Father’s or Mother’s families, we have no choice but to go with this colonial to Virginia. We may have to accept his guardianship, but I do not have to like it!” Her blue-violet eyes sparked with defiance, and her soft full lips set in a firm line.

  Andrew smiled to himself. At least thinking about “that colonial captain” had distracted Emily from her somber, brooding mood that had become so common of late. He loved to see her spirit revive. No one liked to tangle with Emily; she had a quick temper and a sharp tongue. Yet she was fair and had a strong sense of justice.

  “Well, his letter said he would arrive as soon as his business was settled in France. He thought with fair weather and a
good wind he should arrive by the end of this month. I would say another week or two,” Andrew answered, watching her eyes and guessing how quickly her mind was working. “Please, Emily, give him a chance. He was Father’s friend remember.”

  “You are right, Drew. I shall try,” she smiled fondly at her brother.

  • • •

  Emily viewed her reflection in the mirror. Thick dark lashes made a startling contrast to clear, blue-violet eyes. She wrinkled her delicate nose.

  “I am too short,” she thought. “And my hair … I must wear it up.”

  She pushed her long, thick, tawny-colored hair up from the nape of her neck. Golden highlights danced off it in the evening sun that streamed through the window.

  A plan had formed in Emily’s mind as the weeks had passed, bringing the inevitable meeting with Captain Brentwood closer. She needed no guardian — why she was seventeen years old. Andrew and she could continue to live here in London. Surely their inheritance would be an adequate income on which they could live comfortably. It was silly to even appoint a guardian for them.

  Her heart lifted as she thought of her foolproof plan. That was why she must appear a mature and self-assured woman. But she wrinkled her nose once again at her reflection.

  “Bah! I look like a child, and Captain Brentwood will be here any moment.” She rang for Mary, her maid. She looked at her reflection pleased with the effect of her hair pulled up and back, making her feel more confident.

  Mary scuttled into the room wringing her hands. She had already spent hours assisting her mistress with numerous anxious, and often reassessed, preparations for this meeting.

  “Quickly, Mary, dress my hair high, and … well, sophisticated. I need to look mature … older. Oh, you know what I mean.”