The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  The ceremony was a blur, the words of commitment a vague, poetic recital. Gabrielle didn’t need anyone to tell her that she belonged to Zach and he to her. She’d always known they belonged to each other. Always. Her thoughts were consumed and her senses were inundated by the man who stood next to her.

  Zach was splendid in a black velvet jacket, pristine white shirt and jabot, and a tartan kilt of variegated colors of green and russet. Sir George had traced Zach’s genealogy and found Scottish blood in his family tree, as he knew he would if he tried hard enough. Zach, it seemed, was entitled to wear the clan colors of the MacKays. Zach was willing to do in Rome as the Romans do, so to speak, and was happy to show off his legs in the same manner as Rory had been showing off his since Zach’s arrival on New Year’s Eve. Truth to tell, he’d been rather jealous of Rory’s kilt-wearing and felt as if he were finally getting some friendly revenge. Besides, Gabby had confessed a fondness for that particular part of his anatomy, and he was determined to please Gabby at all costs.

  They spent their wedding night at a little inn outside of Edinburgh, en route to Cornwall and home. They would go at a leisurely pace, not minding the gray and unpredictable skies in the least. So what if they were stranded at some charming inn by rain or snow? That had happened before, and they’d not wasted a bit of time repining over the weather.

  They were making love now, slow and luxuriously, just as Zach had wanted to do that first night together. He was building a leisurely bonfire, a bright, huge conflagration that began with a single spark. But all these thoughts of fire were perhaps making Zach imagine he smelled smoke. He pulled back, gazing into Gabby’s flushed face, her luminous eyes and parted lips. She squirmed beneath him. “Oh, Zach, don’t stop now!”

  “I don’t intend to, Gabby,” he said, his voice raspy and breathless. “But, sweeting, do you smell something burning?”

  Gabby giggled. “Just me!”

  “No, 1 think perhaps they’ve scorched something in the kit—” Zach looked over his shoulder and observed that the counterpane, shucked off by Gabby in the excitement of the moment, had connected with the candle on the bedside table and was just about to burst into flame. Zach jumped up from the bed, threw the counterpane to the floor and stamped out the smoldering fibers. “Gawd!” he muttered. “We might have been burnt alive in our beds!”

  Gabby, propped on her elbows, looked on with amusement. “But we weren’t. Come back to bed, Zach. I like the view from here, of course, but we aren’t likely to get much done at such a distance from each other.”

  Zach shook his head, grinning. Leave it to Gabby to minimize the crisis and put the emphasis back where it belonged—on their love. What a coquette she was, lying there all milky-white and come-hither, smiling like an imp. She was right. Who cares what might have happened? The important thing was their lovemaking.

  Besides, he thought philosophically as he climbed atop his bride, as long as he was married to Gabby he’d have to get used to living in the briars, constantly facing crises and challenges. It would never be dull. He lowered his head and claimed her lips in a passionate kiss. No, never that.

  Epilogue

  Pencarrow

  Cornwall, England

  May 1841

  Spring had come to Cornwall. The air was sweet with the scent of budding trees and wildflowers. The moors were green with new bracken and feathery tamarisk. Gulls swooped and cawed over the mellow terra-cotta stone walls of the Tudor mansion called Pencarrow.

  It was twilight, and the rays of the sinking sun filtered through the air, turning it blush-gold. Long shadows stretched across the closely scythed lawn. A soft breeze stirred the leaves of the tall horse chestnut by the ancient family chapel, whispering over Tessy’s well-kept grave like a benediction. The honeysuckle vines that decorated the trellised lych-gate leading into the family cemetery trembled in the warm, moist atmosphere.

  A door opened, the slight creak of the hinges punctuating the silence. From behind the walls of the kitchen garden, footfalls sounded on the cobbled walkway. The gate opened and Gabrielle and Zach emerged, arm in arm. Despite her obvious pregnancy, Gabrielle walked with a spring in her step, the flounce of her yellow dress flipping up to show her ruffled petticoat. She would give birth in July. She hoped this one would be a girl, a little sister for Matthew and Adam to spoil and tease and protect. A daughter Zach could claim as his own.

  They took a well-worn path to the creek, the water rushing high against the banks, its sound the watery chuckle of Mother Nature. They sat down in the tall grass beneath the great span of a gnarled oak. Rooks quarreled amongst themselves and hopped about in the leafy branches.

  Bareheaded, Zach’s golden hair stirred gently in the breeze. Gabrielle rested her cheek against his shoulder. His shirt-sleeves were casually rolled an inch above his wrists, showing off the lean brown beauty of his hands. He smelled like the moor, of earth and sunshine. He bent his head, saying softly, “Did Matthew and Adam go to sleep right away?”

  “Yes. They were quite done up, the poor dears. Matthew’s been so happy to be home on holiday, he has not sat still a moment, and Adam follows him around like a puppy.”

  “I was the same way at Matthew’s age. Nine-year-old boys are constitutionally unable to sit still, especially on holiday.”

  “Matthew has adjusted very well to Eton, I think. I was worried.”

  Zach squeezed her arm. “I know.”

  “I’m glad he’ll be going to London with us for Torie’s wedding. Now everyone will be there. Even your entertaining Aunt Saphrona.”

  “I hope she hasn’t brought her pet raccoon to London with her.”

  Gabrielle laughed. “All the way from New Orleans? I should hope not! Torie will be so pleased to have everyone there. I can’t wait to see her in her wedding gown. She’ll be lovely. She’s lovely already, of course. She looks like you.”

  Zach did not reply.

  “Do you wish you were giving her away instead of Alex?” Gabrielle waited patiently. She knew Zach wasn’t angry with her for bringing up the subject; they talked about everything. He was simply thinking about his reply.

  She remembered when Zach first told her that Victoria Wickham, supposedly Alex and Beth’s eldest daughter, was really his daughter. His and Tess’s. When Tessy died during childbirth twenty years ago, everyone believed that the child had died and been buried with her in the coffin that had been nailed shut before the funeral. But it had been a colossal ruse, effectively pulled off to fool everyone except those particularly included in the secret.

  It had been Beth’s idea. She wanted to spare Tessy’s daughter the same social prejudices—and possibly the same fate—her mother had endured because she was bom illegitimate. Thus a complicated, well-executed scheme was concocted to send the child off to Italy with Beth and Alex, where they stayed two years at a secluded villa. A premature child, and petite by nature, Torie was believed by everyone to be nine months younger than she actually was, conceived and bom while Alex and Beth were honeymooning.

  With Zach’s wholehearted cooperation, Alex and Beth raised Torie as their own. Zach wanted the best for her, and if the best did not include acknowledging her as his own child, so be it. He loved her and doted on her, not as “Papa,” but as “Uncle Zach.”

  “No, I don’t wish it. I don’t regret any of it, Gabby. Look how well she’s done for herself. That would never have been possible if I had raised her as my own.”

  “Lee seems a very nice young man, well positioned in society, and well able to give her a good life. But, most importantly, I believe they are suited to each other. He seems to adore her.”

  “Who couldn’t?” said the indulgent father cum uncle.

  “She’s incredibly lovely, as I’ve already said. But best of all, she’s full of life and enthusiasm. Very kind. Needle-witted, too. Your buttons must be bursting, Zachary Wickham.”

  “Well, maybe a little. But I give all credit for Torie’s outstanding qualities to her upbringing. Ale
x and Beth have made her the sweet, lovely, intelligent girl she is today.”

  “Having a bit of you in her doesn’t hurt, either,” persisted Gabrielle, too fond of her husband to allow him to be so completely modest.

  “I got a letter from Blake today,” said Zach, changing the subject.

  “And how are things at the shelter?”

  “Going well. You’ll have to go with me next spring when the baby’s old enough to travel. Rory and Regina would love to have you stay in Perthshire with them while I attend to business in Old Town. Blake mentioned Kate and Douglas. They’ve saved up enough money to lease a farm and get the first crops in this spring. They’ll miss Douglas at the shelter. He’s done a wonderful job working with Charlie. Extra help was needed even before we extended the shelter into the adjacent apartment and took in more women, but now it’s imperative that Douglas be replaced when he leaves. I hope Blake is successful in finding just such another excellent fellow to help out.”

  “But a farm! How splendid for Douglas and Kate! And at the rate they’re going, with six children to do chores about the place, they’ll have plenty of help. Who would have thought Kate would be such a fertile little thing? I hope their land is just as fruitful!”

  Gabrielle hoped Zach didn’t hear that note of wistfulness that had crept, quite unintentionally, into her voice. Though she was terribly happy for the McKeens, and very proud of Douglas for sticking to sobriety all these years—never once lifting a finger to hurt Kate—Gabrielle was envious of Kate’s ability to conceive. Gabrielle had conceived Matthew on her honeymoon with Zach, and Adam came just two years later. But after Adam’s difficult birth, she had developed a few related medical problems and had been unable to get pregnant again till last fall. Because she was afraid that this might be her last chance to give Zach a child, and because he’d had to give up Torie, Gabrielle was praying that this baby would be a girl.

  “Sweeting, I hope you aren’t thinking I’ll be disappointed if this child is another boy.”

  Gabrielle felt a lump form in her throat. Zach always knew exactly what she was thinking. Exactly. “It would be nice if it is,” she said, ducking her head, averting her watery eyes from his loving gaze. When he looked at her like that, it made her want to either laugh or weep. But since she was pregnant, she tended more toward weeping. What a bother!

  “I don’t care what sex the child is. I’m frankly more concerned that you weather this pregnancy in fine fettle. You’re the most important thing in my life, Gabby. You know that, don’t you?” He tilted her chin with the tip of his forefinger, gently forcing her to look at him.

  Looking into those golden eyes, Gabrielle could be convinced of anything. “Yes, I believe you.” Blinking back the bothersome tears, she smiled teasingly. “I’m so glad, too, because you’re a first-rate kisser, you know.”

  Gabrielle parted her lips and waited. She saw how Zach’s gaze drifted to her mouth. She saw how he was debating inside that wonderful head of his.

  “You need your rest, sweeting,” he said hoarsely. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, knocking about in that carriage. Two days of travel are ahead of us, you know.”

  “I shall be sitting still, doing nothing. I’m sure I’ll be just fine.” Her eyes drifted shut. She waited. When he still debated, she opened her eyes and arched a brow. “Zachary Wickham, please believe me, I shall be in much better fettle for the journey tomorrow if we make love tonight! Can’t you see, dearest, that I’m dying to be ravished?”

  Zach smiled. He was convinced. He bent his head and kissed her laughing mouth, the both of them sinking into the soft, sweet-smelling grass of Cornwall.

  Arms of a Stranger

  Danice Allen

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1995 by Danice Allen

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition April 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-274-1

  With warmest affection to my mom-in-law, Simone Allen. Thanks for paying off my first computer. And thanks for being brave enough to come to America forty years ago.

  Bons Baisers

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  September 1841

  “Isn’t this heaven, Uncle Reggie?”

  Anne crossed her arms and leaned on the brass rail of the steamboat, gazing at the passing scenery of the Mississippi state coast as they glided through the calm waters of Mobile Bay. Just around the bend was Biloxi, and by tomorrow morning they’d land at New Orleans. Dusk was tracing the distant island forests in vivid pink, the reflection in the water cooled to a softer golden-mauve. The steamboat’s giant paddlewheel churned a soothing rhythm, filling the air with a fine mist. A cool breeze ruffled through the blond curls that escaped Anne’s bonnet.

  It had been several weeks since she, Uncle Reggie, Aunt Katherine, and a handful of servants had set sail from Dover, England. After leaving the harbor at New York, they’d changed vessels three times. At Charleston, they’d boarded the Belvedere, an ornate three-deck riverboat with huge golden-crowned smokestacks. It was like a luxury hotel on water, with ever-changing scenery to take your breath away.

  “I admit, Anne, ’tis pleasant to look upon from a distance,” Reggie conceded reluctantly. “However, I shudder to think what wild beasts and reptiles may make their nests in that lush greenery.”

  “Don’t be a milquetoast, Reggie,” chided Katherine in her deep, no-nonsense voice. “Every Eden must have its serpent.”

  Anne’s two chaperones stood, like formidable bookends, on either side of her. Though of slightly more than medium height herself, she had to look up to observe their faces. At sixty-two, Reggie was lean, dapper, and dignified. He had iron-gray hair, a large nose, and a drooping walrus-like mustache, and he wore small, round-rimmed spectacles. He was her father’s bachelor brother, and he had lived at Weston Hall in Surrey with her family for as long as Anne could remember. She and her four older sisters loved the old fusspot dearly, as he took a lively interest in all their concerns.

  With her plain bonnet on, Katherine was nearly as tall as Reggie. Of an angular build, except for her imposing bosom, she could best be described as handsome. She had a broad forehead, piercing gray eyes, and straight, resolute features. She stood rigidly linear at all times, usually gripping in her left hand a cherrywood cane that she didn’t need in the least, except for the purpose of none-too-subtle intimidation.

  Katherine was Anne’s mother’s sister, and the family considered her to be quite eccentric. She’d outlived three husbands already—all of them American—the last one the New Orleans banker Samuel Grimms, whom she had met while they were both on safari in Africa. She dressed with elegant, severe simplicity, disdaining feathers and ribbons as
unseemly decoration for a woman on the shady side of fifty.

  Katherine was well-educated, innately intelligent, and extremely opinionated. She and Reggie had been at daggers-drawn since the moment the steamer had set sail from England, and, in truth, since the moment they’d first met. Every few years or so, Katherine traveled from America to visit her relatives in England, and each time she and Reggie were compelled to spend time together, their mutual animosity blossomed.

  “And every Eden must have its tart-tongued Eve, I suppose,” Reggie retorted, “forever tempting one to eat the forbidden fruit.” Reggie gave his mustache an agitated tug.

  Katherine rapped her cane against the polished wood floor of the deck. “Simpleton! Eve was only doing what was necessary! She couldn’t live forever in a state of ignorance with that sniveling, unquestioning Adam! They’d never have populated the earth if they hadn’t finally observed that they were naked as jaybirds and got on with the … the …” She waved her cane in the air. “… conception thing! She was opening Adam’s eyes to the real world, Reginald, much as I’m doing for Anne.”

  “I was raised to believe that women should be protected from the ‘real world’!” Reggie declared with another tug.

  “I know you consider me the Eve of this particular Eden,” Katherine continued, as if Reggie hadn’t said a word, “and that I’m taking Anne—as you so like to say—‘out of the garden and into Babylon.’ But, ye Gods, Reginald, she’s twenty-three years old! Hardly a babe!”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Anne murmured dryly.