by Candace Camp
Stephen’s hand turned under hers, and his fingers curled around her palm. His eyes fluttered open.
“Stephen!” Olivia had to swallow back the lump in her throat. “My lady, he is awake.”
Stephen gazed at Olivia, his eyes hazy, and a slow smile spread across his face.
“Hello.” He started to sit up, then winced with pain. “Ow! What the devil? Oh. Oh!” His eyes widened, and he stared at Olivia. “My God! Olivia! Are you all right? Where is Irina?” He glanced about as if he expected her to still be lurking about somewhere.
“She is dead. I killed her.”
He tried to rise again and sank back against the pillows, biting back an oath. “What did she do to me?”
“She stabbed you in the back,” Olivia said.
“Oh, darling!” On the other side of the bed, Lady St. Leger dabbed her handkerchief at her eyes. “Thank goodness! Dr. Hartfield said you would be all right, but I was so afraid you would not wake up.”
“The last thing I remember was Irina swinging that box at my head.”
“She connected,” Olivia told him. “Then she came after me and tried to strangle me again.”
“She was so strong!” Stephen marveled.
“She was insane,” Lady St. Leger put in tartly. “The magistrate came by yesterday evening. From what the constable told him, he is going to rule that Lady Olivia killed the woman in self-defense, which of course she did. It’s just a miracle that she was able to overcome her. The constable is of the opinion that Irina was trying to steal the Martyrs’ treasure from you. That is why she attacked you.”
“I see.” Stephen’s eyes went from his mother to Olivia, but he said only, “And what about the others? Madame Valenskaya and Mr. Babington?”
“They will be going back to London tomorrow. Rafe and Olivia felt sure that you would not wish to press charges against them because of the scandal it would mean.” Lady St. Leger paused, then added, her voice husky with tears, “I am so sorry, Stephen. I know it is for my sake that you don’t want to charge them. You would hate for the world to know what a fool I was.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mother.” Stephen patted her hand. “You were not a fool. You were merely a grief-stricken mother taken in by a pack of charlatans.”
“But to think that you were nearly killed because of my folly!” Lady St. Leger cried, her voice breaking. “I shall never forgive myself.”
“But I didn’t die.” Stephen smiled reassuringly.
Lady St. Leger got to her feet. “I must go and tell Belinda and Rafe. He bandaged you, you know. The doctor said he did an excellent job.”
The older woman stood up and hurried out of the room. Olivia suspected that she might stop for a good cry in her own room along the way. Olivia felt like indulging in the same thing herself.
Stephen squeezed her hand. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. She didn’t really hurt me much.” Her hand went unconsciously to her throat. “Babington has come to.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I don’t know if it was because of my killing Irina or what, but he woke up yesterday evening and seems all right, even though he’s a bit hazy about things. It looks as though he was largely a dupe in this whole thing, used by Irina and—”
“Sir Raymond’s spirit?” Stephen suggested.
Olivia nodded. “I think so. Yesterday, the way she was, the way she spoke. I could see him looking out of her at me.”
She shivered, and Stephen squeezed her hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss. “I am sorry you had to face her.”
“It was frightening, but—no doubt this will sound as mad as the rest of it—but when I was fighting her, I was still holding on to the rosary, and suddenly I felt more powerful. It seemed as if Alys was there with me, inside me somehow, helping me. Is that possible?”
Stephen nodded. “I believe it.” He paused, then added, “Do you think the evil is gone now?”
“Yes. Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking, but when I plunged that knife into Irina, I saw the evil in her eyes wink out. I think that when I killed her, it somehow killed him, too. It’s all tied up with Alys helping me, I think, as if she finally overcame him. Does that make sense?”
“Not rationally, but, yes, it makes sense, considering everything.”
At that moment Lady St. Leger came in, followed by Belinda, Rafe and Great-uncle Bellard, and the subject was dropped. It was not until several days later that Olivia broached it again.
Stephen had made rapid progress in the days since the attack, growing stronger, first sitting up, then walking, even taking on the stairs. It was clear that it would not be long before he had completely recovered. Olivia had realized as he improved that she was rapidly running out of any reason to remain at Blackhope. Madame Valenskaya and Mr. Babington had left. There was no longer a pretense of a house party. Nor was there any business for her to conduct. She had stayed, telling herself that of course she could not leave while Stephen was still recovering from his wound.
But it was clear now that he was close to recovery, and even that tiny excuse was gone. She supposed Lady St. Leger must be wondering why she stayed on but was too polite to bring up the matter. It made Olivia’s heart ache in her chest to think of leaving Blackhope. Leaving Stephen. She thought that when she went, it would feel like leaving part of herself behind.
She and Stephen were sitting in the conservatory a few days later, surrounded by pleasant green plants and looking out at the garden. Olivia had been reading to him, as she had grown accustomed to doing during his convalescence, but she had abandoned that a few minutes earlier and they had fallen into silence, simply looking out at the late afternoon play of sun on the garden.
Olivia said quietly, “That day, when we held the rosary and saw…what we saw…”
She paused, and Stephen turned to look at her. “Yes?”
“I noticed something.”
He looked at her questioningly.
“Lady Alys pulled a ring out from under her dress and put it on.”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“It was a ring that Sir John had given her.”
“Ah. I didn’t realize that.”
“I knew it somehow. I could feel what she was feeling, even as I was watching it.”
“Yes. I had that sense with him. And what about that ring?”
“I knew it.”
“What?” His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her searchingly.
“The design—the etching—I have seen it before. Many times.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is a family heirloom. Of my family, I mean. The Morelands. I’m not sure how it came down through the family. Great-uncle Bellard might know the exact lineage of it. But it has been in my family for years.” She looked at him. “I think that Lady Alys was my ancestor. I think she and her knight made good their escape and built a home, had a family. And I am descended from her. I think that is why we connected with them—I because she was my blood and you because of Blackhope.”
He was silent for a moment, absorbing this news. Then he reached out and laid his hand over Olivia’s, saying, “There is more than that between us, my love.”
Her heart flip-flopped at his use of the endearment, but Olivia told herself not to be foolish. She did not look at him; she did not dare, for she thought if she did, he must see what lay in her heart.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her gaze steadfastly on the windows.
“’Twas love that connected us—John’s and Alys’s, yours and mine.”
She looked at him then, startled. “I—um—”
“I love you,” he said simply. “I want us to be together always, as they were.”
“What?” she said, dumbfounded. “What are you saying?”
He smiled. “I want to marry you, Olivia. I am asking you to be my wife.”
Joy burst in her, and she felt as if she might fly all apart in her happiness. She hardly dared believe his words
.
At her continued silence, he said, “If you are worried about the proprieties, I have already obtained permission from your nearest male relative present to pay my addresses to you.”
“Uncle Bellard? You have spoken to Uncle Bellard about this? Before you said anything to me?”
He looked a little puzzled. “I thought that you knew. That you understood. That night in your room—I would never have come to you if I had not thought we would marry.”
“Are you sure?” Olivia asked anxiously. “My family is—well, I know you know Uncle Bellard, but, taken as a whole, my family is rather daunting.”
“The mad Morelands?”
“Yes.”
“After what has happened the last few days, I think any antics that your family may perform would seem quite mild in comparison.”
A giggle escaped her lips. “Yes, perhaps so.”
“Are you going to make me wait forever for an answer?” he asked teasingly. “I beg of you, Olivia, put me out of my misery.”
“But, Stephen, think. I—you must be sure. What if what you feel is just because of them? Lady Alys and Sir John. We felt what they felt. What if you think you are in love because you felt his love for her? What if we, like Irina, were invaded by their spirits?”
A smile quirked Stephen’s mouth. “Ah, but you forget, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Olivia smiled faintly.
Stephen reached over and took one of her hands between his. He leaned forward, looking at her earnestly. “Do you think that is what you feel for me?” Stephen asked quietly. “Only an overflow of her feeling?”
“No,” Olivia admitted quietly. “That is not all I feel.”
“Then why should I be any different?” he asked. “Olivia, look at me. Believe me, what I feel for you is not some secondhand love from another time and place. Yes, we are connected to that couple somehow. It does not make our love less. It makes it more. We are fated to be together. Even if their love somehow spanned generations and found itself in us so many years later, it is still a real love. And isn’t our love all the more wonderful and miraculous for having that connection?”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “I am very clear that it is you I love, not some medieval woman. And,” he added with a grin, his eyes lighting wickedly, “the desire I feel for you is very much in the present.”
He kissed her on the mouth, his lips hard and possessive, and when he drew back, Olivia’s breath was rapid and her cheeks flushed.
“The only question, Olivia, is do you love me? Will you marry me?”
“Yes! And yes!” Olivia cried, joy burgeoning up inside her. “I love you, and I will marry you.”
He laughed aloud, and pulled Olivia out of her chair and into his lap, nuzzling her neck. She let out a little shriek of mock indignation, remonstrating, “Stephen! You are still recuperating. Think of your wound!”
“Damn my wound!” he responded, his lips sending shivers of delight through her. “I’m done recuperating.” He lifted his head and looked down into her face. “But I do think we should repair to the bedroom.”
And with that he kissed her. Olivia wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, giving up the argument.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-0221-7
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Copyright © 2003 by Candace Camp.
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