“Roofs, that is,” her husband said hoarsely. His eyes were hot with passion.
But they also held a vast, uncharted universe of love. For a woman he’d never thought to find.
“Y-you scoundrel. You snake. You — you—”
“Besotted fool? Lovesick oaf?”
“Are you?” It was but a breath of sound. “Truly, Luc? I thought I was the only one.”
“I’m far beyond rescue or salvation, my love.”
Another button slid free. Silver shivered as Luc’s hands moved deeper, cupping all of her.
“You have freckles, did you know?”
“How very unhandsome of you to point it out!”
“Nonsense, my love. They are most enchanting. Seventy-four at last count, if I don’t include that little half-circle on your nose. Which would be a pity, since it’s quite enchanting. And then there is the carrot-colored smudge on your upper lip.”
Lord, Luc got hard just thinking about it.
But he meant to protect every one of them.
“I expect it’s the sun. Oh, Luc, it is so lovely here.”
Silver sighed, her back curved against his chest. She watched a gondola drift along the canal. “Don’t forget, we have an appointment to see a man about some lavender seedlings tomorrow.”
Luc muttered beneath his breath.
“What, my love? I don’t think I heard that.”
He hadn’t meant her to. “I said, I hope it won’t cause us as much trouble as the last lavender shipment did.”
“Nonsense. What are a few mice?”
“A few! Two hundred at least. Cromwell nearly had apoplexy when they jumped out of the cases and the ferrets were up that oak tree for a week.”
Silver laughed softly. “I shall be much more strict tomorrow. Between us we shall inspect every inch of the farm and be certain there are no mice about.”
Luc snorted.
“Besides, you can’t be angry at the mice. It was because of them that I finally understood my father’s message about where to look for the gold. If the mice hadn’t come and sent Cromwell racing through those bushes, I never would have realized the pattern he left for me in the lavender.”
“It was quite ingenious, I grant you. And all centered around the twelfth shrub in the fifth row, just like the numbers in your birthday.”
Silver turned and nuzzled Luc’s neck. “In the diary he told me to remember my birthday, but I didn’t understand — not until I saw the circle of dying lavender. He must have purposely laid in a dozen sick plants, knowing they would turn brown in a year or so. I never noticed the pattern until I watched Cromwell that day with the mice. And to think, it was all right there: the gold, the oilskin bag with his journals. Even the Millefleurs formula. It was almost — oh, I know this sounds strange but…”
“What, love?”
“Almost as if I could hear his voice urging me on and feel his hand brush my shoulder.”
Somewhere over the water church bells chimed. Silver shivered. Turning, she slid closer to Luc.
He winced.
“Is your back bothering you?”
“It’s nothing. My parents have invited us to stop by this afternoon, by the way.”
Silver’s eyes shimmered.
“Shall we … be late?” Luc whispered.
“We shouldn’t. It would be most improper.” But her hands slid slowly to his waist. “They’ll think me a shameless hoyden for keeping you away.”
“They’ll think only that you’ve made their son very, very happy, Sunbeam.”
“But your back, Luc.”
“Has nothing that won’t feel a great deal better for having you touch it, my love.”
Tenderly Silver kissed the scar above his lips. “Touching is something I’m very good at, highwayman. Shall I … touch you now?”
Luc groaned as she pushed aside his shirt. Holding her close, he slid down against the warm, rich earth, breathing in the smell of pine needles and rosemary while a swallow darted through the sky overhead. “Touch me, Sunbeam. Never stop touching me…”
“So I shall, highwayman.”
She came to him then, all silk and scent and heated skin. Luc made her laugh and gasp and sigh.
And as he did, he knew that his heart was healed at last.
With Silver’s arms around him, he was truly home.
~ ~ ~
The sun melted down like a Tintoretto landscape, setting the Canal of San Marco aflame in a fury of red and peach. Gold touched the rooftops of the Doge’s Palace; gold brushed the Piazza San Marco and the spires of St. Mark’s Cathedral. The rest of the world seemed very far away as the light ebbed to silver and azure, then finally to luminous indigo above the softly laughing lovers.
And as night stole close and covered Venice, the moon was full.
The wind was high.
All in all, it was a perfect night for love.
The Dangerous Delameres’ adventures continue in the sequel, Come the Dawn, available now. Find it and other of Christina’s books at:
http://www.amazon.com/Christina-Skye/e/B000AQ764M
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Author’s Note
What pure, unadulterated fun it has been to introduce Luc and Silver to you!
As you know by now, a Delamere never does anything by half. Probably that’s why they’re so much fun to write about. And if you are looking for further exploits of this delightful and eccentric family, I hope you will read India’s poignant story in Come the Dawn next.
Hints?
All I’ll say is watch out for the prophetic “Delamere Dream.”
Now for a glimpse of the history that came into play in the writing of this book. What better place to begin than with highwaymen, those dashing figures of English legends, songs and folk fiction? Although there are few reliable references before the seventeenth century, we know that by Elizabethan times highwaymen were held in fairly high regard, amateurs and professionals alike. Hidden beneath mask and black cape, they thundered over heath and hill echoing their cry of “stand and deliver!” Soon chapbooks and penny dreadfuls resounded with epic tales of their gallantry and bravado. Whether fact supports these legends is a very different matter.
Shakespeare found it so. Highwaymen received favorable treatment in several of his plays, and he even went so far as to propose the character of “the honest thief.” After the English Civil War, Royalist supporters found their cause lost. With a steep price on their heads, they took to the high road as a last recourse, and they brought a higher code of honor and conduct to the trade.
Few men could have possessed the courtesy of the famous Captain Hind, the gallantry of Claude Duval, or the reckless bravado of Dick Turpin. But their legend continued…
It was a dangerous life, to be sure. For the crime of highway robbery there was but one sentence: hanging at the Triple Tree at Tyburn. These executions became a highlight of metropolitan life and were invariably a macabre social event, thronged with crowds of rich and poor alike. Their popularity continued right up until the last English public execution took place in 1868.
But the age of the highwayman had begun to wane long before this. The first major obstacle came with the founding of a well-armed patrol in the form of London’s Bow Street Runners, who were constables attached to the Bow Street magistracy, which sat in Covent Garden. Clever, daring veterans of the fight against crime, these handpicked men were viewed with alarm by the felons of the metropolitan underworld.
And they came none too soon.
By 1750 crime in London had reached outrageous proportions. Highwaymen rode the streets in broad daylight. Robbers forced their way into homes and emptied their contents unresisted. That b
rilliant commentator of the age, Horace Walpole, remarked that it was safer to go to the aid of Gibraltar than it was to roam the London streets.
Why were there no police to halt this growing onslaught of crime? Largely because the English opposed the establishment of a full-time, professional police force, fearing it would restrict civil liberties, as it had done in France when officers came under the sway of political agendas.
But the tide of crime began to change in 1753. In that year the novelist Henry Fielding became police magistrate at Bow Street and established his Flying Squad. When Henry died in 1754, his position was assumed by his blind half-brother, John, who greatly expanded the scope of the force, established the practice of keeping detailed police records, set up regular patrols, and created a group of select investigating officers known as Runners.
In short, Bow Street became the Scotland Yard of its time.
Sir Robert Peel’s establishment of a full-time municipal police force in 1822 dealt the final blow. The last recorded sighting of a highwayman at work took place in 1831.
Nevertheless, their legend lives on. We must have our heroes, after all, no matter how illogical the choice.
And now to a very different and much less admired population of criminals. The pirates of Africa’s Barbary Coast plagued travelers as early as the sixteenth century. In brutal raids these lawless sailors ravaged the Mediterranean and all its coasts, working from bases in the port city-states of Morocco, Tunis, Algiers, and Tripoli. Ransom of slaves soon became the cornerstone of their national economy and it is estimated that between 1520 and 1660 some 500,000 to 600,000 slaves were sold in the markets of Algiers alone. The captives came from all over Europe: France, Scandinavia, Russia, Germany, Portugal, Spain, and the British Isles. They represented every class and profession of society, but only the wealthy or exalted could hope for ransom. The rest remained slaves for the rest of their days.
As soon as a ship was boarded, the corsairs immediately set about making a detailed record of crew, passengers, and cargo. Next came the process of assessing each passenger’s status, determined by speech, demeanor, dress — and the presence of calluses or the lack of them. There was a significant reason for this close scrutiny, of course.
Higher status meant higher ransom.
In Algiers, the Dey had legal right to twelve percent of all revenues from the ransom of captives. Luckless travelers who could not meet their ransom were auctioned as slaves. The long negotiations for their terms of release were carried out through resident European consuls, merchant intermediaries, or orders of monks who specialized in the exchange of Christian slaves. The negotiations could stretch on for years as each side jockeyed for favorable terms. During this time captives were closely guarded and usually held in irons.
Escape was dangerous, if not impossible. Even if a prisoner made his way to the harbor and swam to an anchored European ship, his own countrymen often refused to intervene, since this would bring serious reprisals for all shipping in the area.
A failed escape meant beatings, mutilation, or even execution as a deterrent to other captives with similar hopes. Cervantes, once a slave himself before being ransomed, wrote of the misery of that life, which he called “hell in the living world.” It is easy to imagine that an aristocratic captive such as Luc Delamere would have found it nearly impossible to adjust to his old style of life after escaping the horrors of captivity. For a detailed look at the Barbary system and Algiers in particular, see John B. Wolfe’s comprehensive and readable book, The Barbary Coast (New York: W.W. Norton, 1979).
The twisted economic and political loyalties of the age were made even more complicated by England’s fight against Napoleon. Supplies forwarded from Algiers were essential to the strength of Wellington’s forces in Spain, and the English were especially eager to marshal all possible allies in their fight. In 1796, in an effort to curry favor, the Royal Navy presented the Dey of Algiers with a French ship which had recently been captured. Subsequently all of the French crew were given over into captivity.
Yet when Tripoli made demands for tribute from the fledgling American nation, Thomas Jefferson thundered his famous “millions for defense, not one cent for tribute.” (It should be pointed out that the U.S. did continue to pay tribute to Tunis and Algiers, however.) In 1815 Stephen Decatur met and defeated the Algerian navy. As a result, American shipping was thereafter given free passage by the Algerian corsairs without payment of tribute — something which provoked the English to fury.
But the reign of piracy continued. In 1829 a number of French sailors were massacred and their heads publicly displayed. The Dey of Algiers offered a reward of a hundred dollars per severed head. Furious, the French sent an expedition overland to march upon the city, which soon surrendered.
The result? In three weeks the French achieved what other powers had failed to accomplish in three hundred years. The Dey and his entourage were exiled, the government toppled, and a French governor appointed. Algiers became a de facto French possession and the age of the corsairs was ended.
But now to more pleasant subjects.
Like lavender.
The very name drifts through our memory, synonymous with freshness and a crisp, almost aristocratic sweetness. A fitting scent for a heroine as vibrant and decisive as Silver St. Clair.
The Greeks had already written about the use of lavender as a medicine by the first century AD, and Roman soldiers were entitled to a ration of lavender every day while on march.
Lavender was a key ingredient in the original “Cologne water,” distilled in the eighteenth century by an Italian living in Cologne. Napoleon himself used hundreds of bottles of this scent every year, taking it with him on every campaign. Lavender water was very popular for its tonic and restorative properties, as well as for its ability to deter insects. Lavender was also used in ammoniated salts to restore ladies from the frequent fainting fits brought about by tightly laced corsets. (Ah, the rigors of high fashion.)
As the craze for lavender grew, this valuable perfume oil was called into service for a whole range of products, from shampoo to brilliantine, perfume, talc, soap, and bath salts. The best variety of perfume-quality oil came from true lavender species such as L. augustifolia, rather than wild lavender, which contains a large proportion of camphor.
Modern chemistry has shown that folk claims for the benefits of lavender may not be far wrong. Upon analysis many traditional perfume oils have been shown to be strongly germicidal and antibacterial. Oil of thyme, for example, has twelve times the germicidal potency of carbolic acid, while lavender has almost five. Other oils are curative of everything from fungus to dermatitis and food poisoning.
No wonder the Romans tossed bunches of lavender into their communal baths.
Dry weather, light, well-drained soil, and careful farming practices have always been key to the success of the lavender harvest. Large tracts of shrubs were particularly susceptible to disease, which devastated most of the English lavender crop at Mitcham in the mid-nineteenth century. The malady was at first credited to “poisonous influences of the flower’s excessive aroma,” but botanists proved later that the problem was a parasitic fungus, spread by the use of infected cuttings or by scraping diseased roots and transmitting the fungus to nearby plants.
A first cutting required seven years to reach full growth. After the mature blooms were harvested, they were steam distilled and their oil, like fine wine, was stored in a cool and dark location to mature, usually for one year.
Today the English lavender tradition continues at Norfolk Lavender Limited, a hundred-acre family enterprise founded in 1932 on a site near Heacham in northwest Norfolk. Only local flowers and highest grade perfume oil are selected for Norfolk Lavender’s use. For more information about their distinctive and wonderfully traditional fragrance products, visit their website: www.norfolk-lavender.co.uk.
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for contests, recipes and research curiosities. You can also stay up to date with new characters and upcoming books. I will be including a recipe for lavender/rose potpourri as well as a list of the ingredients to make your own version of Silver’s Millefleurs fragrance!
Your comments are valuable to me and I would love to hear your thoughts about this incorrigible family of Delameres.
Meanwhile, I wish you lavender mornings and jasmine nights.
Happy reading!
Christina Skye
About the Author
Christina Skye is the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-three books. She is a pushover for Harris tweed, Scottish cashmere, Chinese dumplings, French macarons and dark chocolate.
Not necessarily in that order.
A classically trained China scholar with over two million books in print, she has appeared on national television programs including ABC Worldwide News, Travel News Network, the Arthur Frommer show, Geraldo, Voice of America, Looking East, and Good Morning, Arizona.
Christina loves being a writer and savors quirky historical research. Most of her first drafts are written by hand, while her white Siamese helps with the “editing.” While she writes, she usually has her knitting right beside her. But don’t expect speed. “The sheer pleasure of colors and texture running through my fingers helps me concentrate on the mystery of my characters taking shape before my eyes. Researching a period draws me into a sense of place, and then knitting pulls me to a quiet place where a story can unfold at its deepest level. It’s my best writing tool.”
Visit her online at christinaskye.com for a glimpse into new books, strange research tidbits, great recipes and some of her all-time favorite knitting patterns.
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Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1) Page 37
