"I love you," she mouthed as she whirled by him, her loose hair flowing over her shoulders the way he liked it.
"Love you forever," he mouthed back.
The dance ended and Meg returned to Kincaid's arms, breathless and laughing. It felt so good to laugh. The burden of her past had lifted and for the first time in fifteen years she felt like she could truly breathe. She finally felt like she had the right to be happy.
"Ready to go home?" Kincaid whispered in her ear.
She leaned against him, facing the crowd. Saity and her new husband were dancing, the others clapping as they sang a lusty song meant for newlyweds.
"I think so." She exhaled, feigning fatigue. "I'm ready for bed. It's been a long day and tomorrow will be even longer. Our ship sets sail at noon and I've still that last crate of dishes to pack."
He put his arms around her and kissed her bare shoulder. "If you're tired I can take you home now and tuck you into bed." His tone was filled with concern.
She looked over her shoulder at him. "Whoever said anything about sleeping?" She smiled a saucy smile. "I had something better in mind, husband."
He made a growling sound in his throat and kissed her soundly. "You mean you're still interested now that the dashing Captain Scarlet is gone, his duty done?"
"Mmm hmmmm."
"And James Kincaid is gone, too. His last poem written. Gone off to France, I hear. Won't you miss him?"
She shook her head. "No."
"As for James Randall, we know he wasn't truly real, either. His castle is sold to a nice duke, his holdings dissolved. All of his cottars are living in new cottages with meat on their tables and tools in their sheds."
She smiled. "But the money is in his pocket, is it not? The spoils of a secret no one will ever know, but you and I and the midwife who delivered you."
"Is it right though, my taking the Randall fortune not really due me?"
"There are no other heirs, Kincaid. The holdings would revert to the king. The way I see it, you deserve the comfort your father's and uncle's holdings will bring you. Besides, to tell the truth would defame your good mother's name."
"I suppose." He rested his head on her shoulder. "So who am I now? A Randall? I'm certainly not the king's brother." He sighed. "I've spent a lifetime being so many men. I'm not sure who it is I should be."
She turned in his arms to face him, looping her arms around his neck. "Let's see. Who are you? You're a tobacco planter on some river in a place called the Maryland Colony. You're Meg's husband." She lifted her hand and rested it on her abdomen that in the last few weeks had begun to swell. "And you're the father of this child."
He smiled, stroking her cheek tenderly with his knuckles. "What else could a man ask for?"
"What else, indeed?"
Meg and Kincaid kissed again, a slow passionate kiss of mended hearts and pasts finally laid to rest. Then, hand in hand, they walked toward the door that would lead them to a new life, new identities, and a new-found happiness.
Epilogue
Maryland Colony
Fifteen years later
Meg lifted the sleeping infant from her breast to rest him on her shoulder. "Where's your father?" She rose from her rocking chair near the hearth, patting the baby's bottom rhythmically.
Meg's and Kincaid's eldest daughter, Rachel, who was almost fifteen, closed the cover on the book she was reading. "I saw him heading down toward the river." She got out of her chair and opened her arms to take the fifth Randall child, Meg's and Kincaid's third boy. "You know how he gets in the fall when the geese begin to fly. He hates the thought of winter coming and having to spend all that time cooped up with all these women." She rolled her eyes. "Men."
Meg laughed at her daughter, so proud she had become such a bright, beautiful young woman. "I think I'll go find him." She indicated the long trestle table in the center of the parlor where the Randall children took their studies in the late afternoon. Three small heads were bent over their books. "Could you make sure they finish up today's lessons?" She glanced at the English case clock on the mantel. "Ten more minutes and they may all be dismissed."
Young James, twelve and full of vinegar, turned in his chair. "Then may I dig for my private treasure on the beach, Mama? May I?"
"It's nearly dark, James. I don't think—"
"Father said I could take a lantern if I did my Latin right the first time."
Montigue, only seven, jumped out of his chair. "I'll go with James. I'll protect him!" He raised an imaginary firearm to his shoulder. "I'll take Papa's musket!"
Meg's eyes widened. "You'll do no such thing, Montigue Kern Randall! Musket, indeed." She looked to her eldest son. "You may go with a lantern if you take your brother."
"Oh, Mother!" James moaned. "He's a pain in the arse."
Meg's eyes widened.
"Neck," James conceded.
"You may take your brother with you, James, or you may stay here with me and tackle tomorrow's Latin lesson."
James looked as if he were going to comment, but seeing the look on Meg's face, he gave up. The boy seemed to know his mother could always be more stubborn than he.
"I don't think it's fair." Little Saity, with her blonde curls, turned in her chair. "They get to go dig pirate treasure and I don't?" She thrust out her lower lip in a pout. "That's because I'm a girl, isn't it, Mama?"
"No, Saity, it isn't." Meg dropped her hand on her hip. "You may not go dig for treasure because you, young lady, are still in trouble for cutting the cat's whiskers." She twirled her finger. "Now turn around, all of you, and back to your studies. You still have ten minutes by my calculations."
Obediently the children returned to their lessons.
"I'll fetch your father and be back shortly," Meg told her eldest daughter who was putting the baby to bed in his cradle near the fire.
"All right, Mother."
Humming softly to herself, Meg picked up her cloak off a peg in the front hallway and tossed it over her shoulders. She stepped out into the crisp autumn air.
Standing on the porch steps, she tied the tie at her neck, choosing to leave her hood down and let her dark hair blow in the salty wind.
From the top step of the Georgian brick house's front porch, Meg could look down the lawn that ran a quarter of a mile to the riverside. A dock used for ships to load tobacco stretched out into the water. On the end of the dock, she spotted a lone figure. The man was dressed in dark breeches and a white linen shirt with high black boots. His black hair, that had been brushed neatly and tied back in a queue this morning, flowed freely down his back.
Meg smiled to herself as she crossed the lawn, walking downhill toward the dock. The years were slipping by so quickly that she could barely remember the life she had once had. Rutledge Castle, Philip, the Earl of Rutledge . . . they were nothing but distant memories that sometimes didn't seem real at all anymore.
What Meg remembered of the past was Kincaid. Only Kincaid. He was her savior. Her lover. Forever, secretly, her masked highwayman.
Just then Kincaid turned to face the house. Seeing her, he waved. He met her halfway down the dock.
"I'm sorry, sweet. Were you calling me for supper?" He lifted her hood to cover her head. "You should have sent one of the children. There's no need for you to be out in the wind."
She kissed him lightly on the lips. "I just came to find you. Can't a woman occasionally speak with her husband alone without spilt milk and a thousand interruptions?"
He laughed, his husky voice sending trills of pleasure through her. Even after all these years of married life she still loved to hear him laugh. "Good point." He took her hand, squeezing. "So what would you like to talk about? He led her toward the end of the dock to a bench.
Both sat down to look west into the setting sun.
"Nothing in particular." Beside him, she snuggled in his arm. "I just like to be alone with you, that's all. The new baby's taken so much of my time that I've missed you."
He hugged her. "Misse
d you, too."
She watched the sun's rays dance across the smooth water of the river. "So was our tobacco crop a good one?"
"Excellent. Better than last year. Much better than Harper's down the river."
She glanced into his dark eyes, speckled with green. "You've made a good planter, Kincaid. Surprised us both, I think."
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I like the hard work. Seeing the results."
"So you don't miss the highway, Captain Scarlet?" She lifted an eyebrow, a twinkle in her green eyes.
"Miss it? Not the robbery, no. All that danger, saddle sores. Nah. But the women." He shook his finger. "Now the women I miss. Kissing all those innocent young females . . ."
She burst into laughter, sinking her elbow into his side. "I don't know why I ask you anything! You can never be serious."
With one smooth motion, he set her on his lap. "There's one thing I can be serious about and that's my love for you."
She smiled. "It's a good life, isn't it? I don't miss England one bit." She looked down at him. "Do you?"
"Too many bad memories there." he murmured, tenderly tucking a stray lock of her hair beneath her hood. Then once again he looked out into the setting sun. "Here we've started anew. The Randall family has a fresh beginning far from the frigid walls of Rutledge."
"Just like Mavis said," Meg whispered. "The honor has been restored."
"Thanks to you."
She looked at him. "Me?"
"Yes, you." He prodded her with his finger. "You had the courage to fight back. I want our daughters to have the same courage."
"And our sons," she added.
They were both quiet for a moment, content to be together. Then Meg looped her arm around her husband's neck to stare into his smiling eyes. "Shall we go see about supper and then perhaps an early bedtime?"
His smile turned to a broad, masculine grin. "Madame, is that a proposition?"
"No. But this is." She whispered provocatively in his ear and both of them burst into husky laughter.
Hand in hand, Meg and Kincaid walked up the hill to their home and their beloved children, knowing that love truly could conquer the past.
The End
Colleen French is a multiple award-winning and bestselling novelist, daughter of bestselling novelist Judith E. French. Colleen French has written more than 125 novels under several pen names. Colleen's print books have sold more than 1 million copies and been translated into Bulgarian, French, Italian, Mandarin, and Spanish. Colleen's Native American novels are inspired by her English, Scottish, Irish, Welsh, and Lenni-Lenape ancestry and the Del-Mar Peninsula near the Chesapeake Bay, where her family has made its home for more than 300 years. Colleen French was awarded The Diamond Award for Literary Excellence from the State of Delaware. Her books appeal to readers of C. J. Petit, Shirleen Davies, Karen Kay, Madeline Baker, Elle Marlow, Ellen O'Connell, Caroline Fyffe, and Hannah Howell. She can be contacted at [email protected].
BY COLLEEN FRENCH
CAPTIVE
FIRE DANCER'S CAPTIVE
FORBIDDEN CARESS
PASSION'S SAVAGE MOON
SAVAGE SURRENDER
Want more historical romance
from Colleen French?
Here's an excerpt from
SAVAGE SURRENDER
Chapter One
Pennsylvania Colony
May 1761
Lady Rachael Moreover slipped her hands into her velvet-soft kidskin gloves as she glanced out the window. An awkward silence hung in the air casting a pallor over the occupants of the carriage that bumped along the rutted roadway.
"I . . . I don't understand, Rachael," Viscount Gifford Langston finally said, his face notably paler.
"I mean what I say," she repeated firmly. "I shan't marry you." She took a deep breath. She had vowed she would be honest with Gifford, but she didn't want to injure him unnecessarily. This was her fault as much as his. He had led her down the path, but she had followed like a smitten dairy maid. She tucked a lock of rich chestnut hair beneath her silk traveling bonnet. "I can't marry you because it would be wrong."
Gifford glanced from Rachael to his cousin the Reverend James who sat beside him, and then back to Rachael again. "But the banns have been read, my dearest. The ceremony is but a formality." He slipped across the carriage to the opposite upholstered bench so that he might sit beside her and he took her gloved hand. "It's as if you already were my wife."
Rachael pulled her hand from his, suddenly loathing his touch. Slowly she turned from the window until her blue-eyed gaze settled on Gifford's strikingly handsome boyish face. "I am no man's wife," she said with determination, "until I make my vow before God." Her gaze shifted to Gifford's cousin sitting nervously on the opposite bench. "Is that not true, Reverend?"
The dark-haired man cleared his throat, taken off-guard by the sudden turn in conversation which had been entirely pleasant until a moment before. He had never cared for his cousin Gifford and had accepted his offer to ride along to their aunt's only because the woman was so gravely ill. John James should have known he would be caught in something unpleasant like this. Events always seemed to turn unpleasant when they involved Gifford Langston.
The reverend took a moment to consider the young woman across from him. She was a beauty, indeed, with her honeyed complexion, rosy lips, and thick shining glory of dark hair, but it was in her eyes that John saw true beauty . . . a beauty of the heart . . . of the soul. His first impression of Lady Rachael upon meeting her six months ago when she'd arrived from London to marry Gifford was that she was entirely too good for his conniving cousin. Like many other women before her, she had been fooled by Gifford's handsome good looks and his smooth-tongued ways. Fooled, but apparently not fooled for long, John thought. He turned his attention back to his cousin. "Yes," he answered evenly, "before the Lord, that is where a man and a wife are joined unto death. Our government in its all-knowing wisdom seems to believe that it is they who should govern such sacraments, but it is not as the Lord instructed us."
Rachael flashed him a grateful smile.
Gifford scowled. Because it was obvious the good reverend wasn't going to come to his defense, he took a different tack. "Surely you're not serious, Rachael, love. Twice before you've said you'd changed your mind but both times—"
"I came to my senses?" she injected. "It's not going to work this time. I've made my decision."
"Tell me why it is you can't marry me. The house I built for you is nearly complete." When he touched her damask sleeve, she stiffened.
Rachael glanced out the window again, taking in the panorama of the dense forest of the Pennsylvania colony surrounding them. Never, until she'd come to the American colonies, had she seen such stark beauty as this. There was something about the sight of the trees, about the sound of the woodland birds, and the heady smell of the humus that intrigued her. Its magic lured her from her bed at night to sit in the window and listen, imagining what it would be like to wander through the ancient oaks and elms on a starry night.
"I cannot marry you, Gifford, because I don't love you." Rachael clenched her jaw. There. She'd admitted it finally . . . to Gifford, but more importantly to herself.
"Love me! Of course you love me. And I you. I should think I would perish without you at my side." He clasped his hands to his breast in emphasis.
Rachael rolled her eyes heavenward. To think she had once found his histrionics romantic. Now she simply found them irritating. Unconsciously, she shook her head. How could she have been so easily beguiled by Gifford? Why hadn't she listened to her brother Thomas when he had warned her that the Viscount Langston was not the husband for her? Thomas had tried to warn her of her intended's dishonesty. He had tried to tell her that Gifford was a man who played a part, any part you wanted him to, but only long enough to get what he wanted from you. But Rachael had been fooled by Gifford's lavish attentions. The extravagant gifts, the evenings at the playhouse, the stolen kisses, they had all masked
his true self behind a veil of girlish dreams.
"Rachael, please," Gifford insisted under his breath. "Let's talk about this later." He shook his head ever so slightly. "But not in front of my cousin. I'm hurt that you would bring up such a delicate matter in the presence of another."
Rachael pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and mopped her perspiration-dotted forehead. She had purposely waited to break the news to Gifford in John's presence, thinking he might soften the blow. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Perhaps even an act of cowardice. She tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve. "There's nothing to talk about. I made a mistake in thinking I wanted to marry you. I'll not double the error by doing so."
"It's your brother, isn't it?" Gifford ran his index finger along the line of his blond mustache. "He comes into port long enough to fill your pretty little head with these notions and then sails away again. He doesn't like me. Of course he told you not to marry me. I suppose he even had the audacity to call me a fortune hunter."
"He did," she conceded quietly. "But Gifford—" The sound of a man's scream froze her voice in her throat.
"Christ, what was that?" Gifford muttered as the carriage lurched to one side throwing him against Rachael.
A second scream rent the air followed by several thumps that rocked the carriage.
Rachael grasped the seat as the vehicle swayed suddenly out of control. "The coachman!" she cried as she stared out the window in shock as the carriage raced by the crumpled body of the liveried driver. She sat back hard in her seat, squeezing her eyes shut, praying this was all a terrible nightmare, but knowing it wasn't. Arrows . . . Those had been feathered Indian arrows protruding from the coachman's chest.
At the sound of an ear-splitting howl Rachael's eyes snapped open. "Do something!" she shouted. "We're under attack! Indians! The carriage is going to overturn!" She could see the savages now, naked redskinned men running beside the careening vehicle, howling like wild beasts.
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 34
