by Mary Balogh
Freyja did not make the mistake of clinging too long and so becoming paralyzed. He had been trying to decide what to do if she did. He climbed after her over the lip of the very hollow where they had sat a few days ago and lay facedown on the grass, panting, beside her.
She was the first—after perhaps five minutes—to start laughing.
He joined her.
They lay side by side, clinging to the world as if they expected the force of gravity to expend itself at any moment, and shook and snorted with laughter.
“I believe I won,” she said—a pronouncement of enormous wit that sent them off into renewed convulsions.
“I suppose,” he said, “you are afraid of heights?”
“Always have been,” she admitted.
They laughed so hard they wheezed for breath.
He turned onto his side to look at her, and she turned onto hers to look at him.
“You are not finding the night cold, are you?” he asked.
“Cold?” She raised her eyebrows. “Cold?”
They met in the middle of the space between them and were soon having tolerable success at trying to occupy the exact same space. Their arms were about each other, their mouths wide on each other's, kissing with the urgency of two madcaps who knew very well that they had just challenged death itself and won.
They came together soon afterward in a tangle of clothes and arms and legs, heat and wetness and enticing urgency at their shared core. They made love with vigor and passion and joy.
“My sweetest heart,” he murmured, and other inanities of a like kind, whenever his mouth was free for speech.
“My love. Oh, my dearest love,” she murmured back to him.
They exploded into completion together—perhaps all of three minutes after they had begun. As if now, their climb over, they were running a race. Which, appropriately enough, they finished in a dead heat.
They were panting again then, and she was laughing again into his shoulder as he wrapped one arm about her from beneath and both their cloaks about them from above.
“What was this?” he asked, his mouth against her ear. “Has my hearing turned suddenly defective? My love? My dearest love? Passion and lust run wild, sweetheart?”
Her laughter subsided, but she said nothing.
“Speechless?” he suggested.
“Don't spoil it, Josh,” she said.
“What will spoil things for me,” he said, “is to see you leave here in a few days' time, Free, and to smile cheerfully as if I were happy to see you go off to plan our wedding. And then to wait for your letter officially ending our betrothal. And then to waltz with you next spring, having lived all winter for just that one half hour. And then to spend the rest of my life without you.”
He heard her drawing a slow, deep breath.
“There is no need—” she began.
“Dammit!” He cut her off before she could launch into the expected speech. “Let there be some truth between us at least, Freyja. I have had enough of lies and evasions and secrets to last me a lifetime. If all this has been nothing but a lark to you, then so be it. Say so honestly and I will let you go without another word—unless, that is, you have been got with child. But if you are letting me go because you think you ought to honor the temporary clause in our bargain and because you think I am being annoyingly noble in my offer to make our betrothal real, then stuff it, sweetheart. Just stuff it! Give me honesty now. Do you love me?”
Her voice sounded reassuringly normal—it was cold and haughty.
“Well, of course I love you,” she said.
“Of course.” He was back to laughter then. He held her tightly and could not seem to stop laughing for a while. “Are we going to allow a little bargain to ruin the rest of our lives, then?”
“Whenever we would quarrel,” she said, “and we would quarrel, Josh, each of us would wonder if the other had felt coerced into marrying.”
“What poppycock!” he said. “Do you not trust me to say the truth to you, Freyja? I say that I love you, that I adore you, that I can imagine no greater happiness than to spend the rest of my life loving you and laughing and quarreling and even fighting with you. I trust you to say what is true to me. You have said that you love me—that of course you love me. Does that include the wish to marry me, to live here with me all your life, to have babies with me and fun with me? To share the sorrows of life with me? And all its joys?”
“Of course it includes that wish,” she said. “But, Josh, I am terrified.”
“Why?” he asked. Her face was pressed hard against his shoulder.
“I have never done too well with love and betrothals and marriage prospects,” she said. “If I give in to happiness now, it may all evaporate before my very eyes.”
“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” he said. “What happened the other day when you were afraid of the sea?”
“I was not—”
“What happened?”
There was a short silence.
“I persuaded you to take me over to the island,” she said.
“And?”
“And I insisted on rowing part of the way back.”
“Even though you had to switch places in the boat with me,” he said. “What did you do tonight when you were terrified of the height of the cliffs?”
“Climbed them,” she said.
“And now,” he said, “you are terrified to love me. What are you going to do about it?”
She drew her head back from his shoulder and glared at him.
“Love you anyway,” she said. “Don't ask the next question, Josh, if you admire the shape of your nose. You remind me of everything I hated about all my governesses, asking their questions, and trying to extract the correct answers out of me by slow degrees and with infinite patience. You are going to ask me what I plan to do about my terror of a real betrothal with you and a real marriage with you.”
He gazed back into her eyes and said nothing.
“We are betrothed,” she said firmly. “There—that is what I am going to do. We are really betrothed. But if you should die before our marriage, Josh, I shall pursue you through all of heaven and hell after my own death and throttle you. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” he said meekly, and grinned at her. “I want to hear myself say this, Free. And I want to hear your answer.”
He sat up, checked his distance from the edge, and ar-ranged himself in a picturesque kneeling posture. He took one of her hands in his and smiled his most charming smile at her.
“Lady Freyja Bedwyn,” he said, “will you do me the great honor of accepting my hand in marriage? On the understanding that it is to be purely a love match on both sides?”
“You look remarkably silly,” she said.
“I know, sweetheart,” he said, making a kissing gesture with his lips. “But I want you to be able to boast about this to our grandchildren one day—that their grandpapa went down on bended knee and begged you to marry him.”
“They will never believe it,” she said, “when they look at the old lady I will have grown into and then look at the handsome old gentleman you will have become.” She sat up and sighed. “But I will remember this moment all my life, and I daresay it will bring tears to my eyes when I know no one is looking. Yes, I will, my love. I will marry you—but only on the understanding that it is to be a mutual love match.”
She sat and he knelt, and they grinned at each other like a couple of self-satisfied fools while her hair blew wild about her face and he was very aware of the long, almost sheer drop less than a yard behind his heels.
“I keep expecting to feel the weight of the shackle close about my leg,” he said, “but it is simply not happening. I am a betrothed man and have never felt so free. Free with Free! Shall we go back to the house and wake everyone up with the news?”
“It would not be news to them, though, would it?” she said.
“Lord, no,” he said, grinning at her. “We have to celebrate somehow, though sweethea
rt. Any suggestions?”
“Oh, Josh,” she said, opening her arms, “do stop talking nonsense and come here.”
“Brilliant idea,” he said.
Joshua had gone out on business by the time Freyja asked for him the next morning. She was bubbling with unaccustomed excitement, but though she was surrounded by family and friends, there was no one to confide in. What would she say?
I am in love?
I am betrothed?
I am going to be married?
To Joshua?
Apart from the fact that they would look at her as if she had finally taken leave of her senses, it was all very lowering. She was not a person given to an exuberant outpouring of sentimental drivel.
She went for a walk instead—all the way to the village. This was something she needed to do anyway—and it had to be done alone. No one must know about it. Even the thought that someone might find out gave her the shivers.
“Good morning,” she said when Anne Jewell opened the door of her cottage to her knock. “No!” She held up a staying hand when the woman gestured as if to ask her to step inside. “I'll not come in or disturb you longer than I need.”
“But—” Anne Jewell began.
“No, thank you.” Freyja kept her hand raised. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I do not believe you are entirely happy living here in this village, are you?”
The woman's welcoming smile faded somewhat.
“Everyone has been most kind,” she said, “especially Joshua—Lord Hallmere. But you must not fear. I will not continue to accept his support. I am in hope of acquiring some new pupils soon.”
Freyja clucked her tongue. “Do you think I care about a little support payment?” she asked. “I have looked at you and seen an intelligent woman who has never complained about her lot even though it was brought on by noble self-sacrifice and injustice—and a woman whose pride has not been broken. Is it your wish to teach?”
Miss Jewell looked wary.
“It was always my wish,” she said. “My family was never wealthy, though I was fortunate enough to be educated. I always wanted to teach.”
“There is a position for you if you wish for it,” Freyja said, “at a girls' school in Bath. It is a quite respectable establishment and pays a salary that will support both you and your son in some comfort. You will be allowed to take him with you, by the way. My solicitor reported to me a week or so ago that there is need of another teacher—of geography, I believe.”
Anne Jewell stared at her.
“I have some influence at the school,” Freyja explained.
Anne Jewell licked her lips. “I would like it of all things,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do they know that David was born out of wedlock?”
“Yes,” Freyja said. “It will not be held against you provided you give good service as a teacher.”
“I will.” She set one hand flat against her throat and closed her eyes tightly. “Oh, dear God, I will. At a school! In Bath! How will I ever be able to thank you, Lady Freyja?”
“In just this way,” Freyja said firmly. “It is the solicitor, Mr. Hatchard, who has found this position for you and checked your references. You know of no one else, only him. He is the one who answered your letter of inquiry and then wrote to offer you the position. My name is never to be mentioned to anyone, do you understand me? Especially not within the walls of Miss Martin's school. And least of all to Miss Martin herself.”
Miss Jewell was regarding her with wide eyes.
“Of course,” she said. “Yes, of course.”
“Mr. Hatchard will write to you within the next week or two, then, with a formal offer and details and coach tickets for you and your son,” Freyja said. “Good day to you, Miss Jewell.”
It was at that moment that the half-closed house door opened and the child stepped out—with Joshua right behind him.
“I am ready, Mama,” the child cried excitedly. “Look! Clean hands.” He displayed them for her inspection, first the palms and then the backs.
Freyja was wishing fervently that she possessed the ability to make herself invisible. Dash it all, had Josh heard anything? But he looked at her in cheerful surprise.
“Ah, Freyja,” he said, “are you here too? I came to fetch David. I thought to arrange an excursion for the children today.”
“I came to bid Miss Jewell farewell,” Freyja explained, “since I will be going back to Lindsey Hall soon. To start planning the wedding.” Ignominiously she felt herself blush—and then glared at him with flared nostrils when he half depressed one eyelid.
Memories of the night before rushed upon her.
They walked back to the house together, David riding proudly and happily upon the horse as Joshua led it.
“If I had known you were going to see Anne,” Joshua said, “I would have waited for you, Free. We could have ridden together.”
“Yes, well,” she said carelessly, “it was just one of a dozen such errands I must run before I leave.”
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “you are a fraud.”
She turned her head sharply to look into his laughing eyes.
“But you need not fear,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Secret?” She frowned.
“What connection is Miss Martin to you?” he asked.
“Josh,” she said coldly, “I could kill you for being at that house this morning. I suppose you had your ear pressed to the keyhole.”
“No need, sweetheart,” he said. “You are the one who refused to step inside and forced Anne to stand out there with the door half open. If you had come inside, you would have seen me. I was making no attempt to hide.”
“She was my governess,” she said crossly. “I mistreated her, she was dismissed for being unable to control me, and then she had the effrontery to refuse to allow Wulf to find her other employment. The silly woman opened a school in Bath and was like to starve when I heard about it. What was I to do?” She glared at him.
He grinned at her and winked. The little boy laughed as the horse snorted and tossed its head.
“I suppose,” he said, “you have been the patron of the school ever since. The anonymous patron.”
“Miss Martin hates me,” she said. “If she knew, she would refuse all help and starve and I would have to live with my guilt. It would be grossly unfair.”
He chuckled again, infuriating her. David was calling out to some villagers and waving importantly to them.
“And I suppose every now and then,” he continued, “you see someone who could be helped by that school—a prospective teacher, for example, or a deserving pupil who cannot afford the school fees—and give in to a terrible urge—a shameful urge—to be kind and charitable.”
“Josh,” she said severely, “if you do not wipe that laughter from your face before I count to three, I shall wipe it off for you. One.”
“You are nothing but a softie,” he said, grinning.
“Two.”
“I love you, sweetheart,” he said, the laughter suddenly gone. “Body, mind, and soul.”
She looked at him in exasperation.
“And kind, soft heart,” he added.
She chuckled.
“I suppose,” she said, “you will hold it against me for the rest of my life.”
“To the very last minute,” he said, taking her hand in his free one and lacing his fingers with hers.
She laughed out loud.
“I do hate you,” she said.
She turned her head to look at him, all blond and handsome and loose-limbed and smiling and gorgeous. Her man. Her love.
“Oh, Josh,” she said, “I do love you. And you may hold that against me for the rest of my life too.”
“I intend to, sweetheart,” he said, grinning at her.
CHAPTER XXIV
“I believe I may well cry,” Morgan announced.
“You had better not do it in public, then,” Freyja said. “It would reflect badly on all
of us Bedwyns, and people might think us soft. They might imagine that we have hearts.”
Alice actually was crying, though she sniffed back her tears as she placed her mistress's white, fur-trimmed bonnet carefully over her elaborate coiffure and tied the wide white ribbons in a large bow to one side of her chin.
“White fur on white velvet,” Judith said. “With a muff! I am beginning to think that perhaps I should have married in the winter rather than the summer.”
But she was smiling and not really serious. And she was, of course, looking quite gorgeous herself in a dark sage green gown and pelisse that complemented her bright red hair. The skirt of her dress flowed loose from its fashionable high waist to accommodate the slight swelling of her abdomen.
Morgan was wearing a dress of deep rose pink velvet and looked more beautiful than any woman had a right to do.
“Well, I am certainly going to shed a few tears,” Eve said, “and in public too. People may say what they wish about the Bedwyn wives.” She was looking delicately pretty in pale blue.
Alice finally finished her ministrations and stood back with a hiccup of a sob. Freyja stood up and turned to look at herself in the pier glass across one corner of her dressing room.
Oh, gracious goodness, she thought, is that me?
Dressed from head to toe in white velvet and fur, she looked almost beautiful. She had scoffed at first when white had been suggested as a color for her wedding dress. Lady Freyja Bedwyn was not a white-wearing person. She would have preferred some bright color.
“You see?” Aunt Rochester said now in her usual strident, no-nonsense voice—their dragon aunt whose veins and arteries ran with pure Bedwyn blood. “Was I not right to insist upon white, Freyja?”
She had not insisted exactly. Bedwyns did not insist upon anything with other Bedwyns, who all had iron wills and stubborn ones to boot. But she had pressed her opinion rather forcefully, and she was widely known for her impeccable taste in fashion. Freyja had desperately wanted to look as lovely as it was possible for her to look on her own wedding day.
