by Baird Wells
“Hallo!” The big man raised a meaty hand in greeting, continuing the arc in order to swab perspiration and soot from his ruddy face. “I thought to see you before the sun got so high.”
“I thought for you to see me then, also. Punctuality...” She raised her hands and sighed.
Kappel laughed, patting his wiry shock of black hair. “Meant to be, then. Finished your order two days ago, but my boy had to run it to a jeweler in Brussels for the fancy bits. Just returned this morning.”
“I’ve been too preoccupied with other arrangements to notice.” Arguing with the wine merchant, finding someone to cook a basket dinner for less than a king’s ransom. Her frustration drained away at the realization that her errands were done, replaced by a thrill of anticipation. She clasped her hands. “Can I see it?”
Grinning, Kappel lumbered without a word through an open doorway into the house. He returned a moment later, arm outstretched, palm cradling a roughly carved pine box.
“Here.” Fishing inside her neckline, Olivia tore free a linen pouch sewn into its seam.
“Ten pieces more, for the extra work.” Kappel raised his other hand as though he expected argument, something he probably experienced often with his French occupiers. “My expense was more than that, but given the occasion...”
Olivia shook her head, dropping the entire pouch into his hand before plucking up the box. “Here is thirty-five pieces for your trouble.”
Kappel stared at the bundle. “That is more than twice what we agreed.”
She stared back, drawing out her words. “Fifteen for the hard work, and twenty to empty your memory.”
Frowning, he pinched the sides of the fabric, ripped the worn linen, and held aloft one tarnished gold disc. “These are livres!” He bit the coin's edge, eyes still wide. “Where did you come by these?”
“That is no one's concern, particularly not yours, because we do not know one another and have never met.” She smiled, softening, and offered Kappel her hand. “You'll have no trouble melting those down and getting something from them?”
His head nodded out of time with his handshake, eyes still on the coin. “Gold is gold, mademoiselle.”
“Oui. So it is.” She tucked her box deep inside a pocket, considering that Kappel's words had been a common theme today. “And often so much more.”
* * *
Ty waited until the camp, and Matthew in particular, had turned in for the night before darting from his tent. Light snores from general's quarters said Matthew was already out cold, probably exhausted by a day spent quarreling with Kate.
Hefting his pack higher up on his shoulder, Ty picked his way through the officers' camp, now a silent range of shadowed tent peaks. He barely acknowledged the sentry before starting up the low rise that led to the stables. Smith, the stable master, unfolded his long frame from his chair but Ty waved him back. “Just a ride to clear my head. Help sleep along.” Thrusting out a bottle of good scotch, he waved it at the man. “If anyone comes looking, I’d rather not be disturbed.” He smiled.
“Understood, major.” Looking as relieved as any man to be excused from work at a late hour, Smith nestled back into the chair, took a nip of the scotch, and tugged down his straw hat.
Not another soul spoke to him as he passed through the camp. Even the guards at the gate seemed not to take his departure amiss. Good. The less people were concerned, the less they typically remembered.
He brought Alvanley to heel, dismounting into the high grass a few hundred yards from the garrison. Rifling through his pack by the dim light offered over the walls behind him, Ty pulled out his dress coat. He traded it for his great coat, feeling the nip of an April night's breeze as sweat chilled at the back of his neck.
Reaching back inside, his hand came up empty. He peered in, fruitlessly raking aside the other miscellaneous belongings in the dark for his sash. It had been packed along with the coat, he was sure, as he’d done it not an hour ago. The ground. Groaning, he realized it must have fallen into the grass. “By God, Alvanley…”
Kneeling, he patted his hand over webs of tangled roots while his horse snorted and shuffled, stomping one hoof. “If you're in such a bloody hurry, come down here and help me, you old jar of paste.” At last, his hand located the silk fringe. He stood up and began to wrap the sash. His head throbbed and his hands shook. “Like a bloody skirmish,” he muttered. He forced himself to stop and simply breath. He clenched his fingers into fists, willing them into stillness. Finally, he gave Alvanley's neck a solid pat, earning a nuzzle. “And you were worried for nothing. No matter, we'll have this over soon enough, and we can climb down out of the boughs.”
He felt better once they reached the edge of the wood, out of sight from the garrison. The overgrown road was not as difficult to navigate in the dark as expected, mostly thanks to the markers he had placed over the past few days.
Squinting for several long minutes, he debated the reality of the glow up ahead until he was nearly in the clearing he’d been headed toward. It was not a great deal of light; a small campfire was set, barely licking above its ring of stones, and an uneven stump was crowned by a squat brass lamp. They cast deep shadows up the face of an old farmhouse, their efforts swallowed by black spaces and holes between the bricks.
A man puttered near the fire, scuffing a foot atop some tree roots. The minister. His low, wide- brimmed black hat and cassock, in silhouette, gave him the appearance of a giant mushroom.
Drawing up on the reins where dark teased light just inside the clearing, Ty dropped from Alvanley's back. Consumed with nerves and logistics, with forcing shaking hands to hitch leather to branch, he missed Olivia's approach. He knew she was there when her perfume enveloped him. His heart slowed, shoulders unknitting, and for a moment he stood and simply felt her presence, his eyes closed. When he could bear no more, Tyler allowed himself to turn around.
“Oh… My God.” The woman before him was Olivia, undeniably, but so very different. Her brown satin coat was modest, its collar falling from her chin into gentle capes at her shoulders. Wide shoulders and sleeves gathered at the wrist lent her an innocent, doll-like appearance. Even her wide satin belt hugged her waist without an ounce of suggestion. She was soft and girlish, all darting glances and every bit the anxious bride. Different from Olivia as he’d ever seen her and still so much the woman he’d fallen in love with.
Ty would never have called her immodest, but the roles they played demanded her clothing convey a certain worldliness. Now, all the layers had been stripped away, all the roles she had played. Absently, he wondered if she, too was experiencing the strange sensation of seeing him laid bare.
He caught the hint of a blush in the lamplight before she ducked her head, shading her face with the high crown of a cream silk bonnet and its little garden of chocolate satin roses. “It's all a bit plainer than I might have chosen, given different circumstances.”
“I cannot agree with you.” He reached out, taking her gloved hand in his own.
Her other hand brushed his chin. “It’s not fair, really. You just have to put on your uniform, and you’re all done.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but her sly smile quieted him. Still not meeting his eyes, Olivia ran her fingers along the scarlet wool of his coat sleeve. “You look very handsome.”
Mollified, he ran a finger down her cheek. “Then my aim has met with some success.”
“Only some?”
“My mission in its entirety was to charm and then to wed you.”
Now Olivia met his gaze, and her eyes widened over the barest smile, a smile he returned in full measure. She breathed in slowly ahead of a deafening silence. His was held completely, stoppered by the irrational but suddenly all-consuming fear that she had changed her mind in the last minute.
Biting her lip, Olivia laced her arm through his and nodded. “I'm ready.”
Only dignity and a stiff wool coat prevented him from going slack with relief. Ty leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead. He sniffed,
jerking his face away instinctively, then sniffed again. “Olivia, you smell like a Scotsman's breath.”
“You took a rather long time in coming,” she accused, one hand shielding her mouth.
He grinned, looking her over. “Did you leave any in the bottle?”
Laughing, Olivia tugged his arm, pulling them toward the fire. “There's only one way of getting your answer.”
He had intentionally avoided spirits of any sort, and now experienced a good measure of jealousy at Olivia's relaxed state. Concern over who had more self-discipline in their relationship would have to wait, though. She was moving forward, her hand pulling his.
His first good look at their minister did not inspire confidence. Aside from a traditional wooden cross, the man hung with the symbols of nearly every faith Ty could recall, and a few he had never seen. A third-eye medallion, several colorful ropes of dyed reed grass, and something on a leather thong that might have been an ear, or perhaps testicles, were draped from nearly every surface of his body. On the knuckles of his left hand, clasping a bible to his chest, were tattooed the letters J-E-S-U. One ear was pierced nearly to its arc with gold earrings, and the other was missing its lobe entirely. The small window of face visible between hat brim and collar was pale and sweaty.
Ty drew back on Olivia's arm, slowing their approach. “What, um, sort of minister is Reverend…?”
“Ackermann.”
“Reverend Ackermann. Is he a traditional sort of holy man or –”
“He's the only sort willing to marry us in the woods. At night.” Olivia huffed, throwing the minister a narrow glance. “For a princely sum.”
Ty looked him over again, watching the man nod at nothing in particular, as though he could hear their thoughts. “Are you certain this is even binding?”
“Probably not,” she whispered back. “He wrote out our license and certificate on the back of a recipe for quail.”
“Those men?” He pointed out two slightly potato-shaped men who appeared from behind the house. They were whispering and chortling at the minister's side, nearly camouflaged by the various natural substances painting their clothes and faces.
Olivia spread her hands in put-upon helplessness. “They are our witnesses.”
Forgetting himself, Ty poked a finger at Ackermann. “He won't balk at wedding us in the middle of a forest, but he's set on the finer points like witnesses?”
Olivia let him go and crossed her arms. “Do you want to marry or not? Besides, they were the cheapest I could get on short notice. They agreed to come for a bottle of brandy and a…” Olivia lowered her voice, waving a hand across her bodice, “glimpse of my breasts.”
He regretted that the noise which came out of him sounded like some sort of dying animal, while his fingers twitched with the urge to strangle the men. He raised his eyes at Olivia's silence, and she flailed her arms, clearly exasperated. “For which I substituted some francs. I'm not going to simply give away that much brandy.”
“And?” He narrowed his eyes, and she responded in kind.
“And that was all.”
“Hm.” He still wasn't certain the pair were off the hook. He grabbed her hand when she turned away. “Olivia.”
“Yes?” The word came out on a sigh.
“You did as well as anyone could, under the circumstances. Better. I'm sorry I wasn’t able to help.”
Tension in her arm give way, and she smiled. “We both did all we could. That seems a fair start to a marriage.”
Their marriage.
The weight of the idea sunk in while Ackermann mumbled words over them in broken English. Whatever God or Fate or the designs of man had in wait for them, he and Olivia would face it all as one.
There was a pause; Ty realized he had been watching her, lost in his thoughts and not listening. The minister cleared his throat, holding something out. A ring. It was his ring, Ty realized, as the fire's light sparkled off of its green stone. He took it and waited while Olivia tugged off her glove, and then grasped her hand, her bare skin touching his for the first time in weeks, and he slipped the band over her knuckle.
Something like a tiny sigh escaped her lips.
He said the words he’d waited weeks to utter. “My arm to protect you, my breast to comfort you, my heart to cherish you.”
Olivia's eyes widened. “Snake in the grass,” she whispered, lips twitching, pressing his hand with reassuring warmth.
“Let's hear what you've got that's better.” He struggled out his challenge, caught between laughter and a fit of nerves churning in his guts.
Her eyes danced with mystery and humor, and she held out her hand to the reverend and claimed a wide gold band from him.
Olivia lifted her shoulders, shrugging. “I cast my heart in with your lot.” Her vow was plain-spoken, as if the idea were a foregone conclusion, and it was filled with bone-deep sincerity.
An ache behind his ribs bloomed as she spoke them, and they could not have been more perfect. The ring slid into place on his finger with satisfying weight, and Ty held up his hand to study the effect.
Ackermann stepped back, closing the bible and gesturing them together with a sweep of his fingers. Not the least bit interested in titillating their unwelcome guests, who were staring gape-mouthed beside the minister, Ty leaned in and pressed a kiss at the corner of Olivia's mouth. He fought back a laugh when she swayed into him and then sighed at his quick retreat.
From the back of his wagon, Ackermann produced a small wooden writing box which housed a quill and ink. He scrawled his signature and some strange symbol beside it. Ty signed and passed the quill to Olivia, and in a moment they were done. All that remained was to shoo off the three interlopers, two of whom were looking more keen by the moment to stay and see what could be had.
Against his better judgment, Ty clasped each man's hand, hastily enough that only Ackermann, who came last, had a chance to return any pressure. “Thank you, and thank you. Good night.” He turned to Olivia. “We should be heading in,” he announced loudly. She only stared. “Don't wish to draw unwanted attention from the garrison.”
Understanding replaced the confusion on her face while their witnesses only looked disappointed. Thankfully, Reverend Ackermann, clearly unwilling to be put out any longer than necessary, began shooing them toward his wagon. Ty made a great show of fussing with Alvanley's bridle and reins as the rickety conveyance tottered over the clearing's uneven terrain, rumbling off into the darkness of the old road. When he was confident that no one planned to circle back with their hand out, he dropped the reins.
He grabbed Olivia under the arms, his hands racing over the satin to press at the small of her back. She must have had the same thought as he, as their lips met with enough force to jar her bonnet free. Their teeth banged together, catching the skin of his lip with a sting. Ignoring it, he crushed her to his chest while her arms twined around his neck with a pressure that bordered on painful. “How long?” She whispered into his neck, embracing him as fiercely as before.
“Thirty-eight days.” He had counted every single one of them.
To his disappointment, Olivia pulled away. “Thirty-eight agonizing days.”
“Mmm. Some more painful than others.”
“And yet, you've muddled through.”
“Barely!” he protested, making a grab for her and failing as she danced away. She turned and gave him a winning smile.
“Get the lamp,” she pointed toward the stump, “And let's go in.”
“Go in?”
“Yes.” She glanced around, brows drawn together. “You didn't think we would just sit about out here all night ...”
“I did not think that far in advance.”
“Liar,” Olivia laughed. She shook her head, bouncing her poor displaced bonnet. “Lamp.”
He made her a little bow. “I am the lady's to command.”
* * *
Ty stepped over the threshold of the farmhouse and set her down, restoring some of the pride she’d lost a
t being lumbered in like a sack of grain. He was very sweet about it, but Olivia was happy to put both feet on the floor.
Eyeing her handiwork, Olivia worried for the first time that it was not enough. She had only dared two trips, afraid that any more baggage or the hiring of a wagon for a third time would raise suspicion. Ty's sharp ‘oh’ from the doorway behind put her fears to rest.
“Olivia, did you do all of this?”
She nodded, giving the room another glance. They could do worse, as honeymoons went. The house afforded them one good-sized room with no furnishings, protected from time and elements between two now dilapidated wings. Stone walls boasted just a few holes high up, and a mostly intact slat door caught most of the draft. The old farmhouse's fireplace crackled cheerfully; she’d been thrilled to find it in working order the day before. Their dinner basket waited on a small cloth beside the hearth with two good bottles of port. And, of course, a plush stack of quilts beside...
Ty's whistle cut in, and he stepped up beside her. “You've managed brilliantly.” The pride in his voice warmed her head to toe. He laced their fingers, meeting her eyes, and his face was somber in the firelight. “You deserve Westminster, Olivia. A tour of the Continent. A true London wedding.”
She shrugged. “Those things are nice, but they're not important.” She pressed a finger to his chest. “This is what’s important.” Then she laughed at herself. “Cliché? Perhaps. But we are together. That's enough for me.”
They stood together for a long moment, Olivia taking him in while Ty did the same, with only the pop and hiss of logs in the grate breaking the contented silence.
Her husband.
As if reading her mind, Ty broke the silence. “Our first night together as husband and wife,” he murmured. “What would please you most?”
She shivered at the idea as much as his smoky tone. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” Ty admitted, looking slightly relieved.
“Thank God. I'm famished. Do something with the port while I find napkins.”
Ty chuckled, snatching at her skirts was they passed one another. “Needs of the body before needs of the spirit.”
