by Robyn Neeley
When he returned to Wessex and found her gone, that would convince him that he was right. That was when he would be angry.
“Come,” she said to Jacob. “We must return to Athelney.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Imma must have told a servant to alert her the moment he returned, Robert thought as he dismounted and handed the reins of his charger to the stable boy.
“My lord, welcome back,” Jacob said, but Robert scarcely heard him as he strode across the courtyard to meet Imma, his boots ringing the sound of his return across the stones.
“My lord,” Imma said and then he had her in his arms, pulling her hard against him. He knew he was dusty and sweaty from the journey, and that blood trickled from a cut somewhere on his shoulder, but that did not matter. He closed his eyes, burying his head in her neck, holding her hard against him, oblivious to onlookers.
Then he kissed her. He tasted the sweetness she offered, tangling his hand in her hair, deepening the kiss as desire surged through him.
“Imma,” he said, breaking the kiss and looking deep into her violet gaze.
“Unhand that woman!” The unexpected shout made him look up, startled, but he had no intention of letting go of Imma. Indeed, he tightened his grip on her. Then he realized the source of the shout. His king advanced upon him, hurrying from the keep and across the foreyard. Just a step behind Edward was Robert’s brother John.
Imma clutched his arm and said, “Much has happened. I had hoped to tell you — ”
“What is the meaning of this outrage, Robert?” Edward snapped. “Imma! Explain yourself! I thought you said you were contemplating the religious life.”
“My king Edward,” Robert said. “And my lord John. Welcome home.”
John gave him a distant nod and folded his arms across his chest.
“What are you doing with Imma?” Edward demanded. “It never occurred to me that you would take advantage of a lady in distress.”
“My lord Robert did no such thing!” Imma gasped.
“Your grace, you may be my king but you had better watch your tongue,” Robert said. “I have spent these weeks driving the Welsh from my brother’s lands, so perhaps you should begin with what you are doing here.”
He relinquished his grip on Imma, but upon releasing her, took her hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“I came because John has decided to return home,” Edward said. “That is the reason he asked me to arrange an accounting.”
“That explains John,” Robert said. “It does not explain you.”
“John wants a wife,” Edward said, his temper clearly close to fraying.
“You mean he has already been through Anna’s fortune?”
“Hold your tongue,” John snapped.
“I arranged a suitable match for John,” Edward said. “And since he insists on being married at Glastonbury, I decided to travel here to introduce him to his bride and to attend the wedding.”
“Congratulations, John,” Robert said. “Who is the lucky woman?”
At his brother’s cold look, understanding dawned.
“Not Imma,” Robert said flatly.
“Yes, Imma,” John snapped.
“No.”
“I cannot see how you have any say in the matter, Robert,” Edward said. “Imma and John will be married as soon as — ”
“Never!” Robert shouted, dropping Imma’s hand and reaching for his sword. Imma stopped him with a hand on his wrist.
“My lord, do not be rash. Some things once done cannot be undone.” Her fingers were gentle and so was her voice, as if all the shouting had not affected her. Even though it was her future they were shouting about. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on her and upon her words.
She put her other hand on his shoulder and faced him. “My lord, look at me,” she said. He gazed down at those violet eyes, at all the love she had for him displayed there and he nearly went to his knees. He would kill John — he would kill Edward! — before he let her go. His hand crept to his sword. Her fingers tightened around his wrist.
“My lord,” she said. “You must know I love you. Is that not so?”
“I know it.”
“Do you have something to say to me?”
Something to say? Overwhelmed with all of the things he wanted to say, he just stared, stupefied.
Then she touched his face. “Robert. I can only guess what you think. What you feel. You must say it so I may be sure.”
He closed his eyes. He loved her so much. What could he say, how could he express it? She would never understand. What had stopped him, why it had taken him so long, what had finally happened to make him give his heart to her. How could he tell her all of this? Then he realized she needed none of that. He did not need to explain anything. He only had to tell her how he felt.
“My lady,” he said through the tightness of his throat. “My lady. I am your thane. I will do whatever you ask of me. Make the command and I will do it.” He drew a deep breath, then gave her a ghost of a smile. “It can only be because I love you.”
“Oh, Robert,” she said.
She took his hand in hers, then turned to face Edward. “I have appreciated your many kindnesses to me, you grace. But I find I must refuse the offer Lord John has made.”
“That is fine, my lady,” John said sharply. “Consider the offer withdrawn. Bailiff, if you will escort these two off my lands — ”
“Hold, John,” Edward said, raising his hand to forestall him. “Imma, I don’t understand. Your uncle sent you here to make the peace. It is your duty — ”
“Her uncle has given his blessing,” Robert interrupted. “He will withdraw his men if I marry Imma.”
“That is a foolish bargain,” John snapped. “My army will be stronger than his.”
Robert looked at Imma. “Perhaps your king has need of a strong arm to lead his men?”
“Robert!” Edward said, scandalized. “What a thing to suggest. If your marrying Imma pleases the Welsh king, I will not stand in your way.” He scowled at John. “Nor will your brother.” Then he brightened. “Lord Andrew of Mercia died this winter. He had no issue. If I grant you his land and title as a wedding gift, the Welsh king will be well pleased. His lands will border yours. Of course, you will have to hold it against other threats.”
“My lord, you are most generous,” Robert said. “Fear not: I will hold the lands.” He glanced at Imma and a smile curved his lips. “We will hold the lands.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I still do not understand why you would not marry at Winchester, as Edward wished. Or even Glastonbury,” Elizabeth said. “But Athelney! Remote and uncomfortable. You know, I have always despised Athelney.”
Imma grinned and adjusted the circlet of flowers on her hair.
“Well, we will be in Mercia soon enough,” she said. “My lady, you will make your home with us?”
“Perhaps it is time for me to retire to a nunnery.”
“You are impossible,” Imma said, smoothing the soft woolen dress over her hips. The ivory color suited her complexion and she thought she looked very pretty in it. She doubted Robert would notice. “You know we could not do without you.”
“Very well. I shall probably despise Mercia,” Elizabeth responded, adjusting her own dress and then linking her arm with Imma’s.
“No doubt,” Imma agreed, her grin even broader now.
“Robert is probably stomping impatiently around the great hall.”
But he was not. He looked utterly satisfied when Imma appeared at the door and he turned to face her. Smiling shyly, suddenly feeling in no wise bold, she walked down the aisle between the benches, full of well wishers, and when she reached Robert, he took her hand in his.
“My lady,” he said.
; “My lord,” she responded, and she knew her eyes must shine with happiness. Then the abbot, who had come from Glastonbury to bless their marriage, began to speak.
Later, during the wedding feast, Imma’s uncle took a turn with her dancing.
“I am glad you could attend,” she told him, as he scowled ferociously at her. She was accustomed to his ferocious scowls.
“You are the daughter of my heart. It is good to see you happy.”
“Thank you for agreeing to Robert’s offer,” she said.
He sighed. “I knew you would be vexed with me if I killed him. It went against all my warrior blood to let him ride away.” Another sigh. “But I am old. And I would see peace.”
“Robert vows to stop the Mercian slavers,” Imma said.
“If a man can do it, ’twill be Robert,” her uncle said grudgingly. “I will give him time to try.”
Imma laid her head against his chest. “I will miss you. I have missed you.”
He dropped a surreptitious kiss on her head, then tilted her chin up. “You will be a good wife to Robert and he will give you a home,” he said. “I think you are more English now than even Robert himself. But I — or my kin — will always welcome you if the day ever comes you return to your native land.”
“Thank you, uncle.”
Then he released her to Robert, who took her in his arms and said, “You truly are a peace-weaver. You have tamed your uncle — not to mention me. You have convinced John that he was fortunate to be rejected by you since now he has the lovely Tilly to cherish, and you have even earned Elizabeth’s approval.”
Imma laughed. “Well, if Elizabeth approves, that is the main thing.”
And then Robert kissed her, with all the promise of spring.
About the Author
Jenny Jacobs, a writer living in the Midwest, is still kissing frogs, but likes to write about people finding their happily ever after — even if they have to go through some difficulties to get there. Find out more about her at www.jennyjacobsbooks.com.
More From This Author
The Matchmaker Meets Her Match by Jenny Jacobs
Winter Storms
Lucy Oliver
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Lucy Oliver
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6415-9
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6415-4
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6416-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6416-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com, istockphoto.com/tbradford
To my husband, sons and family, with love.
Contents
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
CHAPTER ONE
Clutching her walking cane, Carly Roberts limped to the large front window of her shop with its display of sugar mice, local chutneys, and cheeses all set below a small pine tree draped with handmade ornaments and tiny white lights. Cinnamon sticks scented the air, mingling with orange fragranced candles flickering in glass bowls. In the window, she caught sight of her reflection, a pale face with pulled back hair, usually brown but today dyed bright red. Dark shadows made her green eyes look tired and she rubbed them — then looked down at the mascara smeared over her fingers.
Carly glanced at the clock, which had a piece of green mistletoe stuck above it. Was 4:30 too early to close? It was unlikely she’d get anyone else in; Cornwall in winter was an empty place. Then the door opened, sending a gust of wind into the shop to rattle the shelves, and a thick-set figure marched in, water streaming from his waterproofs and gleaming on the faded blue tattoo stretched across his cheek.
She smiled. “Hello, Mick, didn’t expect to see you in here.”
The tattooed coxswain of the town lifeboat grinned and put his wallet down. “I’m not after your scented candle things, or the twinkly lights, just a gift for my wife. Something she’ll love.”
“Don’t you want to choose it yourself?”
He shook his head. “She wants you to find something, seems she didn’t appreciate the wellies I bought her last year.”
“I did warn you. How much are you spending?”
“A fair amount, she deserves it.”
Carly glanced along the shelves; oil burners, hand-blown glass vases, face creams in expensive pots — none of it right for Mick’s wife. Then she frowned and took a lavender cashmere sweater from a rack. Practical, but warm and luxurious.
“Lovely and soft, nice colour,” he said. “Is that her size?”
“It is, yes. Would you like a matching bracelet?”
“You’re a born saleswoman, and no, I think the jumper will be enough. I imagine it’s a fair price.”
She deftly folded the top and placed it in a cardboard box. “Are you coming to the fundraising meeting this week?” she said.
“No, love. Can’t cope with all the arguing. Sorry to leave you to it, but that Duncan chap does my head in. I’d like to take him out on a lifeboat rescue in our aged boat and see if he carries on complaining about the expense.”
“He’s not a sailor; he can’t understand that when a ship capsizes there isn’t time to get help from Padstow, we must have a lifeboat station here.”
Mick grunted. “I think he watches too many of those helicopter rescue programmes, thinks they travel faster than they do. Anyway, I’m confident you’ll persuade him.”
“He’s telling everyone I’m only raising the money because Liam’s got a job on the fishing trawlers after Christmas.”
“Ignore him, and well done to your brother. It’s difficult work, but you can’t be too choosey in winter.”
She shook her head, ringing up the price of the jumper on her till and handing the gift over. Mick passed her a handful of cash and took the box.
“Don’t leave it too late to get home,” he said, “the harbour’s awash and there’s been reports of flooding on the coastal road.”
“Are you on call?” she said.
“Not today, going to finish my shopping and head for a pint in the sailing club. Good luck tomorrow, all the lads are supporting you — we want that new lifeboat.”
“Goodnight, Mick.” After he went, she returned to the window, peering through the frost-covered glass at the flakes of snow drifting down, glittering under coloured Christmas lights. From the harbour beyond the cobbled street came a flash of white foam as wind lashed the sea, driving a powerful green breaker across the wall. It swept over the pavement and even from inside the shop, she heard its roar. In the distance an orange glow shone, far out to sea, and she stared at it — someone was in trouble, the lifeboat was out. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself, nausea rising from her stomach.
It wouldn’t be an inexperienced tourist this time, they didn’t arrive until summer to excitedly hire dinghies and surf boards. Wandering into the shop, they talked to her about their trips around the harbour,
how thrilling it had been, how the boat rocked, how they nearly fell in. They didn’t know the gentle swelling waves could turn into monstrous currents and they talked in nautical terms, assuming she knew nothing of sailing. She never told them the truth; it was none of their business.
A second wave swept across the pavement, dissolving on the cobbles. It was time to go, before the short walk to her car became dangerous. Shuffling back to the shop counter, she glanced in the till. It wasn’t worth cashing up, there was only twenty pounds. Switching off the backroom lights and coffee machine, she picked up her handbag and keys. Holding her cane, she glanced at its grey hospital paint and resolved to colour it a brighter hue.
Outside, sleet rasped her cheeks and she yanked her hood up, looking at the clear, shiny ice covering the pavement. Taking a step, her foot slipped and grabbing a wall for support, she glanced around quickly. Had anyone seen her? Thankfully, the street remained empty and struggling the remaining few yards to her car, she unlocked the door and slumped inside. Switching on the engine, the tiny automatic bumped across the rutted car park, wipers scraping snow from her windscreen. Once home, she’d have a hot bath, followed by a fish and chip supper.
Slowing at the car park exit overlooking the harbour, Carly narrowed her eyes. Was that a dinghy making its way across the sea? The dark shape rose again on the peak of a green wave and she drew a sharp breath as it swooped across the water, canvas straining under the force of the wind. Magnificent sailing, a true professional at the tiller, anyone else would have capsized long ago. Could it make the safety of the jetty? Mouth open, she remembered the exhilaration of riding the waves, the taste of salt water on her lips and the thrill of winning a race.
Then ramming her foot on the accelerator, she shot the car out onto the coastal road. It was a foolish time to sail anyway, dangerous in this weather. Surely no local would be that stupid? A name floated into her head, along with an image of dark grey eyes, but she shook her head. No, not him, he left two years ago, vowing never to return.
