A Matter of Principle: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 3 (The Hansen Series: Nicolas & Sydney)

by Kris Tualla

  A soft smile played over Sydney’s countenance. She tugged at the tail of Nicolas’s shirt and he bent over so she could pull it over his head. He unfastened his flies and pushed his breeches to his knees. He rested his hands on Sydney’s shoulders and stepped from the garment. She took his hand and led him to the huge bed. He crawled onto it and collapsed.

  Sydney blew out the candle and climbed into the bed, folding herself around him. Her warmth flowed through him, the caress of her skin soothed him. He could feel her breasts press against his back. He calmed; thoughts of the campaign left him. His awareness shrank to the bedroom, then to the mattress, then to the woman who held him.

  He slept.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  May 21, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Kirstie clung to Sydney’s leg. “Mamma stay here!” she admonished, blue-gray eyes wide above an intent pout.

  This was Sydney’s first chance to ride since they returned from St. Louis. She lifted her daughter with some effort. The sturdy girl was tall for twenty-eight months, and solidly built. Just like her father. “I am going to ride Sessa, Kirstie. I will be back soon.”

  “No! I go with you!” Kirstie wrapped her arms around Sydney’s neck, pressing cheek to cheek.

  “Sweetie, you are too little.”

  “No! I’m big now!” Kirstie tightened her grip. Sydney felt her cheek slide on wetness. “I go with you. Please, Mamma?”

  Sydney hugged her, unable to resist her daughter’s tears. “Don’t cry, my baby girl… I suppose you might sit in front of me on the saddle.”

  Kirstie nodded, her cheek slipping against Sydney’s. “I sit in front.”

  Sessa sensed the child and did not fight Sydney’s guidance. They meandered through the woods, checking on the sheep, splashing through the creek and pulling down leaves from branches that could not be reached otherwise. Kirstie was enchanted; her eyes sparkled with enjoyment. When they returned to the house, Sydney urged Sessa to a slow cantor in the yard. Kirstie squealed her pleasure.

  “She’s not afraid in the least, is she?” Nicolas commented when Sydney rode Sessa into the stable. He was saddling Fyrste.

  “No. And I am afraid my chances to ride alone have just been greatly diminished!” Sydney posited. Nicolas lifted the youngster from the saddle.

  “Pappa! I ride Sessa!” she said, twisting in his arms and pointing at the mare. “We runned!”

  “Did you now?” Nicolas laughed and tickled her tummy. “Are you going to be a horse trainer like your Mamma?”

  “L-like M-mamma!” Kirstie giggled and squirmed.

  “Horse trainer? I’ve hardly had a chance to work with the horses at all since we came home from Norway! ” Sydney groused. “I do miss it so. Perhaps I’ll have time now that the election will be over. Are you prepared to go vote?”

  “I am.” Nicolas set Kirstie down. “Care to come along?”

  “Might I?” Sydney smiled at the suggestion. “I would love to!”

  Nicolas pointed at her with his chin. “Will you change first? Or ride astride in the breeches?”

  “You do realize that I don’t own a sidesaddle,” she pointed out.

  Nicolas gaped at her. “That is true. I never considered it!”

  Sydney dismounted and took Kirstie’s hand. “Shall I change, then?”

  Nicolas shook his head. “At this point, I cannot see how it would matter. I am already laid bare before the county. The fact that my wife wears breeches and rides astride is not going to change anything.”

  Sydney laughed and smiled sweetly at her husband. “I’ll take Kirstie to Sara and then we’ll leave.”

  ***

  “It is a rather strange sensation to see your own name printed on a voting ballot,” Nicolas observed. “And then to indicate yourself as a choice is more than a small bit surreal.”

  “Imagine seeing the name of your best friend, one whom you have seen in the least dignified of circumstances!” Rickard countered. “I felt as though I was in someone else’s dreams!”

  Nicolas and Rickard were part of a small crowd waiting around the school house. There were no classes today in order that the building might serve as a polling station. Sheriff Nathan Busby presided over the event, assuring its legitimacy.

  Nicolas sat on the stoop and conversed with the men who came to vote. Some avoided him—Sydney reckoned they were voting for Beckermann—and some engaged him in conversation. All of them stared at her unfeminine apparel. She offered no explanation.

  As the day wore on, Nicolas took Sydney to Mrs. Ansel’s Boarding House for a late luncheon. Rickard and John McGovern joined them. Conversation remained light, centering mostly on a recapture of the McGovern’s annual May Day Ball, which both the Hansens and the Athertons missed because of Lily’s untimely death.

  Sydney squeezed Nicolas’s hand under the table; that Ball three years ago changed the course of both their lives. It was the night Kirstie was conceived.

  Nate Busby closed the poll just after four o’clock, when the last landowner in Cheltenham cast his ballot. Nathan sealed them in a satchel and locked them in the jail for safekeeping until the next morning. Then he and Ashton Caldecott would take them to St. Louis to be counted.

  Nicolas and Sydney rode home in amicable silence.

  May 27, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Nicolas held an unsigned missive in his hand. Even so, he knew who wrote it.

  I have decided to leave this city. Because you have discovered my identity, I expect others might as well. I shall leave before that happens.

  I am, in actuality, relieved. I shall go where I am not known, to a large city in the east. Perhaps I will be able to write for a publication there, or become involved with a theater company. I have always wanted to act. After all, I spend my life portraying someone other than who I am.

  You may wonder why I am writing to you. If I knew that answer, I would share it. I do not. I only know that in the course of the campaign, I learned what sort of man you are. My previous notions were shattered. You earned my begrudged respect. Have no care; I do not anticipate that respect to be returned, considering the circumstances.

  I do hope you win the election. Your leadership would be a boon to St. Louis County specifically, and the state of Missouri as a whole.

  Your servant, sir.

  Nicolas handed the letter to Sydney.

  She read it silently, and then met his gaze over their supper plates. “Rodger.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. He forked a chunk of lamb into his mouth.

  “I wonder if he voted for you.”

  Nicolas shrugged, chewing. “I would expect so, based on what he wrote,” he said with his mouth full.

  Sydney tilted her head. “How do you feel about that?”

  Nicolas considered her over his goblet of red wine. “I am learning that things in this life seldom play out as I expect. But I doubt one vote could sway the matter.”

  Sydney’s eyes dropped to her plate. “I wonder if he knows where Devin is…”

  Nicolas scowled. “Do you suppose he does?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, her voice low. “It’s of no consequence.”

  May 30, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Nicolas paused and wiped sweat from his brow. The hot day was overcast and humid. A storm would be a relief, but the clouds overhead appeared unwilling to give up their moisture. This had been a mild spring; no twisters disturbed the community thus far. That was a blessing.

  Nicolas considered the stack of wood he had chopped. He loved chopping wood. The repetitive motion gave him a chance to work his body, stretch his muscles and think. His arms burned and his back was sore. Sweat dripped from his face and ran in rivulets down the groove of his back. Shirtless, he was covered in bits of wood. Tiny chips stuck in the hair on his chest and dusted his shoulders. He was content.

  I believe I’ll take a dip in the spring later. I wonder if Sydney would join me, if I asked.

&
nbsp; Memories of intimate moments they had shared in the small pool made him smile. In fact, everything about his life made him smile. His marriage, his children, his estate, his friends; not one thing would he change. Few men could claim that.

  “I am blessed,” he whispered. And he hefted the axe once more.

  A movement caught his eye. Nicolas squinted toward the road to see who, or what, approached. He saw Leif first, running toward the house. Stefan followed, maybe thirty yards behind the older boy and running just as hard. School was not out for several more hours, so the boys’ appearance was unexpected. Nicolas set the axe down and loped toward the manor to discover what event marred the day.

  Sydney burst out the back door. Leif and Stefan followed, panting loudly. Sara came next, holding Kirstie. Addie stepped into the doorway. John pushed past her and descended the steps.

  Anne was in the garden. The commotion and gathering crowd caught her attention, so she picked up her basket and followed along.

  “What is amiss?” Nicolas bellowed. His gut clenched. The very moment when he thought all was well, a crisis arose. Would God never grant him peace?

  Sydney’s face was pale and she appeared stunned. She had a thick folded newspaper in her hand. She held it up. “Sheriff Busby brought this to Leif and Stefan at school!” she shouted. “They thought you should see it as soon as possible!”

  “What is it?” Nicolas crossed the expanse of the yard quickly with his long-legged stride.

  Sydney didn’t answer. She merely handed him the paper and stared at him. Her pupils were so dilated so that her gray-green eyes darkened over her red-splotched cheeks.

  “Read it,” she said.

  Nicolas unfolded the paper. He stared at the words. At first, they made no sense. Then his heart began to pound and blood roared in his ears.

  “Å min Gud!” he gasped. “Jeg tror det ikke! Hvordan har dette skjedd?”

  “English, Nicolas!” Sydney admonished.

  “He said he doesn’t believe it. How did this happen?” Leif translated. He bent over, hands on his thighs and gasping.

  Nicolas turned to his young cousin, then to Stefan. Both boys began to smile at him, in spite of their labored breaths. “You read this?” he demanded.

  They nodded in unison.

  “And you left your lessons? Your teacher allowed this?”

  “We knew you should know, Pappa,” Stefan explained. “I suppose Mister O’Grady did as well.”

  Nicolas read the bold print again. It was not possible, not after what had transpired.

  “Read it out loud, husband,” Sydney urged. “The whole thing.”

  He nodded and drew a deep breath.

  Candidate Nicolas Hansen of Cheltenham has been elected as Missouri State Legislator for St. Louis County. Mr. Hansen defeated Winston Beckermann of St. Louis by a wide margin. Votes were cast on Tuesday, May 21, throughout the county.

  This election followed closely on the heels of Mr. Hansen’s inflammatory speech where he delineated his faults and laid bare his personal shortcomings. It is clear that this particular course of action, while quite unorthodox, was successful.

  Legislator Hansen will begin his term on July 1, 1822 in St. Charles. On that date, all newly elected Legislators from the five Missouri counties will be sworn in by Governor Alexander McNair.

  Mr. Beckermann was not available for comment.

  Nicolas raised his eyes and faced a sea of smiles. He was staggered.

  “I won,” he whispered. Then he slapped his thigh with the newspaper. The crack of the paper echoed off the stone manor.

  “By God, Sydney! I won!”

  Following is an excerpt from:

  Loving the Norseman

  by Kris Tualla

  Chapter One

  Balnakeil Bay, Scotland

  May 13, 1354

  A flash of blinding light wasn’t enough warning before the slap of thunder knocked Grier to her knees. Sea wind tried to hold her down and huge raindrops clouted her. The castle grounds were already soaked as Grier struggled to her feet and stumbled back inside the keep.

  Never mind the chickens. We’ll make do with dried venison for supper.

  Lightning chased through pewter clouds. Thunder bellowed, drowning the crash of waves shattering against the rocky shore. Salt spray and rain beat against the keep’s narrow leaded windows.

  Safely ensconced, Grier flinched, though she knew the thick diamond-shaped glass protected her. Isolated on Scotland’s northernmost coast, little Durness Castle had weathered tempests from this bluff for two centuries. It would weather this gale as well.

  “It’s a bad one,” Logan murmured over her shoulder. His breath fogged the chilled panes, in spite of the healthy fire that bathed the kitchen in orange between the storm’s flashes of blue.

  “Aye.” Grier squinted against the violent light and used her woolen sleeve to wipe the window. “What’s that?” She nudged her younger cousin.

  He canted his head. “Where?”

  “Out there, see? Is that a boat?” Through the undulating shroud of rain, a dark object appeared. Sodden, black, tapered and rough, it rocked crazily in the throes of the storm.

  “I’ve never seen a boat the likes of that one.” Logan squinted. “Can you see the mast pole? Broke right off, it is!”

  Grier and Logan watched the craft as it hurtled toward landfall. No one seemed to be in control of the vessel—or the vessel was already damaged beyond control.

  “She’ll founder for sure.” Logan pressed closer to the glass. “I wonder if anyone’s still aboard.”

  “I’m going down in case there is!” Grier stepped away and glanced around.

  Logan faced her, incredulous. “Have ye lost your mind, woman?”

  “Not my mind, only my cloak.”

  Logan snorted and returned his attention to the window. He wiped the glass. “Oh, Lord.”

  “What?” Grier swooped her wool cloak from behind a bench and leaned against Logan’s broad shoulders.

  The wooden craft was pinned against a rock. As the cousins watched, the next swell snapped the hull in half like a pod of summer peas.

  “Are ye coming?” She dragged open the kitchen door of the keep leaving Logan little say in the matter.

  Grier gasped as shards of salty water stung her face. Pulling her hood lower against the driven rain, she left through the castle gate, crossed the wood-plank bridge over the dry moat, and stumbled down the embankment until she reached the saturated sand. The sated sea was already discarding shattered timbers.

  Before Logan reached her she saw the first body.

  “There!” she shouted, pointing at a tumbling splash of fabric. Roistering wind and water stole her voice; Logan couldn’t hear her. She waved and gestured, then threw off her cloak and waded barefoot into the wrestling waves. Logan pushed past her and grabbed the body. Together, they dragged the limp sailor from the thrashing sea. The man’s blond head flopped oddly onto his shoulder.

  Too late. His neck’s broken.

  Logan helped her haul him beyond the grasp of the waves and lay him on the sand. Grier made the sign of the cross and felt through her soaked woolen gown for the crucifix she wore. She squinted as rain ran into her eyes.

  “Grier!”

  The urgency in Logan’s voice bade her to turn. Another figure was washing closer. She ran into the sea, up to her waist, her teeth chattering in the frigid brine. She fought the aggressive advance of water and the suction of its retreat, as she and Logan struggled to reach the second body.

  The sea was jealous of its prize and pushed her down. Grier thrashed to regain her footing. She gagged on salt water. She rose defiantly, sand sucking at her ankles, and swooped her heavy, wet hair away from her face with the crook of her arm. She gulped air and rain, and curled her toes to gain hold in the shifting underwater ground.

  The body bumped hard against her.

  Grier twisted and her fingers clenched, but his shirt tore from her grip. On the next surge,
she dug her nails past shirt into flesh. Logan appeared beside her and they dragged the second man out of the waves. Logan laid him by his shipmate.

  “Is he—” Before Logan could finish, the man shuddered. Grier pushed him onto his side and he vomited seawater onto the wet sand.

  “Might you get him inside?” Grier asked, retrieving her cloak with numbed hands. Wind snapped her tangled curls, stinging her eyes and cheeks.

  “Aye. I’ll manage.” Logan squatted and pulled the limp form onto his broad back. The stranger was substantially longer than Logan’s nearly six-foot frame but much leaner. Grier saw the angles of his shoulder blades through the tattered skin of his shirt.

  “Are there others, do you think?” Grier asked. Her gaze skimmed the churning waves. She shivered and clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering.

  “I don’t see anyone, but I’ll come back and look.” Logan grunted as he shifted the dead weight on his shoulders. He swiped dripping brown hair from his eyes. “For now let’s see to this one, and he’s alive yet.”

  Grier ran ahead and clambered up the rise toward the stone keep. Leaving the kitchen door ajar for Logan, she dragged an unused cot into that room, set it by the fire, and went in search of blankets. When she returned, Logan was inside with the sailor.

  “Put him on the cot.” Grier shrugged off her wrap and hung it by the blazing hearth. Steam rose from it, filling the space with the dank smell of wet wool.

  Logan lowered the man onto the pallet that proved shorter than he by several inches. The sailor moaned, but didn’t regain his senses. A gash on his cheek bled freely.

  “Undress him. I must see what else needs tending.” Grier reached for a linen towel. “Cover his lisk with this.”