Her arms entwined about his neck, Antonia stood with her face pressed against his strong shoulder, awe whispering through her at the joy of holding him.
She knew the truth now. She wanted far, far more than a marriage of convenience. She yearned for a marriage of true love. Deverill’s love. The fierceness of her need frightened her.
“I love you so much, Deverill,” she murmured with a ragged sigh.
At her confession, he shifted his head to kiss her again, smothering her with a hungry, consuming tenderness. When finally he left off, he gave a groan. “God, I would give my right arm to be able to make love to you right here.”
Smiling a bit provocatively, Antonia glanced behind her through the willow branches, where she could see the throng milling about the park. “Not here, Deverill. It would be too scandalous, even for you.”
“Very well. We can be married by special license
tomorrow—and then I intend to take you to bed for a week.” When Antonia looked at him quizzically, Deverill explained. “After your friends visited me today, I spent my time procuring a special license so we wouldn’t have to wait three weeks for the banns to be called. You are wedding me tomorrow, whether you like it or not.”
Her mouth curved with satisfaction at his impatience, yet she shook her head. Regretfully extricating herself from his embrace, Antonia stepped back in order to put a safer distance between them. “I cannot marry you tomorrow, Deverill. At the very least we must wait until Mildred Tottle arrives from Cornwall. She would be terribly hurt if she missed my wedding, she has waited for so long to see me married. And doubtless Emily will want to help plan a ball or a wedding breakfast or some such celebration. And we haven’t discussed a thing about what happens afterward.”
“What do you mean, afterward?”
“I would like to visit Cyrene for our wedding trip.”
“That can be arranged.”
“And we must decide where we would live.”
Deverill frowned slightly. “We can live here in England if you like. Sir Gawain won’t be pleased, but I can carry out my work from here.”
“What if I don’t want to live in England? What if I want to live on Cyrene?”
“I thought you didn’t want to leave your father’s shipping empire.”
“If you find a reliable candidate to take over as director as you promised, the company will be in good hands.”
The change of subjects made Deverill pause. “Which reminds me . . . what the devil did you mean, sending Cochrane to turn over half your company to me?”
“I thought,” Antonia responded calmly, “that you could use my ships to advance your cause. I considered writing to Sir Gawain to ask him how I could arrange it, but then realized it would take too long . . . that you might leave England long before I could receive his answer. So this morning I decided to just give you controlling interest in the company, so you would have all its resources at your disposal and could act as you saw fit. Phineas said it could be done. I couldn’t tell him about the Guardians, of course, but I thought you would be pleased to have control.”
“Then your gift wasn’t a bribe to persuade me to become director?”
Antonia smiled at his suspicious look. “No, Deverill. I only want to help you pursue your cause. I want to be your life’s mate in every way. I only hope I can earn the right.”
“No, sweeting, I’m the one who will have to work to deserve you.”
Drawing her into his embrace again, Deverill brushed his thumb over her lower lip. Antonia was the perfect mate for him. With her by his side, he could still keep his sworn vow to himself. She understood his calling, understood that he had dedicated his life to the Guardians’ cause. And she would never try to change that. Instead, she would only support and abet him.
What was more, she satisfied a burning need in him. Filled the empty ache inside him as only she could. Antonia made him feel complete, as if she were the missing part of him.
She’d burrowed under his skin and found her way unerringly into his heart.
“You are my life’s mate, Antonia,” Deverill said softly. “If I couldn’t have you, my heart might as well stop beating. You wouldn’t leave me to such a terrible fate, would you?”
“Never, my love,” she whispered, raising her smiling lips again for his tender kiss.
Epilogue
The Isle of Cyrene, October 1815
A hushed silence fell over the crowd, the spectators holding their collective breaths as Antonia sighted the straw boss mounted on the immense stone wall of Olwen Castle a hundred yards distant. She had one arrow left to shoot, the last of the contest against her sole remaining opponent, the highly skilled Earl of Hawkhurst.
She was vying to be crowned Cyrene’s archery champion for the year. Currently she had four points less than Hawk, so a gold bull’s-eye would garner her the win.
Deverill held his own breath as he watched Antonia carefully draw the bowstring. He needn’t have worried, however. When she released the arrow, it flew the distance and struck the target dead center, splitting the shaft of Hawk’s arrow down the middle.
Loud cheers and applause greeted the remarkable feat, along with exclamations of amazement and dismay. Many in the crowd were clearly astounded that the Earl of Hawkhurst had pitted his vaunted skill against a woman and lost—and were also disappointed, since despite his intentional remoteness, Hawk was a favorite of the island, long admired for his feats of athleticism and horsemanship.
There was nothing aloof or withdrawn about the earl’s manner just now when he congratulated Antonia with an expansive bow and a light kiss on her cheek.
“I stand defeated,” Hawk conceded, his tone good-natured. “Although it is some small consolation to be bested by such an excellent marksman.”
A becoming flush colored Antonia’s cheeks as she gazed up at the tall, jet-haired earl. Deverill felt an instinctive surge of possessiveness, seeing his beautiful wife lauded by the island’s most eligible nobleman. Yet he knew with utter confidence that he had no reason to be jealous of his friend. Antonia had given him her heart, wholly and completely.
When other well-wishers surrounded her, offering more acclamation and praise, Deverill stood watching her, feeling his own heart beat in his throat. Her glorious auburn hair was pulled back sedately in a sleek chignon, but enticing little tendrils framed her face, while her skin glowed with warm incandescence in the golden afternoon sunlight.
The word glowing described Antonia perfectly—and the warmth inside him, as well. He continued to be amazed at his extraordinary good fortune at finding the one woman in the world meant for him. Antonia was the perfect match for him—his soul mate. She made every breath feel like his first.
And for the first time in his life, he knew true contentment. He’d had exciting adventures and satisfying victories aplenty, but never this soul-deep happiness that he’d found with Antonia.
Just then she looked about her, as if searching for someone. When her gaze found him, she smiled radiantly, and Deverill felt his heart turn over.
Stepping forward, he joined the crowd around Antonia, giving her a congratulatory kiss and clapping his friend Hawk on the back in sympathy. “My condolences, old son. But I warned you not to challenge her.”
“So you did.” Hawk’s grin was rueful. “I bow to your lovely wife’s superior skills, at least until a rematch next year.”
Deverill slid an arm around Antonia’s waist. “A stunning victory, love. Although it might have ended differently if you had competed on horseback. Hawk is a born centaur.”
Antonia regarded the earl with sudden keen interest. “I would very much like to become a better archer on horseback. Perhaps you might be willing to teach me sometime, my lord?”
“I would be honored, Mrs. Deverill,” Hawk said genially.
Deverill groaned, realizing he should never have brought up the subject, but Antonia and Hawk smiled at each other in complete accord.
Lady Isabella approach
ed her then, accompanied by Sir Gawain Olwen. Both embraced Antonia warmly, and Deverill stepped back to allow her to accept further congratulations.
Sir Gawain was hosting this major event of the harvest festival on the grounds of Olwen Castle. The afternoon was dedicated to games and races and contests, but a feast would begin soon, followed by dancing and musical entertainments, with bonfires lit after nightfall. An immense crowd of islanders was in attendance, and so was Deverill’s crew, including Captain Lloyd and the wiry Fletcher Shortall, who was making great inroads in the barrels of ale provided.
Alex Ryder had remained in England to pursue
his own personal affairs, but many of Deverill’s fellow Guardians were here, including Caro and Max Leighton. He joined Caro and Max now as he waited for Antonia to finish, content to allow his wife to bask in her victory.
The past two months had been supremely fulfilling for them both, Deverill reflected. As soon as Miss Tottle arrived from Cornwall, he and Antonia had been married by special license and, shortly afterward, embarked on a wedding tour. Since the risk of war was blessedly entirely over, he’d taken her to visit France and Portugal and Spain, and discovered new wonders and delights through Antonia’s fresh eyes.
After a month at sea, Deverill had brought his new bride home to Cyrene, to live in his manor house on the eastern shore of the island. Next month, they would return to England to testify at Baron Heward’s trial by the House of Lords, but until then, Deverill intended to remain here because Sir Gawain needed him.
He’d sailed twice on missions in the past three weeks, but returned as swiftly as he was able—a first in Deverill’s experience. For him, home had always been the deck of a ship, but after taking Antonia to wife, he’d willingly begun sinking deep roots on dry land.
As for Antonia, she’d been warmly embraced by the islanders, and not merely because Lady Isabella had paved her way. Cyrene had its own diminutive Beau Monde, yet the island’s social arbiters were far less strict than the British ton. It helped that Antonia was an heiress and had moved in the center of London’s fashionable set for years, but it was her own qualities—her charm and wit and beauty—that made her fawned over and universally admired.
Cyrene seemed the perfect place for her, since the islanders were fairly tolerant of ambitious females. Possibly because Caro Leighton had long been their example. Not only was Caro a healer, but for years she’d assisted the island doctor in his medical practice, in addition to being one of the few women Guardians and a skilled swordsman.
When Antonia finally joined them, Caro first complimented her on her skill and then asked her for archery lessons. “For Max insists I must cut back on my fencing practice, now that I am increasing. Honestly,” Caro complained with a soft laugh, “what is it about the prospect of becoming a new father that turns a man into an overbearing dictator?”
Putting a protective arm around Caro’s shoulders, Max smiled blandly. “The terrifying potential that his wife and child could come to harm—that is what, my love. The realization can instantly transform any man into a trembling coward.”
Yet Leighton was certainly no coward, Deverill thought with amusement. The tall, raven-haired former cavalry officer had spent his distinguished military career battling Napoleon’s forces before joining the Guardians last year. But Caro was now expecting their first child, although as yet her stomach showed little trace of roundness beneath her empire-waist gown.
Deverill watched as Max and Caro shared a look of love that was so painfully tender, it reminded him of his feelings for his own wife.
Taking Antonia’s hand, Deverill murmured for her ears alone, “We can partake of the feast now, sweetheart, but be warned, I mean to steal you away before it grows dark. We are newly wedded after all, and our friends will understand if we leave early.”
The revelry would last long into the night, yet Deverill was selfish enough to want Antonia all to himself . . . not just for tonight but for all their nights to come. He suspected he would still feel that way about her when he was old and gray and too decrepit even to make love to her.
The smile Antonia offered him suggested that she wholeheartedly agreed with his plan.
It was nearing sunset by the time they had gorged themselves on the delicious fare, danced countless numbers of sets, and said their farewells. Deverill drove his phaeton himself, preferring privacy for the carriage ride home.
Antonia sat next to him, her head resting contentedly on his shoulder as they wound their way through Cyrene’s fertile valleys ripe with vineyards and olive groves and orchards. When they began the climb into the eastern foothills, they could see the sun slowly sinking toward the blue horizon to their left, setting the sky and sea afire with glorious crimsons and purples and golds.
Antonia gave a dreamy, satisfied sigh. “I do so appreciate how welcome your fellow Guardians have made me feel. I never expected to be a part of something so special.”
Upon their marriage, Deverill had made her privy to the remarkable tale of the order’s inception . . . how the Guardians of the Sword had been formed more than a thousand years before by a handful of Britain’s most legendary warriors—outcasts who had found exile here. And how the order was now run by their descendants and operated mainly across Europe, with the goal of fighting tyranny and injustice.
“I especially admire Caro,” Antonia added. “She is an extraordinary woman.”
Deverill took her hand and dropped a hot kiss on her palm. “You are rather extraordinary yourself, princess.”
She brushed off his compliment with a disbelieving laugh, which made him smile. Antonia had little idea how remarkable she was. How rare. How wonderful. She was as passionate and intense about her life endeavors as he was, and her love was just as fierce.
He was a very lucky man, Deverill knew. And Antonia professed to be just as blissfully happy in their marriage.
Deverill had hired a new director for the company, but she had become much more involved in the intricate workings of her vast empire. There was no reason she shouldn’t now, since here on Cyrene, she wouldn’t be condemned for using her mind or for engaging in masculine pursuits or for increasing her wealth with industrial ventures.
To satisfy her burning desire to learn, Deverill was teaching her all the things her father had never permitted her even to observe, so that she could supervise her director herself if she chose to.
At the very least Antonia intended to review the
account books quarterly. And she was determined to invest her profits wisely in new projects, particularly steam, since Deverill believed that steam was the way of the future.
They had brought her father’s maps from the Map Room to Cyrene. Antonia regularly pored over them, not merely to understand the routes her ships took and to plan her next adventure with Deverill, but as a way of remembering her late father. Additionally, they’d hung her parents’ portraits in a place of honor in the drawing room, to keep their memory alive.
Antonia seemed quite pleased with his home. It was fortunate, Deverill reflected, that he’d built the manor house on the coast, on a bluff overlooking the Mediterranean, since she couldn’t get enough of the sea. She never tired of viewing the scenic splendor of the cove below, with its vivid waters of blue and turquoise and aquamarine. And she was becoming such an excellent swimmer that he’d started to wonder if she might be part mermaid.
The sky was darkening by the time they turned onto the drive that led home. The elegant two-story villa was constructed in the Spanish style—whitewashed exterior with red-tiled roof—wrapped by veranda above and landscaped gardens of bougainvillaea and rhododendrons and geraniums below. Beyond the house and gardens stretched the vast, shimmering Mediterranean, which had shaded now to midnight blue.
When they reached the stables, Deverill relinquished the carriage and pair to his groom and escorted Antonia inside the manor and up to their bedchamber. Through the French doors, a full moon could be seen rising over the ocean, creating a v
ista of serene enchantment.
Of one accord, they began changing their attire. They regularly took nightly walks on the beach, which often ended with them making love under the stars, since Antonia thought there was something magical about the sand and the sea at night, and Deverill thought there was something magical about her.
She donned a simple muslin gown, while Deverill wore only breeches. They both went barefoot. The soles of her feet were becoming tougher, so she could now manage the shingles and occasional rough rocks that strewed the cove.
The moon was bright enough to light their way as they carefully descended the steps cut into the bluffs to the beach. A soft, fresh breeze blew off the water, yet the evening was still warm enough for them to swim.
Antonia went straight to the waves. Immersing herself ankle deep, she stood gazing dreamily out at the sea, all silver and shimmering. Deverill followed, slipping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her head.
“Deverill, I have something to tell you,” she said finally over the rhythmic murmur of the surf.
Tenderly, he touched his lips to her hair, lightly kissing the shining fall of moonlit flame. “What is it, vixen?”
“Would you be disappointed if you soon became a father yourself?”
Deverill went very still, trying to comprehend what Antonia was asking. His hands grasping her shoulders, he spun her to face him. “A father?”
“Last week when you were away . . . I began to feel nauseated in the mornings. I thought I might be becoming ill, but when I told Caro of my symptoms, she suspected the cause and insisted on examining me. She’s certain I am with child.” Pausing, Antonia searched his face. “You aren’t disappointed, are you?”
Deverill felt the surprise on his features alter to awe and wonder. “Of course I’m not disappointed! I couldn’t be more elated!”
He threw back his head and laughed before suddenly lifting Antonia by the waist and whirling her around.
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