Ever My Love: The Lore of the Lucius Ring (The Legend of the Theodosia Sword Book 2)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “We cannot control one. But we can control the other.”

  His grin broadened. “So you do admit you are attracted to me, even against your will?”

  “I admit nothing. We are friends and nothing more, damn it all.”

  His eyes went wide, though clearly his outrage was feigned. “Such language. What would your father say?”

  “Will you stop obsessing on what my father would say? He is miles away in London.”

  “Go on. Admit you feel something for me.”

  She stood with an inelegant scrape of her chair and marched to the window to stare down at the stable yard, which was speckled with puddles from the overnight rain.

  “Britannia.” His voice, from behind her, was far too alluring. Far too close.

  “Charles. I cannot.”

  “Cannot admit it?”

  She whirled around. He was, indeed, far too close. She set her palm on his chest to hold him off. “Please. I am an honorable woman.”

  He took her hand in his and stepped closer. “I know you are.”

  “I am trying to be faithful to Peter.”

  “I know.” He kissed her brow, the tip of her nose. Her lips. “Just tell me. Just say the words. That will be enough.”

  She could not hold back a pained laugh. “Really? You are easily pleased.”

  “On the contrary. It will be enough…for now.”

  She studied his expression, but could not interpret the hidden levels of it. “Charles, I am marrying Peter. I am promised to him.”

  “I know that. I honor your dedication to him. But we both know there is a chance this man is not Peter. What will you do then?”

  “Keep looking?”

  “Forever?”

  She had to turn away.

  “Will you deny yourself love forever? Any chance at happiness? Children? For a man who may have died?”

  “This is a pointless conversation.”

  He grasped her shoulders, turned her to face him. “Is it? Is it really?”

  “It is…until I meet John St. Andrews.”

  He stilled. His gaze intensified. “And once you do? Once you meet this man, if he is not Peter…what then?”

  She swallowed heavily. What then? Would she continue to hope and search for her betrothed? Or could she finally allow herself to release her hold on a future that had gone tragically awry?

  Could she allow herself to consider a different path?

  “I won’t know until then,” she said.

  He tipped her chin up and stared at her. “If he is not your fiancé, can you promise to consider me?”

  She blinked. “Consider you?”

  “As an alternative?”

  “Charles, really. We’ve just met.” It was true. They’d only known each other for a few weeks. It was a fact she reminded herself of again and again—

  “I know. It doesn’t seem to matter.” His smile was brave and devastating at the same time.

  “You deserve so much more than to be someone’s second choice.” She set her palm on his cheek and he turned into it.

  “Just knowing there is a chance is enough for me.”

  She stared at him, sank into his beautiful blue eyes. Allowed herself to imagine the possibilities. The moment hung between them as Britannia was buffeted between an inappropriate hope, guilt and desire.

  This was not how this conversation was supposed to have gone. She was supposed to have simply told him there was nothing, could be nothing, between them and he would have agreed. He would have agreed that they could be nothing but friends and that should have been that. But she could not deny these feelings for him. And though she did not believe for a moment that he loved her—he hardly knew her after all—she found herself tempted to believe in him, in the dream he was proposing.

  “Is there?” He held her hands tighter. “A shred of hope for us?”

  She opened her mouth but could not say what she should have said—something along the lines of, don’t be ridiculous. Because somehow it wasn’t ridiculous. Not in the least. She could see it, the two of them, together. Forever. It frightened her to death, because it was so far from the future she had always envisioned for herself.

  Of its own volition, the word came out. Soft, whispered, unintended. “Yes.”

  Yes. If things did not work out with John, yes, she would consider Charles. She would more than consider him.

  She had waited long enough for Peter.

  She had sacrificed years to him.

  It was time for her to take what she wanted and needed and deserved.

  Charles’ eyes glinted. A charming smile threatened and Britannia could tell he fought to hide his delight. It did, however, seep through, igniting a similar excitement in her breast. As though she had been freed from heavy bonds of her own making.

  “Very well,” he said. “If the man we seek is not Peter, we shall have this conversation again.” And then he sealed the agreement with a kiss.

  It was lovely and gentle and they both had difficulty ending it.

  Chapter Seven

  It took everything in him to break the kiss. In the end, Charles pulled Britannia into a quick hug to accomplish it. This agreement was hardly what he really wanted, but it was enough. A promise to consider him, if things didn’t work out for her with Peter or John or whoever he was.

  Aside from that, Charles had a week of her undivided attention as they traveled north. A week to learn more about her and show her who he was. A week to woo her.

  He had every intention to do so.

  He also had every intention to keep his hands to himself, but he wasn’t sure how that was going to work out. Now that he knew she had feelings for him as well—now that she’d admitted it to him—it would make things so much harder.

  In many, many ways.

  He would simply have to be strong.

  As they made their way through the inn and out to the stable yard, where their coach awaited, he ran through the reasons it was important to keep his hands off her. It would, no doubt, become a constant mantra.

  It was, therefore, a shock to see one of those reasons leaning against his coach eating an apple.

  Charles hadn’t realized how thoroughly he had lied to himself about his intentions to keep his hands off Britannia until he spotted Caesar. His mood immediately deflated. The fantasies floating around in the dark corners of his mind—fantasies of what might happen in the confines of the coach today—dissolved in a plume of fetid displeasure.

  With great resolve, he fixed a smile on his face. “What ho!” he cried to his friend. “Well met!”

  Caesar sketched him a wave and strolled over. “I thought I recognized your crest. What a convenient happenstance. I’ve been riding Tisane from York and my bum wouldn’t mind a change of scenery.” He laughed at his joke, though it was hardly funny. “I would love to stretch out in your coach.”

  “Of course. You are welcome to join us.”

  “Excellent.” Caesar grinned and his gaze flicked to Charles’ companion. It was amusing—though it shouldn’t have been—watching his expression change from one of casual greeting to something filled with horror.

  Before her brother completely lost his mind and started bellowing here and now, and in front of the grooms and everyone, Charles said, “This is my valet.”

  He was prepared for nearly any reaction at this announcement, except the one he got. Caesar pinned him with a ferocious glare and spat, “What the hell have you done to my sister?”

  There might have been a hint of guilt in Charles’ expression, because Caesar’s hands closed to fists, his glower became even more ominous, and he stepped closer as though he intended to flatten Charles with his fury.

  “Oh please,” Britannia gusted, effectively stealing Caesar’s attention. “There is no need for all this male posturing.”

  “I am not posturing!” Caesar postured.

  “Really?” She raked him with a cynical gaze. “Are you going to punch him?”

  “
Probably.”

  “Even before you hear what happened? Even before you ask? Honestly.” She sniffed and made her way toward the coach, leaving her brother in her wake with his mouth agape. He swallowed heavily and then glanced at Charles.

  “So…what did happen?”

  Charles sighed and made his way toward the coach. He noticed that both horses—his and Caesar’s—had been tied to the back. How like Caesar to assume he was welcome. He most decidedly was not. But it was too late to give him the heave ho. Not now that he’d spotted Britannia.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  Charles frowned. “What happened was that your sister was too impatient to wait for your return. She decided to travel alone. On the mail coach.”

  Caesar raked his hair. “Oh, hell no.”

  “Oh, hell yes. And said coach was robbed by a highwayman.”

  “Not the romantic kind,” Britannia felt the need to mention as Charles helped her up into the equipage.

  “Is there a romantic kind?” Caesar asked in a squeak.

  Charles shrugged.

  “He was very rude.”

  “He was a highwayman.” It seemed apropos to mention this.

  “He ordered us all to strip.”

  Halfway into his seat, Caesar froze. His face went a trifle pale. “What?”

  “But Charles saved me from that indignity.” She made the mistake of patting his hand.

  Her brother gaped at her, his attention swinging between her matter-of-fact expression and the aforementioned hand-patting. “Charles?”

  Britannia batted her lashes. “Well, we are traveling together. And I am his valet.”

  “His what?”

  “His valet, Caesar. Do pay attention.”

  Which, of course, had the effect of causing Caesar Halsey, Viscount Tremaine, to burble.

  Charles took this moment to rap on the ceiling and the coach lurched forward.

  “It only made sense, you see,” Britannia said. “As I was dressed as a man.”

  “About that—” Caesar snarled.

  “It was safer to travel this way.”

  “Until the highwayman asked you to disrobe,” Charles couldn’t help reminding her. For this, he earned a scowl.

  Caesar burbled a bit more before managing, “Honestly, Britannia, this entire farce is horrifying.” Farce. That was an interesting word for it. “Whatever would father say? He must be worried sick about you.”

  “Oh, I sent him a note,” Charles said.

  “Did you?” Britannia blinked.

  “Of course. And I sent one to you as well, in York,” he told Caesar.

  “Well, I am not in York.”

  “I see that.”

  “Did something go wrong with your tryst?” Britannia asked.

  Caesar’s expression went sour. “I am not discussing my love life with my sister.”

  She grinned. “Think of me as his lordship’s valet.”

  “I most certainly will not.”

  “You needn’t be so disobliging.”

  Caesar gaped at her. “Do you have any idea how utterly…disturbing it is to see my sister dressed like this? And what on earth has happened to your hair?”

  “I cut it, of course.”

  “Mother will have apoplexy.”

  “Mother will love it.”

  “You are delusional.” Caesar fixed his attention on Charles. “We should turn around and take her home at once. Or perhaps to Bedlam.”

  Charles frowned. “We are more than halfway.”

  “Then send her back in another coach.”

  “I would simply come back alone,” she said.

  Though Caesar tried to ignore her, the muscle in his left eye began to twitch.

  “She would. It’s better to keep her safe with us. Which is why,” he added cautiously, “I decided to let her masquerade as my valet.”

  “Valet,” Caesar snorted. “Who would believe you are a valet?”

  “Only everyone in the inn.” It was clear her condescending tone thoroughly irritated her brother. Which it was probably intended to do.

  “Everyone in the inn was an idiot.”

  She batted her lashes. “You were in the inn, were you not?”

  A growl emanated from Caesar’s throat. “That is hardly the point.”

  Britannia sighed. “What was the point?”

  It seemed to take Caesar a moment to recall his point. It occurred to Charles that Britannia was a master at managing men—her brother, at least. Of distracting them and cozening them and throwing them off the scent. It was something he would have to remember.

  Caesar’s eyes brightened as he recalled his argument. He waggled a victorious finger in the air, although, in truth, this was no victory, and he probably knew it. “The point is, you are a woman.”

  She peered at him through narrowed eyes. “How is that a point?”

  “Because it is!”

  She glanced at Charles. “Is that a point?”

  He shrugged. “It could be. You are a woman, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told. Well, in addition to the undisputable fact that I am, indeed, a woman, I am also a Halsey. I do not take orders from anyone—”

  “But I am your brother!”

  “Most especially from you. It is my intention to see this John St. Andrews for myself. I am determined to discover if he is Peter. And neither you, nor my father, nor all the king’s men can stop me.”

  “The king’s men are otherwise occupied,” Charles assured her.

  Caesar glowered at them both in turn. After a moment of silence, he asked, “So how long have you two been traveling together?”

  They exchanged a glance. Charles cleared his throat. “I, ah, came upon her yesterday.”

  This seemed to appease him. For a moment. His eyes narrowed. “So you’ve been together one day.”

  “Yes.”

  “And…one night.” Oh hell. He pinned Charles with a dark glance. “The inn was full when I arrived. I had to bribe the innkeeper for a bed.”

  “It was a very busy inn,” Britannia agreed. She smiled, until her brother’s attention fell on her.

  “And where did you sleep?”

  Her eyes went wide. She gulped. “I…ah…”

  Charles knew he’d best break in and nip this line of questioning in the bud. “I gave her my bed.”

  In retrospect, a mistake. Caesar’s glare raked him. “And where did you sleep?”

  “He slept on the floor.”

  It would have been better had she not responded at all.

  “You slept in the same room?” A fascinating pulse ticked on Caesar’s forehead. Charles thought at any moment it might explode. Which would solve one problem, but create another.

  “Would you have had her sleep in the hayloft with the other servants?”

  “Honestly, Caesar. I fail to see why you are so overset. Charles was a perfect gentleman.”

  Perhaps not perfect…

  “Charles?” Caesar bellowed. “Stop calling him Charles!”

  “What should I call him?”

  “His lordship. The Earl of Wick. Lord Grant. Anything but Charles.”

  She thought about this for a moment then sniffed. “That seems very inauthentic. We are friends, you know.”

  Caesar sat back and stared at her with an outraged expression. It was clear he thought his disapproval would make some kind of point with her.

  Perhaps he was the one who was delusional.

  How odd. Caesar had known Britannia her whole life and Charles had only known her for a few weeks, yet he knew her better. He knew, beyond a doubt, this woman would do as she liked regardless of what society or her parents or her brother thought of it.

  He liked that. Respected that. And he hoped to hell such a tendency would benefit him once they reached Wick.

  And she discovered the truth about John St. Andrews.

  Traveling with Caesar was annoying and Britannia found herself wishing her brother had never joined them. Only p
art of that regret was the suspicion that, had they been traveling alone, there would, in all probability, have been more kissing.

  Though she’d told Charles in no uncertain terms that there would be no more of that sort of behavior, in her heart of hearts, she admitted she’d wanted more.

  Beyond that, Caesar frequently intruded on conversations between Britannia and Charles, conversations that might have gone a different way without her brother’s contributions. And at night, when they reached each inn, Caesar insisted that Charles join him in the common rooms, while Britannia was forced to remain alone in her rooms.

  Oh, there were lavish meals and a bath at each inn, which she heartily enjoyed, but she would have much preferred to experience the excitement of the lower rooms.

  Another annoyance was the fact that—at the first town they came to—Caesar insisted on outfitting her. And not as a proper valet, either.

  It was a dismal thing to be forced back into petticoats and stays after one had experienced such freedom as a man. Britannia felt certain at that point that men insisted on such fashions as a way to constrain women’s spirits. When she mentioned this to Charles, he had laughed and teased that women in Scotland were not constrained in the slightest.

  Although, when they reached Scotland, and she searched for the ladies dressed as men in the villages, there were none.

  Perhaps he had meant something else.

  One thing was certain. She loved the food in Scotland. She’d heard horrible stories about Scots eating entrails right from the cow, making stew with blood and other horrors, but every meal she had was a delight. She loved the people as well, so friendly and charming, telling hilarious stories in those enthralling accents. She loved the beauty of the countryside, the scent of the air, the angle of the sun.

  She’d spent her entire life in London. How odd that here, she felt as though she were finally coming home.

  As they came nearer and nearer to Wick, she was torn between the anticipation of seeing Peter again, and the hope that it would not be him. She wasn’t sure how to deal with the internal conflict, so she ignored it. It didn’t go away, unfortunately, but rather slipped from her mind to her stomach, creating a terrible knot each time the thought occurred.

  It was a welcome relief and a distraction that they made a stop in Dunbeath to visit Charles’ friend Daniel, who was a local laird. His home was no less than a castle, but the baron was surprisingly humble and warm as he welcomed them in.