Much Ado About Marriage

by Karen Hawkins

  “She will not like that you married without her permission.”

  “Aye, but once she realizes my wife wrote the play she cannot get enough of, I think she’ll soften.”

  “She likes it?” Fia asked breathlessly.

  “Aye. Essex sent a messenger just as Robert and I left. She asked if you had any more, and when she could see them performed.”

  Robert gave Fia a brilliant smile. “As soon as you’re presented at court, I will have won our wager and you will owe me.”

  “What exactly will I owe you?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “As soon as I have chased Walsingham back to his lair, I will return and we can discuss it.” With a quick salute with his rapier, he was gone.

  “I warned you not to wager with Robert,” Thomas said.

  She chuckled. “Whatever the cost, ’twas well worth it. You never could have taught me to curtsy with such grace.”

  “Before I give you the kiss you deserve, comfit, we need to talk about your propensity to climb through windows. I almost died of fright when I saw your bedsheets hanging over the ledge.”

  Fia peeped at him through her lashes. “Did I ever tell you about my uncle Donald? He used to dream about things before they happened. One time he—”

  “What does that have to do with bedsheets?”

  “Because one time he dreamed—”

  “Never mind,” Thomas said, kissed her soundly, silencing her the way he knew best.

  Epilogue

  Sheets of rain obscured the muddy streets, yet the horse galloped onward, urged by the steady hand of its rider.

  Thomas cursed the rain, the mud, and his own lack of resistance. Why had he let Fia talk him into attending the play? It was her sixth in as many years, each one vying with the others for success, each one widely acclaimed as brilliant.

  Though not published under her own name, since her position at court made that an impossibility, ’twas well known that Fia Wentworth, the charming Countess Rotherwood, was a successful playwright. Thomas was unable to keep from bragging to one and all of her talents.

  Queen Elizabeth had taken a surprisingly keen interest in Fia, frequently calling her to court to discuss various books and plays, although Thomas suspected that the lonely queen enjoyed Fia’s fanciful stories more than the plays.

  Of course, the gift of the amber amulet had helped to pave that road. The queen loved it well and rarely went without it, although of late, Thomas had noticed the queen staring into the depths of the stone as if seeing something enchanting.

  He’d thought of asking her about it, but when he remembered the personal nature of the images the amulet had shared with him, he’d decided that some secrets should be the queen’s alone.

  He slowed the horse when the lights of Rotherwood House glimmered in the night. After he jumped down, he tossed the reins to a waiting servant and bounded up the steps, water streaming from his cloak.

  “Milord,” Mary greeted him, her face wreathed in smiles. “’Tis a boy! Saints be praised, but ye’ve a bright cherub of a son with black eyes and the blackest of hair!”

  “Fia?”

  “Is restin’ as easy as ye could expect.” Mary took the wet cloak from his nerveless fingers. “The vicar is with her now.”

  “The vicar?”

  Mary’s smile faltered a bit. “Aye, I warned her ye’d be none too pleased about that, but she insisted on naming the wee one as soon as he arrived—”

  He ran up the steps without waiting to hear more. The vicar stood over the bed, a small infant in his hands. His angular face beamed with pride. Fia opened tired eyes, breaking into a smile as soon as she saw Thomas.

  He went to her immediately. “You, madam, are impatient.”

  “’Twas little Robin who would not wait.”

  “Robin?” he asked, a sigh in his voice.

  She chuckled. “Aye.” A giggle at the door announced the arrival of their other children. “There they are! Bring Roberta and Robbie here,” she told the vicar.

  The cleric held out the babe to Thomas, who wondered how the wee one could sleep so soundly with all the noise his brother and sister were making.

  The vicar brought the children to the bed and was rewarded with a beaming smile from Fia. The old man’s face suffused with color; he was like bread dough in Fia’s capable hands.

  Thomas looked down at his other children and noted they each held an incredibly fat rabbit in much the same way he cradled the new baby. He grinned. Heaven help them, they were all puppets to Fia’s bidding.

  “Let us see the baby!” demanded Roberta, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “We brought Prometheus and Mercury to see him.”

  “I get to see him first,” replied Robbie coolly. “I’m older.”

  “I’m four and I can see him if I want to,” retorted Roberta with a mutinous toss of her red-brown curls.

  “You can both see him at the same time,” Thomas said as he lowered the babe to their level. “But keep those animals away from him.”

  “He’s wrinkled.” Roberta scrunched her nose in disgust. “And all red.”

  “Aye, and too small to play with.” There was no hiding Robbie’s disappointment.

  “He’ll grow,” Thomas said. “I promise.”

  The vicar said, “I know you would both like to visit with your newest addition. Perhaps the children can show me the new baby rabbits? I hear they are a fine brood indeed.”

  “Aye,” Robbie stated. “A fine, rollicking brood.”

  Roberta grabbed the man’s hand, her rabbit hanging over her arm like a pillow. “We always have new baby rabbits,” she said seriously. “Mama says ’tis because we are blessed.” She turned to Fia. “Isn‘t that right, Mama?”

  “Yes, dear. We are very blessed,” Fia answered, exchanging a warm, laughing look with Thomas.

  “Too much so where those rabbits are concerned.” Thomas tried to scowl but could not.

  Fia chuckled as the vicar allowed the children to lead him from the room.

  Thomas ran a finger down the infant’s soft cheek. “Robin, eh?”

  “A wager is a wager, Thomas,” Fia defended herself. “I never thought we’d have so many children—else I’d have made Robert settle for naming only the first after him.” She looked at the door. “Where is he, anyway? Robert never misses my plays.”

  “He was at all of the rehearsals, but he missed this eve. He said to tell you ’twas important business.” Thomas lifted his brows. “He says you’ve inspired him to take his life in his own hands. Do you know what he was babbling about?”

  Fia smiled. “Aye. ’Tis time he did.”

  The baby yawned widely, showing Thomas toothless gums that reminded him of Zeus. A twinge of sadness washed through him. He missed Zeus, though the dog’s innumerable sons and daughters were in the barn, making life miserable for the old, decrepit horses Fia had collected to keep Thunder company.

  Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and laid the baby in Fia’s arms. “I suppose Robin was the best name you could think of.”

  Fia’s mouth twitched. “We can call him by his middle name. ’Tis from one of my plays.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  Her face lit with laughter. “You should be. ’Twill be a trial for him to spell.”

  He laughed and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I suppose he’ll get used to it.”

  She smiled shyly and threaded her fingers through the baby’s wispy black curls. “You know, Thomas, I just thought of another.”

  “Another what?” he asked with alarm.

  “Another name. For our next baby.” She peeped up at him as mischievous and irrepressible as when he had first met her. “What do you think of Robertina?”

  “I think, dear wife,” he said as he kissed her nose, “that you are perfect.”

  Turn the page for a sneak peek

  at the next delightful book in

  New York Times bestseller

  Karen Hawk
ins’s

  Hurst Amulet series,

  One Night in Scotland

  coming soon from Pocket Books

  As snow swirled across the white-covered road and piled in high drifts to either side, the carriage creaked around the final bend of the cliff road and passed through the large stone gates of the castle. They bumped and swayed as the dirt road turned into cobblestones.

  Mary lifted the leather curtain and stared up at the huge stone building. It was an amazingly beautiful castle, more of a palace. Several stories high, it soared above them, the large multipaned windows sparkling in gray-mortared granite walls. The building was impressive and appointed with rich details about the windows and the huge, wide oak doors. Yet, it was the fartherest wing that caught her attention. Blackened with soot, the roof completely open to the falling snow, it was a complete ruin. Black-streaked walls were framed by thickly smeared lines where wood shutters had once rested, while half-charred timbers stuck up from the snow like giant bones. Though the damage was not new, no attempt had been made to fix it. The only effort made was that someone had boarded up the windows and chained closed the charred doors.

  The sight of this damaged and neglected wing was in odd contrast to the smooth gray perfection of the rest of the castle, the overall effect ominous. Mary shivered a little at the sight.

  A moan pulled her back into the carriage. She patted Abigail’s knee. “Are you still feeling ill?”

  Abigail leaned forward, her arms crossed about her stomach, her face pale and pulled. “Gor’, tell me we’ve reached the castle, miss!”

  “We have. We should stop any second.”

  Abigail looked past Mary to the castle walls outside, her pained expression brightening a bit. “I’ve never been in a castle afore, miss. It’s so big, isn’t it? I—” She peered more closely out the window as they passed a window streaked with soot. “Why, it’s naught but a ruin! It’s done burned down.”

  “Only one wing. The rest of the castle appears to be in good shape.” She wished she could ask about the circumstances that had led to such destruction, but their escort had offered little in the way of explanation. Once he’d practically shoved them into the carriage, he’d said not a word, but had climbed upon the coach seat with his assistant and they’d set off immediately.

  The carriage turned sharply and pulled up to the wide oak doors, the carriage jolting as it stopped. Abigail sighed with relief. “Gor’ miss, I’ve ne’er been on such a horrid road.”

  “It was very narrow and bumpy, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye, and straight off the cliff in places.” Abigail drew a shuddering breath. “Thank goodness we’re here.”

  Mary couldn’t agree more. Between the dangerously winding road, the rapidly deteriorating weather, and Abigail’s moaning, the trip had not been pleasant. It would have been even more unpleasant if they hadn’t been in such a surprisingly luxurious carriage, complete with well-sprung leather seat backs, a foot warmer, and red velvet trim on the thick cushions.

  Their coachman must work for a very wealthy family. She didn’t know his name, or why he’d agreed to help them, or what his connection was to New Slains Castle—if he even had one. Perhaps now her questions would be answered.

  She waited until the door swung open and the dark stranger appeared, large and imposing, his coat covered in snow, his muffler wrapped about his neck and covering the lower half of his face until only his green eyes showed.

  His cool gaze flickered across Abigail, taking in her pinched expression, and then on to Mary, who met his indifferent gaze with an interested one of her own. He reached down and unlatched the steps, making sure they were in place before he stepped back to allow them to alight.

  As Mary gathered her cloak, the front doors to the castle creaked opened and several impressively liveried footmen rushed down the stone steps toward the carriage. The stranger turned to speak to them, his voice muffled by his scarf and the wind.

  The footmen halted, looking uncertain. He snapped another order, and two of the footmen rushed forward to take the trunks, while the rest moved respectfully out of the way.

  Their coachman/guide turned and held out his gloved hand to Mary. “This is New Slains Castle.”

  His voice washed over her like the brush of dark velvet. “Thank you,” she returned, aware of how mundane her own voice sounded next to his.

  She knew very little about Scottish accents, but his was different from the ones she’d thus encountered. It was fainter, more hidden, rounding out a word here and there. It was also far more attractive, and she had to suppress an inane desire to make him speak more.

  He lifted a brow and she realized he was still holding out his hand. She gathered her skirts and finally placed her gloved hand in his.

  Though their hands were separated by their gloves, she still felt something odd, as if she could almost access his thoughts. She withdrew her hand as quickly as she could, her face heated.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that she somehow knew this man, or of him. The idea was preposterous. She’d never met him before and would likely never see him again. Her reaction was simply a combination of exhaustion and gratitude that he’d assisted her.

  As she took a step toward the castle entryway, her boot hit a patch of ice. For a second she wavered, struggling to catch her balance, when a strong hand grasped hers once again, an arm slipping about her waist.

  Instantly, the world steadied. Mary found herself staring up into the stranger’s eyes, aware of her heart thundering madly in her throat. It was a heady feeling, whatever it was, and she allowed her fingers to tighten over his. His green gaze locked onto hers, heating with an intensity that let her know that he, too, felt that tingle of awareness.

  Heat flew through her and she was aware of how her shoulder pressed against his broad chest, how strong his arm was where it encircled her waist, warming her the same way a cup of delicious hot chocolate might.

  Just as suddenly as he’d caught her, he released her and stepped away. “The stone is icy. Watch your step.”

  She nodded mutely, wondering at how her skin prickled with heat. Good God, what is this? I have never been so affected.

  She had to know what it was. Without a word, Mary reached out and took his hand once again and waited. It took less than a second for her body to tingle again. Amazed, she looked up at him and tightened her fingers on his.

  His brows snapped down as his gaze flickered to where her hand was swallowed by his larger one, and then back. “You shouldn’t—”

  “Miss?” Abigail called weakly as she stood in the doorway of the coach. “I think I might be sick after all.”

  With a muffled curse, he released Mary’s hand and reached out to assist an obviously weak-kneed Abigail to the ground.

  Mary rubbed her tingling hand, her heart beating irregularly. Goodness, that was certainly interesting. She didn’t know what it meant, but she hoped she’d find out.

  “Lud, miss, I’m done fer.” Abigail shivered miserably as their rescuer handed her over to the nearest footman. “I’d give me left teat fer some hot stew and a fire to sit beside.”

  The stranger’s firm mouth quirked—had that been a smile? Mary couldn’t be sure.

  “Abigail didn’t enjoy the winding road,” Mary explained.

  “So I see. You look well enough, though.”

  “I’m an excellent traveler. I just wish I had the opportunity to do more.”

  He sent her a curious glance.

  “La, miss!” Abigail shivered. “If me left teat ain’t enough fer a cup o’ stew, I’ll offer me right one as well, and—”

  “Abigail, please!” Mary pretended not to notice the astounded gaze of one of the footmen.

  Their rescuer’s eyes blazed with humor. “I’m sure the earl is at least hospitable enough that you’ll find yourself before a warm fire and some hot stew and still keep your, ah, personal possessions.”

  Mary murmured, “We can only hope.”

  He shot her
a quick glance, his face warmed with laughter.

  Mary’s breath caught in her throat. Good God, he’s beautiful when he smiles.

  There was no other word for it. His stern face relaxed, his fine lips curved from their harsh line into a warm and generous smile, and his eyes crinkled in the most amazing way. He was like two different men.

  Their rescuer turned to the waiting footmen. “Take these trunks inside and escort the ladies to the library. They wish an audience.”

  There was a scurry of activity as his requests were fulfilled.

  Mary raised her brows. He was certainly cavalier in how he spoke to another man’s servants. Though he hadn’t been any less cavalier in his treatment of her and Mary, really.

  The closest footman bowed. “My l—”

  “I will return to the stables with the coach.” He favored Mary and Abigail with a faint bow. “Good evening, ladies.” With that far-too-brief farewell, he turned and proceeded to the carriage.

  “Wait!” The word sprang from Mary’s lips before she knew what she was about. Standing in the courtyard, surrounded by the exquisitely outfitted footmen in the shade of a massive castle, her only companion a coach-sick maid, the awkwardness of her mission came crashing upon her.

  She was about to enter this forbidding abode to ask a desperately needed favor from a man she’d never met. For a moment, she wanted to somehow borrow some of the easy strength that seemed to sit on their coachman’s broad shoulders.

  She hurried up to the coachman, who stood beside the front wheel, and gulped at the cool curiosity in his gaze. “Pardon me, but . . . will you wait for us? We shouldn’t be long, for I only need to ask the earl a question, and then we’ll wish to return to—”

  “No.”

  “I will pay—”

  “You may keep your money.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “But how will I get back to our carriage at the inn?”

  He shrugged. “If you request it, the earl will arrange a return ride to the inn.”

  “Very well.” The snow drifted between them, the wind tossing their cloaks around their ankles. There was less than two feet between them, yet it seemed as wide as the North Sea. “I-I wish you’d stay.”